by Geri Krotow
“You know it was only the wealthy who enjoyed the pretty lifestyle, right?”
“Yes, and I know there were slaves there. Which made it more meaningful for me, because I was on the tour with Sonja, and we looked at one another while we were standing in one of the slave’s cottages. We realized we wouldn’t have been allowed to be friends back then, not even one hundred years later. Not without a lot of effort. Sonja wouldn’t have been able to ever go to school as a slave.”
“No women did, except for a rare few.”
“True, but for a black female slave? Her life was predestined from the moment she was born on the plantation.”
“And yet you used the charming, overly decorated style of the main house to inspire styling a Southern couple?” His distaste couldn’t be more clear. She didn’t think Elvis had a better sneer. She stayed silent, regrouping.
“Let me guess, the bride was a white sorority sister who wanted to have the perfect society ‘vintage’ wedding.”
“No, they were the Calvins.” The starting quarterback of the New Orleans Saints and his wife had both gone to LSU and happened to be African American. “I was able to imbue the sense of where their families had come from while keeping the natural beauty of the South in her dress.”
“Come again? You turned James Calvin’s wedding into a civil justice statement?”
His words cut across the din at the right moment of quiet, when the streamed music was between songs and the majority of guests appeared to be drinking, eating, or watching the large-screen television as LSU fought for the national championship.
“Catering to the rich and famous can be done with civic duty in mind. Unlike slapping a pre-fab boat together and adding whatever gold-plated faucets your most recent tycoon asks for.”
He leaned back, his brow near his hairline. “Don’t sling mud when you don’t know what you’re aiming at, Yankee girl. It strikes me that your ‘catering’ to the rich and famous hasn’t worked out so well for you lately.”
She couldn’t help the gasp that blew out of her mouth. Her stomach felt like it did when she’d been five and fallen off a swing set belly first onto the hard Buffalo dirt. It didn’t last long, though, the disorientation, the shock at his well-aimed barb.
“So much for Southern manners, Gus.”
So it was official. It was to be war.
* * * *
Her anger was more beautiful than a keel for one of his custom sailboats. He created the sailboats as part of a side business, the workshop in a part of his boat production facility. It allowed him to get away from the constant stress of the higher-end yachts and factory production of the flat-bottomed boats.
He savored the delicious satisfaction that he’d goaded her to this point. Where she was totally fixated on him, her eyes sparkling and her delicious mouth drawn in a straight line, all the while her nipples studded through the thin cotton of her fancy schmancy haute-whatever top. Pure exhilaration fueled his pounding pulse.
Except for the part where he felt like a complete ass. Poppy and her Maker’s Mark eyes brought out the brute in him. Brute. If only. A brute would use every ounce of seduction he possessed to get Poppy into his bed. Brandon couldn’t do that, not now, and probably not ever. Even if the time were right for both of them, they were salt and road rash. Who was the more damaged and who rubbed the salt in was a toss-up.
Although the music had picked back up, the din of conversation at their party’s table hadn’t. He shot a quick glance around, meeting the gaze of each person he could in the span of three seconds. It gave him the space he needed to figure out how to dig out of this hole. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Nothing. She didn’t smile, nod, nor blink. Christ she was a ball-buster.
“I’m sorry. I was only trying to poke some fun at you for being from New York City. I don’t mind Manhattan.” Murmurs turned into conversations and the protection of the din allowed him to relax his shoulders. So he wasn’t braced for the shove that landed solidly in the center of his right shoulder, making him rock back on the rear legs of his chair.
“How many times have you been to New York, Gus?” It was the second time she hadn’t called him Brandon and he didn’t like it. He didn’t hate it, but he liked how his given name sounded with her TV-talk non-accent.
“Too many to count. You’d be surprised who orders custom yachts and then decides they can’t deal with the upkeep.”
“No, I’m not surprised. Dealing with the mega-rich and celebrities can often be difficult. It sounds like you get twice the fun, though. You build, sell, and help to resell?” Her interest was genuine.
“Something like that.” He was so not going to tell Yankee girl that each boat was like a child; he had to let it go to the owner but if the kid was going to be sold Brandon wanted the boat back with him rather than risk it winding up in the hands of someone who wouldn’t take care of it. It made him sound like an idiot, or worse, a control freak.
“Wait. Do you actually buy back the boats you’ve already made a fortune on?”
“Yes. And the boats themselves are the fortune, the investment as far as I’m concerned.” Besides his employees, who were his family. “Profit margin is something else.”
“Profit on your net can’t be that bad. But how good is it for business to buy back your own product?”
“Very, actually. I let my accounts manager take care of it.” The response was automatic, what he’d always replied before Jeb had taken off with the company treasure.
At the moment the only boat he had to sell needed at least a month’s worth of rehab, and a lot of it included the pricy interior of the sailboat. “The last boat I purchased back had the cabin torn to shreds. The owner used it for a pit-bull tournament.”
Horror flashed over Poppy’s features, but to her credit she quickly compensated with what he thought of as her professional, high-fashion stylist detachment. “Did you get it back via the police?”
