by Geri Krotow
He dropped his arms. “Come here.” He pulled her to him, her back nestled against his front, and they stood for the several long minutes it took the sun to drop beneath the horizon. It was primal, two human beings watching their world go from day to night. It was Architectural Digest perfect, with the expert layout of the screened porch that was larger than any patio she’d been on. It was textbook sexy, with the candlelight, the bottle of champagne on ice that she’d just noticed, and the bed that looked like a seduction scene from her favorite romance movie.
“Are you hungry?” His breath moved the hair atop her head, warming her scalp and making her turn around. She wanted to face Brandon.
“Very.” She sniffed. “What’s that?”
“The marinade. It’s warming up on the grill.” He stepped away and walked to the wet bar. “Can I make you a cocktail? The usual?”
“Sure.” She watched him as he measured the liquor, poured it over the ice cubes in the old-fashioned glass, added simple syrup and soda water. He stirred it and threw in a slice of orange. “Here you go.”
“Thank you. Cheers.” She held up her glass and he clinked his, half-empty, against hers.
“You can stay here or come out with me to the grill. The mosquitoes shouldn’t be too bad.”
“With all those citronella plants I can’t imagine one bug would dare to fly near here.”
He laughed and it warmed her belly to know she’d put that smile on his face. She wondered if she had some kind of sociopathic tendency because for the life of her she couldn’t remember ever deriving so much pleasure from knowing she’d made a man smile like that.
Of course, no man smiled like Brandon.
Brandon lifted the cover off a sauce pot on one of the gargantuan grill’s side burners and the delicious aroma of fresh celery, garlic, and parsley hit her. “That’s amazing. What are you making?”
“Crawdads.” He took plastic wrap off a stainless-steel bowl he’d retrieved from the porch refrigerator and tossed its contents into a steel mesh basket. “I marinated them in my secret recipe, and the marinade is reducing down by half. Once these babies are done we’ll throw them on top of the rice.”
“Where’s the rice?”
“In the rice cooker on the kitchen counter.” He grinned. “I couldn’t finagle to fix everything out here, as much as I wanted to.”
“I can go get the rice.”
“No, you’re going to relax and enjoy the entire night. I mean it, Poppy. You’ve done so much for me these past few weeks. Let me do something nice for you.”
She squirmed, wiggling her toes in her sandals. “You gave me a roof over my head, Brandon.”
“A roof you could have had at a hotel during the flood. You agreed to stay here, with me, and you’ve seen me through my darkest time.”
Hope flared in at least two of her heart’s chambers when he said “through.”
“Brandon, does this mean that you got the deal?”
“What? Oh, no.” He sighed and flipped the crawdads over and over, each turn unlocking more of the heavenly scent. “I didn’t get the big deal. There’s still a chance for smaller jobs materializing as offshoots of the main contract, but I’m not counting on it. I’ve heard nothing.” He looked like he had more to say but stopped himself. As if he was protecting her from what he thought was inevitable. He was going to lose Boats by Gus.
She placed her hand in the middle of his back and rubbed in circular motions, trying to give him the comfort he unwittingly gave her each time he told her he thought she was the most creative person he knew, or when he listened to her suggestions for how to dress and carry himself during those grueling interviews with the San Sofia government officials.
“No news is good news, in this case.” Unlike her case, where the news is what had decimated not only her styling business but Attitude by Amber, too. She let her arm drop and let out a long breath before she took a decent sip of her drink.
“None of that, Poppy. Not tonight.” Brandon closed the grill lid and placed the basket of perfectly cooked crawdads on the stone ledge that surrounded it. “This is about you enjoying a perfect Louisiana evening.”
“With the perfect Southern gentleman?”
“What I’m planning to do to you, Poppy, is not the work of a gentleman.” He pulled her to him and gave her the softest, sexiest kiss. His tongue merely skimmed her lips, where their only body contact occurred. She had her drink in one hand and could have circled his neck with the other but let Brandon work his magic and lead the way for what her center told her was going to be a Cajun-hot night.
* * * *
Brandon poured them each a glass of the crisp Sauvignon blanc he knew was her favorite. The extra effort to get it today was worth seeing her shy smile.
“You remembered?” She looked from the bottle’s label to him, her gaze soft and open. Completely different from the hard, injured woman he’d first spotted on Henry’s dock.
“There’s little about you that I could ever forget.”
Her smile vanished and she blinked. Damn it he didn’t mean to scare her off.
“That’s…that’s the most ro—, I mean, nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Poppy’s blinks yielded a large solitary tear then dropped down onto her soft cheek. He reached over and wiped it away, taking the opportunity to caress her.
“I never want to be the reason you cry, Yankee girl.”
She shot him a wobbly grin. “These are the good kind of tears.”
“To good friends who also happen to be great in bed?” He held up his glass and was relieved when his attempt to make her laugh paid off.
“You’ve been true to your word, Brandon, I’ll give you that.” She clinked his glass. “To friends.”
Did that mean she still only considered them friends? He didn’t think they were more, but then again, he didn’t think about his friends all day long. Save for Jeb, and even then he was thinking more about all the money Jeb had disappeared with.
