by Geri Krotow
He kissed her throat, licking at the creamy skin, his nape and scalp tingling from being this close to her, finally kissing her the way he’d imagined nonstop for the past forty-eight hours. And he thought he didn’t do “tingled.”
“Brandon.” Her ragged voice told him all he needed. All he wanted.
“Come back to my place, Poppy.”
“Not smart.” She kept moving her hands over his back, pulled his shirt out of his pants, and pushed her hands under to touch his back. When she moved to his abs the floor under them felt like his boat deck.
“Christ, Poppy, not yet.” He grabbed her hands and held them above her head, flush with the gazebo column. It was natural to take full advantage of the position, to kiss her with a need beyond his experience. And he considered himself most experienced with women and raw, unapologetic erotic sex.
He knew in that moment that it wasn’t a fluke, or coincidence of a family wedding. Poppy had something no other woman could give him.
* * * *
Poppy wanted to blame her light-headedness on the cocktails, on the long, sad day. Not on the fact that she couldn’t catch her breath when Brandon kissed her like this because the way he kissed was knock-it-out-of-the-park good. Expert. Exactly what she needed to escape the heavy. When he lifted his head and broke their kiss she let out a cry of dismay.
“There’s more at my place, Yankee girl.” He licked her bottom lip, sucked on it gently until she had to totally rely on the gazebo post and Brandon for support. Poppy had experienced intense sexual attraction before, but this was different in ways she wasn’t willing to admit. Not tonight, not when her skin was on fire for Brandon.
“I want to, Brandon, I do. But then there’s tomorrow and we’ll have to face that we did this and…” She stopped talking as he switched his hold on her wrists to one hand and explored her body with his free hand. He touched her so lightly, so provocatively on her face, her throat, the side of her body where the dress perfectly fitted her along her ribcage.
“Brandon, this is torture.”
“Patience, Yankee girl.” His hand cupped her breast and his gentle squeeze through the chiffon would never be enough, nor would the way his thumb flicked at her hardened nipple.
Her heart pounded against his hand but she was more aware of the velvet heat that pulsated between her legs. Brandon had to feel her need, and not only because she was writhing her hips against his pelvis as if she were a dog in heat.
His chuckle was rough around the edges and betrayed his want. As if his rock-hard cock hadn’t. She tugged to release her hands, needing to feel the length of him. “Not yet, Poppy.” In one motion his mouth was back on hers and his hand under her silky skirt, his fingers seeking her center. No words were exchanged as he found her, dripping with want for him, and plunged two fingers into her.
Poppy let out a squeak and would have died of mortification if his fingers, his kiss, weren’t pushing her to the precipice of what she was certain would be the best orgasm of her life. When Brandon’s thumb, that magical thumb, pressed her clit at the same time his mouth sucked on her tongue, Poppy broke apart. Wave after wave of complete sensual release hit her. Brandon let go of her hands and her arms clutched at his shoulders as the climax wrecked her. When she finally floated back to reality, her cheek was on Brandon’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around her as he dropped kisses against her hair and murmured sexy talk in her ear.
“That’s only a teaser for later.” His deep voice vibrated in his throat, his chest, and she was loath to lift her cheek.
“I don’t think my heart could take more than that.” The words were a no-filter expression of what she felt, but as soon as they came out she realized how he could take them. She pushed back and looked up at him. His eyes reflected the same desire she felt, as well as the same defensiveness. “I don’t mean that in an emotional sense. I’m saying that the cardio workout you just gave me was better than any spin class. Not that it wasn’t more. God I suck at explaining my emotions!”
“Enough.” He leaned in and she allowed the kiss without any hesitation. Instead of the passionate come-on she expected, however, Brandon’s lips were sensual in their exploration, his tongue completely claiming her again but without the possessive stamp of earlier. He lifted his head and smiled at her. “There’s no need to fret, Yankee girl. Let’s call it a night here.”