“No, the loser never got caught. I couldn’t report him, as it was only hearsay, and my word against his assistant telling me that’s what happened.”
“A sense of entitlement is my least favorite character trait.” Her mouth was set in a grim line. “Remorse would be nice every once in a while.”
He laughed. “You do get it, don’t you? Something tells me that our clientele have a lot in common.”
“Maybe. My work is done with an event or wardrobe purchase. I can’t imagine what you’ve invested in an entire custom boat.”
“It’s always a piece of my heart, that’s for sure.”
“How long does it take you?”
“No telling. Depends on the customer, their requests. At least six months, one time almost two years.”
She regarded him with what he thought was respect. Maybe they wouldn’t be at each other’s throats except in the most pleasurable of ways.
Christ he had to stop thinking about sex with her. At least, his dick did.
“So you do mostly sailboats?” Her trademark flush illuminated her creamy skin and he knew she felt it, too.
“With full power and custom luxury fittings, yes. Think of them as yachts with sails. Smaller, but lacking no convenience.”
“Do any of your owners actually sail or is it all crew?”
“A fair number want to learn to sail, or at least they act like it when they’re touring the production facility. A handful have been lifelong sailors and pick us because of our reputation for quality. Then there are the sailors who save a lifetime for a Gus boat, and maybe they come into money from an inheritance or decide to let go of a retirement fund or two and cash it in for a boat.”
“That’s pretty dedicated. Giving up your retirement for a boat.”
“There’s a freedom in sailing under your own skill, in the middle of all that blue ocean. It’s a sacred experience, being out where no other boa
ts are in sight.”
“Freedom?” She squished her nose. “Sounds like a lot of hard work.”
He didn’t expect her to get it, just like he didn’t expect his clients to all share his sailing zen. He had to make the bottom line to keep Boats by Gus afloat, so he’d sold a boat or two to buyers he knew damned well would never appreciate the beauty of what they’d purchased. But it bothered him that Poppy didn’t get it.
Why was he wasting his energy on her, a woman he’d have to spend, what, one more day with? So far from what he’d heard she had major trust issues, or should, by the way she’d been mistreated by her ex. With his own psychic wounds any consideration of involvement with her, no matter how casual, sent up flares of fiery premonition. The warning kind. As in, “this is lethal to your heart, buddy.”
He met her gaze and the wariness behind her cool composure reminded him why he couldn’t stop talking to her. Why he had to fight an erection at her mere scent or husky voice.
“That reminds me, we need to exchange phone numbers.”
“You’re kidding.” Her deadpan reply threatened to coax a laugh out of him.
“No. With my brother and Sonja keeping the early part of tomorrow traditional, at least you and I should be able to communicate in case one of the limos gets lost or gets a flat.”
“It’s funny how people can be so modern, so hip, and yet when it comes to weddings, tradition shows up.” She sipped her tea and the way her mouth closed around the straw made him want to press closer, force her to either back away or preferably cozy up as snugly to him as his jeans fit across his hard dick.
Jesus.
This woman was waaaaay too much work, way too complicated for him, even when he wasn’t facing career annihilation while simultaneously feeling the effects of losing his lifetime best friend.
“Okay, I’ll phone you. What’s your number?”
He told her and watched her slim, adept fingers fly over her phone. No fancy nail polish for Poppy. She left that for her toes. Within seconds his phone rang with a 212 area code.
“Got it, thanks.” Did he sound casual enough? She didn’t think he wanted her number for anything other than the needs of the wedding service, did she?
“Let’s hope we don’t need to use our phones tomorrow.” She always lectured her wedding parties to forget about the technology for one day. Let the wedding photographer do his or her job and put the phones away.
“It’s hard to know.” As he spoke he caught a movement up at the head of the large mass of tables that had been shoved together to accommodate their group of a dozen or so. Two recognizable figures, even after years of dodging family functions, stood next to Henry and Sonja. Hudson and Gloria. His parents.
Holy hell.
Chapter 5
Brandon’s face went white under his generous tan and his eyes narrowed on a point somewhere over her head.
“You look a lot more uptight than you did last night, Gus. Sad that your brother is tying the knot?”
He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her to stop using “Gus,” but his reply was lost to the sudden blanket of silence over the group. All eyes were toward the head of the table, where an older couple now stood. They appeared more than a little awkward in the low country establishment. The man was tall with the same profile as Henry and Gus, so it was clear this was their dad. The woman was perfectly turned out from her haute label outfit to her blunt-tipped nails, polished to look au natural but too precisely filed. Silver and blond wove together in her perfect bob, and her gaze scoured over the table and landed on the man next to Poppy. The flash of recognition in her blue eyes revealed to Poppy that the woman adored her son and that she was where Henry and Brandon’s baby blues had come from.
“Aw, hell.” His warmth left her as Brandon rose and walked to greet his parents. Poppy looked for Sonja, to give her a reassuring smile or wink. No need as Sonja was at Henry’s side, beaming. Tears threatened under Poppy’s lids at the scene. Poppy was happy for Sonja’s sake, and Henry’s, that his parents were offering this olive branch by showing up for the rehearsal dinner, after all.