“What’s wrong? You look like someone stole your favorite Pokémon card.”
Irritation niggled in his belly. “Nothing’s wrong. It couldn’t be better, sitting here with you.”
She stared at him, the kind of look that always preceded a deep dive into his psyche. “This is so kind of you. You’re a kind man.”
“Ah, that’s not a word I’ve ever been accused of before.”
“Then you don’t hang around people long enough for them to see this side of you.” She popped a shelled crawdad into her mouth and chewed. “Mmmm. This is heaven.”
“Thanks.” Actually, the way her full lips formed around her food was heaven—more like paradise. He stifled a groan and remained quiet. He was determined as hell to make this night special for her. She deserved it.
“Spill it, Brandon.”
He didn’t pretend to not know what she meant. She knew him well enough. Too well, hell yeah, but they were past the point of him playing cool and detached, save for in bed. “I did this because you were so upset on the phone, yes, but also because I meant it when I said I owe you everything for helping me through the past few weeks.”
“But you haven’t got the San Sofia contract. Don’t you want to wait until then?”
He shook his head. “I told you, it’s unlikely I’ll get it. And it’s not as important to me right now.” He reached over and grasped her hands, which she’d placed on the table when he started to speak. “You gave me back a belief in myself that I thought was gone for good. I know that the chances of Boats by Gus surviving are nil, but I know I can start over. I can land a job with a local shipbuilder, or even relocate if I have to. My life isn’t the sorry mess I thought it was a month ago.”
“Same.”
Disappointment rose in his chest when she tugged her hands free, but then washed away in the roar of awareness that hit him as she stood and
walked around the small table to where he sat.
“You’ve saved me too, Brandon.” She tugged on his arms until he sat parallel to the table, and he watched in fascination as Poppy lowered herself to her knees in front of him.
“Poppy, as much as this is an incredible idea, tonight is about you.”
“And so it is. Let me do what I want, Brandon.” Her hands and fingers moved with lightning speed and his shorts were unbuttoned, the zipper down, her hand around his hard cock before he could utter another word.
“Do you like that?” She tightened her hand around his length, her other hand cupping his testicles. Brandon hissed and she smiled. The woman was pure pleasure and agony wrapped in the most beautiful package.
“I love it.”
* * * *
She’d slept with Brandon. All night.
The morning after Louise’s call and Brandon’s tender lovemaking, she’d fallen asleep in his arms on the futon. When she awoke there was a steaming mug of coffee on the end table and no sign of Brandon. She’d crept by the closed door to his office and heard the earnest, low pitch of his voice. He was working already.
There was nothing left for her to do but leave.
Poppy packed a few remaining items into her suitcase. The same one she’d arrived with just over a month ago. It felt more like lifetimes ago. She wasn’t the same woman.
It was easier this way, with no time or chance for a farewell round of sex. It wasn’t just sex anymore. Not with Brandon.
She had to get out of Brandon’s house, while she still could. Unlike the relief leaving New York had given her, flying out of the bayou filled her with dread. It reminded her of being a kid in Buffalo and knowing that she had to make that 9-1-1 call for her battered mother, for their safety. Because it meant something else had to end. Another one of Mom’s lovers had to go, another hope that maybe this time would be different crushed.
The flashback evaporated at the echo of Brandon’s footfalls in the hallway. The same thrill she always felt when he appeared shot through her, followed by an ugly sense of betrayal. Her betrayal. But how could leaving Brandon be a betrayal—they had no commitment, no agreement except that she’d get a commission for styling him, which she’d refused. He stopped outside her open door and the sight of his tall, familiar frame made the ache in her heart turn into a full-fledged bleeding stab wound.
“Hey, Poppy.” He leaned into her room. “Wait—what are you doing?”
“Packing. I have to go back to New York.”
“Since when?”
She looked at him, his expression a combination of wariness and something else that eluded her. Anger?
“Since I’ve decided to redo my business model.” She didn’t want him to see her face, not too closely. Her careful composure would never hold up under his intense scrutiny and she had to stay strong.
“Poppy, I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to pay you yet.”
“I’ve already told you it’s on me. And this isn’t about money.” Not really. Yes, she needed money, but the court hearing would help, she prayed.
He entered the room and stood next to her in front of her luggage, too close for comfort. “Then what is it about?”
“I need to go, Brandon. I shouldn’t have stayed here for so long. My home base is New York and I’m in the middle of changing my entire corporate structure.” More like launching a new career.
“You couldn’t predict the storm, the flooding.” He spoke of the weather but his eyes were on her, pleading for—what?
“No, but I could have gotten an apartment or an efficiency. Or…” She didn’t want to say it.
“Gone back to New York sooner.” He lifted his arms to her, but as she kept folding clothing and placing it neatly in her luggage he let them drop. “You regret staying here.”