“But you’re…you’ve got to be in discomfort.”
“Nothing I can’t handle. And trust me, Poppy, the pleasure was all mine.” He kissed her on the forehead and wrapped his arm around her waist.
Poppy walked out of the garden with Brandon, and it wasn’t until they neared the French Quarter again that she realized she hadn’t thought about anyone or anything going on her life since they’d left the bar.
For a blessed hour, Poppy had been totally herself.
* * * *
Brandon didn’t make any attempt to sit near her for the rest of the evening but she felt his gaze on her, the hot caress of his baby blues. Each time she sought to meet his glance he looked away as if to prove his point that whatever they’d shared back in the garden was definitely “no ties.”
“I want Sonja to be happy.” Daisy chattered away albeit much more sloppily after the pre-dinner cocktails and dinner drinks turned into shots. Poppy enjoyed another cocktail but nothing to get her drunk or even buzzed. It wasn’t her scene and she didn’t need to justify herself.
Another new feeling since being in New Orleans. She was feeling so good, in fact, that the old Poppy whispered in her ear that something was bound to go to pot at any moment.
“Sonja will be happy, Daisy. And I do think Henry could still be the man for her. They need time and space, I suppose. To work things out.”
“I’d like to work things out with him.” Daisy leaned drunkenly against Poppy as she pointed at Brandon. The jealous reaction in Poppy’s stomach was familiar—hadn’t she lived with it these past two months as she watched her assistant and Will plan their life together? The jealousy she experienced now wasn’t so sophisticated, though. It wasn’t about her career, her aspirations to marry the “perfect” man. It had nothing to do with the sense of possessiveness she’d experienced before, over Will.
It was a more melancholy, primal type of jealousy she wasn’t familiar with. And it was laced with deep sadness. As if her heart knew she’d never have the likes of a man like Brandon Boudreaux. A man who could touch her like that but still challenge her mind. And make her laugh.
Kaminsky women don’t do lucky in love.
As if to prove her point, her phone vibrated and lit up. She’d kept it out on the bar in case Sonja called or texted. Her stomach flipped at the ID. Carolyn. Her agent in New York, the woman who’d brokered the entire Attitude by Amber deal. On a Saturday night when Carolyn knew Poppy had scrammed out of town to escape the social media meltdown and attend her best friend’s wedding.
“Hi, Carolyn.”
“Poppy. I’m sorry to bother you today, but we need to talk.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
She had to press the phone to her ear and plug the other.
“Poppy, I know it’s your sister’s wedding, which I trust went well, but, well, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
Poppy’s skin started to crawl and a flush of heat rose up her throat, her face. “No problem. I’m getting together the designs for the next season’s release.” The words came out in a rush. As if they could stem the bad news Carolyn was trying to break to her.
“Poppy, there isn’t going to be another season.”
Poppy laughed, a nervous reaction to what she hoped was a garbled statement. She wasn’t hearing well amidst the Saturday night revelers.
“Wait, Carolyn. What did you say? Hang on. I’m in a bar in downtown New Orleans. I’m walking outside now.” The bar was noisy and she grabbed her clutch and slid off the
barstool. She made a beeline for the door, grateful for the break from the din and Brandon’s subversive intensity.
Once on the side street, dark and deserted compared to the main thoroughfare, she spoke. “Okay, go ahead, Carolyn. Sorry about that. It was so loud I didn’t make out what you said. I thought you said there wasn’t going to be another season!” She smiled, knowing the impossibility of Attitude by Amber being canceled this close to the first season’s release. It was too big of a deal for the distributors to back out of.
“That is what I said, Poppy.” Carolyn’s voice was kind, compassion oozing from each word. Each. God. Damned. Word.