But Mrs. Boudreaux’s face froze when Sonja stepped up and kissed her cheek, and Mr. Boudreaux turned beet red at the same gesture from his future daughter-in-law. Good for Sonja. She’d teach these racist jerks what graciousness meant. A familiar sense of pride expanded under Poppy’s ribcage. Poppy loved it when people became their best selves and let go of petty arguments that threatened otherwise enjoyable gatherings.
She’d certainly seen the former in her work but the more recent blowup at Will’s parents’ anniversary gala was most fresh in her mind. Where she’d been the one with the inappropriate behavior.
Chairs were pulled up to the table for the latecomers, conversation resumed, and Poppy decided to lose herself in the chatty fray. She wasn’t enjoying her conversation with Brandon that much, anyhow.
Liar.
* * * *
Brandon broke ties from his family’s business more than a decade ago. In the time since, he’d founded and maintained what was now a global shipbuilding business. He had much-worked-for recognition and the bank account to match. Well, he’d had the funds to match the description before Jeb had taken off.
Yet as he faced his parents he was once again the sixteen-year-old who was alternatively spoken to with stern warnings to “get it together” after being caught with his girlfriend, both naked, in his father’s study. The boy who’d been iced out for weeks of nonverbal abuse from his miserable parents after he’d thrown a huge party with high school classmates. Or the college co-ed who’d been lectured for refusing to major in something more amenable to the law degree he’d certainly earn after undergrad.
He’d failed in his parents’ eyes so many times he couldn’t remember all of what they’d expected from him, anyhow.
“Dad.” He held out his hand and his father gave it the customary shake followed by an uncomfortable pat on Brandon’s shoulder.
“Brandon. We weren’t sure we’d see you here. You’re always busy these days.” A dig at his frequent no-shows to family gatherings.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Unlike the mandatory Sunday dinners he’d forgone about the same time he’d started Boats by Gus. He turned toward his mother, who to her credit wasn’t dressed over-the-top in one of her charity-function suits but instead in a casual sundress. “Hi, Mom.”
“Brandon.” She placed both hands on his shoulders to pull him in for a hug as he placed a kiss on her cheek. “I miss you, honey.”
“Then it’s great we’re all together tonight, isn’t it?”
“Give it up, son, for one night.” Her smile belied the cold tone.
He didn’t reply but instead turned to take a good look at Henry and Sonja. Happiness reflected off Henry’s expression, but Sonja appeared a bit more subdued. If his brother was happy, that was all that mattered. Brandon had to admit that having his entire family here, save their sister Jena, to celebrate a joyous occasion was nice. A positive change from the more estranged relationship they normally shared.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll catch up with you both after dinner.” Before any arrangements to the contrary could be made, he turned and sought his original seat. When he saw Poppy looking at him with interest, he relaxed. Next to her was where he wanted to be.
Shit.
* * * *
Poppy had a good view of the family reunion from her end of the worn barn-board table. Her heart squeezed with regret at how stilted and awkward the discourse appeared at the head of the table, in front of the large wedding party. Brandon and Henry had both shaken their father’s hand. No big bear hugs, no laughing. And their mother—holy gumbo she looked like a piece of work. A woman who’d been pretty, beautiful, even, but hadn’t aged quite so well. Poppy had a theory that miserable people could dress themselves up with top-tier fashion, literally
“dress for success.” But you couldn’t fake genuine pleasure, none of which was evident in the exchange between the two generations of Boudreauxs.
From what Sonja and Henry had told her, the couple had raised three biological children and were stuck in the idea that their children were indeed theirs. As much as their house, their cars, and of course their family law practice belonged to them.
Poppy’s study of the Boudreauxs’ dysfunctional family dynamics was interrupted by bright blue eyes as Brandon turned and looked at her. As if searching for an anchor. As he lowered himself to the chair he leaned in and spoke to her privately. The puff of his breath on her ear was from his agitation at seeing his parents, she’d bet. Nothing sexual or flirty meant by it. And yet the sensation was as erotic as if he’d licked her ear with his tongue.
“That’s Hudson and Gloria. Our parents in the flesh.”
“Aren’t you glad they changed their minds?”
“What?” Sharp, intent.
“Um, just wondering.” She hadn’t meant to appear so judge-y. “Sonja and Henry mentioned they were having a bit of a hard time with the wedding.”
“That is the most astute thing you’ve said, Yankee girl.” His drawl drew her eyes to his lips, and just like that the event again shrunk back to a party of two.
Chapter 6
Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows and cut through dust motes and the cloud of perfume that vied for attention over the scent of fresh cut gardenias and soft pink roses. Poppy ignored what felt like a lump of too-dry mashed potatoes in her throat as she tended to Sonja, the other bridesmaids chattering across where the bride sat in the center of the large closet that was used for bridal parties at the cathedral. Choir gowns were hung in color-coordinated order, the hues lined up according to the liturgical season. Being January before Lent and more significant to New Orleans, Mardi Gras, Sonja had decided against any colors reflecting either season, opting for more traditional bridal fashion sense.