Arrow right to the heart, that one. Maybe her aorta, even. “I don’t regret the fun we’ve had, Brandon. But we agreed, we’re buddies, right? And I owe you so much—you helped me have a project to focus on when my life was falling apart.” At the wounded shock in his eyes she shook her head. “No, no, not that.” She motioned at the bed. “Our sex wasn’t the project—I mean coaching and styling you for the San Sofia contract.”
“I was a goddamned project?” His voice was low but the ferocity of his anger vibrated with each syllable. “Tell me, Poppy, how many of your previous clients did you fuck with such abandon? Is that part of the styling package, the one where you take a sorry son of a bitch at his rock bottom and bring him back to life?”
“Stop. You know it’s not about that.” She wasn’t going to talk about their physical relationship. She couldn’t, not without caving and throwing her arms around him and sobbing. Because it wasn’t about anything physical. Not totally. This was a matter of the heart, the soul. Had she felt this way about Will, or any other man?
“You were so busy in your office, I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m taking it you got the contract?” She kept her hands moving, needing to at least look like she wasn’t hanging on his response. She wanted Brandon to succeed so badly—he deserved it, had earned it.
He stood there, and if it were yesterday or a week ago she’d know for certain that he was fighting his exasperation with her, overriding it with his need to physically have her, the way she needed him inside her. Except in the quiet dark morning he looked angry, and his anger was yielding to an emotion she never expected to receive from him.
Disappointment.
“No, I didn’t get the contract. Once the officials involved discovered that one of my trusted employees was in a highly suspect foreign country most likely participating in illegal trade of either weapons or drugs or both, Boats by Gus lost all credibility.”
Her fumbling hands froze midair. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “Shit happens.”
“You’ll find your way.” She forced a smile, hoping it hid the sickening swell of nausea she fought. Her help hadn’t contributed to a win, after all.
“I’m still going to pay you for your time, Poppy. I’ll need to file bankruptcy, liquidate assets. Depending on where I land I’ll reimburse you in installments if I have to, but you’ll be reimbursed. I’m sorry about this.”
She waved her hand at him. “No, no. It was gratis, believe me. And you didn’t get the contract, so who can say what I contributed? I have a little nest egg put away. I’m fine.” She lied and knew that he knew she was lying. Zipping the case shut, she looked at him.
“Thanks for the place to crash, and the meals, and the—”
He took two long strides and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. Poppy didn’t fight him, couldn’t resist his mouth as it closed on hers, marking her with a trademark Brandon kiss. Sexy, sensuous, but this time tinged with a new taste. Sadness. Regret, maybe. “It’s been real, Yankee girl.” He stepped back. “How are you getting to the airport?”
“My ride will be here in five minutes.”
He nodded. “Travel safe.”
“I will.” Awkward didn’t begin to describe how she felt wheeling her suitcase through the large house, her insides hollow, empty of any emotion. Until she was safely belted in the back of the Uber lift, her bag in the trunk, and looked at Brandon’s house for the last time. As the bayou wind blew through the lowered windows, she let the anguish hit her. How had she been so stupid to think Brandon was only a rebound lover?
* * * *
Brandon stood on his back deck staring at the water after Poppy drove off. He felt like his skin had been rubbed bare, as if Poppy was a bandage ripped off an oozing scab. Except Poppy had healed him in places he hadn’t known had been hurting. And given him a vision of what an intimate relationship could be.
He thought of himself as a deliberate man. He knew his persona as Gus in Boats by Gus was a free-living, down-in-the-bayou dude, but he never made a business decision
without forethought. Turning Jeb in to the authorities had been deliberate, as regretful as he’d felt for his once best friend.
Going after the San Sofia contract had been deliberate, a way to expand his business, give back to the world in general, and to save his company.
Letting Poppy go as easily as she’d zydecoed into his life, that had been deliberate, too. But at what cost?
The cost to him was irrelevant.
The fact was, no matter how much it tore up his insides, he couldn’t hang on to her. He had nothing to pay her, nothing to show how he’d support her. And how could he even consider asking her to stay when he stood to lose his house?
He reached into a potted plant and grabbed a handful of river rocks. One by one he tossed them into the river, waiting for whatever was inside him, building steam, to pop. He’d done the right thing, letting her go. That was the mark of a mature man, right?
Then why was he so fucking miserable?
Chapter 18
Poppy sat next to Louise, across from Will and Tori, in the mediator’s office space on the thirty-seventh floor of a skyscraper.
The attorney mediating the case sat at the head of the conference table, his gray hair in sharp contrast with his horn-rimmed glasses that Poppy suspected were holdovers from the mid-twentieth century and not a recent hipster purchase.
“The State of New York impresses that to solve this conflict amicably and without the time and attention of the Supreme Civil Court is preferable to all parties.” He put down the paper he’d been reading from. “Look, folks, let’s get this straight. I don’t want any bickering, no emotional ringers”—he looked pointedly at Tori, or rather, Tori’s growing belly—“and no histrionics.” He looked pointedly at Poppy.
She wished she could speak up and tell him what a misogynistic term that was, but in fact, she had been over-the-top hysterical during Will’s parents’ anniversary party. Was she the same woman who’d thrown that punch bowl across the parquet floor?