“But we’re only weeks—”
“Your brand is too risky, Poppy. There’s the public debacle of your breakup with Will, and now the lawsuit from your former executive assistant against your brand has gone public in a big way. You’re a liability the buyers are unable to risk. I’m sorry, but with over eighty percent of the retail sites refusing to carry Attitude by Amber, they’ve decided to cancel your entire line. They’re voiding your contract in its entirety. I’m so sorry, Poppy. I know how rough the last few months have been for you.” Carolyn had known her since she’d started her personal stylist business and had encouraged Poppy to reach further, to stretch her creative talents beyond catering to rich celebrities. To build something more solid, more independent. Something of her own.
“Carolyn, what the hell am I supposed to do now? There has to be somewhere else to send the designs, the entire concept. What about an online launch?” She heard the desperation in her tone as if she were viewing the scene from high above the weathered pavement.
“You’re free to keep the samples you’ve already received, of course. For your future inspiration. But for the foreseeable future, Poppy, you’re out of the design business. Why don’t you use the two weeks you were going to spend working on Attitude by Amber to unwind, decompress. Think about what you really want out of your talents.”
“I want my own label on decor and fashion, Carolyn. Which apparently you’re telling me is not going to happen. Ever.”
“I didn’t say ever, exactly.”
“You’ve never been one to beat around the facts. Please don’t start now.” Poppy pressed her palm to her forehead, hoping against all hope that she wouldn’t start to panic or get a migraine. Not on top of this.
“You’re tired. How was the wedding?”
“About as good as my career. It didn’t happen.” She briefly filled Carolyn in, still feeling as though she were in someone else’s body.
“How can this be happening?” She fought to breathe, fought against the pounding in her ribcage, stomped her foot in her high heels, let the pain in her toes confirm this wasn’t a dream, that she wasn’t in an alien body.
Carolyn’s sigh came from twelve hundred miles away but sounded crystal clear in Poppy’s ear. “It’s business, Poppy. You have a lot of talent, and you’ll eventually land on your feet again. But no one’s willing to risk launching your line when your brand has plummeted.”
“Attitude by Amber is the new line the retail stores need. You know how much they’re struggling, unable to compete with online sales. Please, talk to them again. Talk to anyone who can help us. Convince them to let the first season launch. Give me a chance. We can rename it if you want.”
“It’s not that simple, Poppy. What is clear is that Attitude by Amber is dead, and you need time for the public to forget your recent mishaps. And time to come out with a new, commercial game plan.”
Accusations she’d hurled at Will for being a fake and imposter roiled in her mind, the accusations suddenly applying to her. She was a fake. She wasn’t a designer, the one thing she thought was bulletproof in her arsenal of talent. Nothing could take her talent away. Wrong. Bad timing, an uneven temper, and unfortunate circumstances with her ex-fiancé had led to this point. She let out a soft moan.
“Give yourself time to process this. We’ll talk after you’re back in the city. Call me in a couple of months.” Carolyn ended the connection as abruptly as ever. Usually Poppy accepted it as the cost of having such a highly competent agent. Now she realized it was because her agent had lost faith in Poppy’s competence.
The line went dead and Poppy gulped. In a few short weeks her brand had gone from a potentially multimillion-dollar commodity to zip, nada, zero. Negative zero.
She was an utter failure, alone in a city she barely knew, and stuck in a huge empty house while her best friend traipsed the country trying to find herself.
Worse, Poppy had no idea who she was anymore. What did it say that the only time she’d felt one hundred percent natural and totally the woman she was meant to be had been in the arms of a man she’d known for less than a week?
The music from the bar sounded like a hollow echo in the alley and she watched a couple stumble out of the exit, laughing and hanging onto each other. Was that how she’d appeared as she’d gone into the garden with Brandon?
She’d lost her focus. And now she’d lost all she’d ever worked for.
She had to get out of here before Brandon came looking for her. She saw the flash of car lights on the cross street a block up and headed for the main thoroughfare. The anonymity and relative safety of a well-lit street in the French Quarter oddly calmed her. She’d be back at Sonja’s in under an hour, thanks to her Uber app.
Chapter 8
Brandon ripped the earbuds out and rested his head on the back of his shipbuilding office’s chair. He’d managed to track Jeb to the NOLA airport, but that was it. Forced to hire a PI, all he could do now was wait for more information. Short of reporting Jeb as a criminal, he was fucked. The roar of silence in his ears mocked him, a constant reminder than there were no new custom orders coming in. Hence the quiet shipbuilding facility. When he’d walked the floor of the flat-bottomed boat factory earlier today, every employee had been upbeat, focused on their work. Because they didn’t know what was coming down.
Nothing had gone smoothly in the week since Henry’s almost-wedding. Not one damn thing. His only respite was working on a custom order for a sailboat that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to scrape up the funds to finish. The customer had put down the full payment, in cash, but it had been eaten up by overhead. Brandon spun his chair around and looked at the rivulets of rain webbing down the windowpane. He’d never thought it all could turn on a dime like this. His only option was to file for bankruptcy.
Unless he put a bid in for the San Sofia contract. The small Caribbean island nation had reached out to Boats by Gus about contracting for ten hybrid boats that would allow their national drug defense agency to patrol and apprehend their territorial waters. Brandon wanted the contract so badly he could taste it.
But he wasn’t a Foreign Service Officer. He could be diplomatic, sure, but didn’t have the savoir faire needed to pull off a meeting with foreign country representatives, for God’s sake. And he’d be competing against much larger, more experienced shipbuilders. Even if his bank accounts were flush, his former best friend and accountant not a scum-sucking thief, he’d be hard-pressed to land even a portion of what was on the table. His gut churned at the thought of his employees becoming job hunters overnight.
His text dinged and he absentmindedly checked it, still holding out hope that Jeb would reach out to him.
It was Henry.
Saw storms coming in. Please check on the house for me. Key under flowerpot with gecko decoration on side. Don’t let Poppy get stranded in flood. Won’t be back until my vacation days run out.
Brandon hesitated, wondering how much of this was his business, before he texted a reply.
How long will you be gone?
Henry’s response was swift.
At least two more weeks. Maybe 3. Thanks.
Henry gave no clue as to where he was, what he was doing with Sonja, if he was with Sonja. What the hell? And wasn’t he suppose
d to return from his honeymoon by the end of next week? Brandon wasn’t in any place to judge his brother’s emotional needs. But he thought it was okay to be annoyed at him for forcing him to deal with the one woman he hadn’t been able to forget about. The woman he wanted to believe was back in New York. That she wasn’t still this close and hadn’t so much as texted. He’d left the next move up to her but deep in the crevices of his betrayed heart a tiny ghost of himself had kept a light lit with the tiny hope she’d been as turned on by him as he was her.
Henry thought Poppy was still house-sitting, but Brandon wasn’t so sure. The way she’d left the party at the bar last weekend, disappearing without notice, made him think she’d left NOLA. That was good, if she did. Because she’d crept into his thoughts too many times over the last few days. He hadn’t allowed himself to contact her. He’d wondered too often if he’d made a mistake, letting her go like that.
He shook his head and punched in a reply to Henry.
Are you sure she’s still there? I’ll go check either way. Hope you’re well.
He’d bet his last dollar that Poppy had taken the next flight out of Dodge, back to her familiar habitat in New York City. The city reminded Brandon of a gerbil tube. He’d appreciated the museums and being able to have whatever kind of food you wanted, sure. But he’d felt he was inside more than out and if he didn’t have claustrophobia that would give it to him. As unsure of his life and future as he was right now, one thing he knew about himself was that he had to be in nature every day, no matter for how long. Office work wasn’t his gig.
He didn’t have a last dollar to bet on Poppy being gone, though, and tapped on his weather app. There had been some notifications that heavy rains were possible, but since he’d come into the office this morning the advisories had turned to warnings.
