by Geri Krotow
“You don’t like the flowers in my hair.” Sonja’s brow furrowed and Poppy stopped adjusting the sheer veil’s headpiece. The bobby pins were refusing to cooperate with the beaded tiara.
“I love the flowers. Everything is perfect.” Except for the lack of bridal joy that Poppy had expected would ooze from Sonja today. “Do you want a sip of water, honey? Or something stronger?” She knew Sonja wasn’t a big drinker but her friend looked so forlorn, so anything-but-thrilled to be getting married that she had to try something.
“I’m fine.” Sonja swallowed, her jaw set in an uncharacteristically harsh line. “Just make sure this thing is on straight.”
“Whoa.” Poppy put down the bobby pins in her hand and placed her hands on Sonja’s shoulders. “What. Is. Going. On.”
Sonja wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m getting married. Anxiety is part of it, right?”
Sonja might be an accomplished attorney but at the moment she was the same woman Poppy had roomed with. Defensive as a cornered cat, with the claws to match.
“Jitters, yes. Crankiness, not so much. Do you want me to get Henry?” Poppy didn’t believe in luck of any kind any longer, good or bad. The right man would be by your side no matter what.
“No, that’s the last thing I need.” Sonja rubbed her temples, and a sick sense of dread filled Poppy’s stomach.
“Honey, what is it?” Her mind flashed to the sight of over four hundred people in the historical sanctuary, the grandly but tastefully decorated venue for the reception to follow, the planned brunch tomorrow morning before Sonja and Henry set off on their decadent honeymoon.
Stop it. This isn’t you, Henry isn’t Will.
“Sonja?”
Sonja remained silent and eerily still. Her face lacked its trademark glow and her eyes were glazed over. Poppy had to do something quickly or she feared Sonja wouldn’t make it down the aisle. She’d seen enough last-minute wedding cancelations up close to know a bride on the edge of taking off.
“Sonja, honey, listen to me. Do you need to talk to Henry? We can call him. Yes, let’s text him.” Poppy turned to get her tiny clutch and Sonja’s voice stopped her.
“No. Do not call anyone.” Sonja’s eyes raced around the room like a trapped raccoon. “I just need some air.” She headed for the nearest door, which happened to exit out into a tiny garden that was normally lush with greens but in the winter months more subdued. Just like Sonja.
Sonja sat on a concrete bench, her expression stunned.
“Your dress, Sonja. Are you sure you want to sit on that?” Poppy tried to lift the long skirt and train off the damp ground.
Sonja shook her head, slowly and deliberately. “It’s not going to work, Poppy.”
“What’s not going to work?” She had to ask the question but dreaded Sonja’s response.
“Look at me, Boo. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Baptist, about to walk down the aisle of one of the oldest Roman Catholic churches in America.”
“It’s not about the religion, hon. You know that and so does Henry. You agree on the big things. Didn’t you say it’s a way for you to celebrate your vows in community with all of your friends and family?”
“Not all of our family. And it’s not about the religion part. It’s about the differences in our backgrounds. Not the color, even. The culture, the fact that he grew up with everything money could buy and I never wore anything but hand-me-downs until I had my first job in college. Remember?”
Poppy nodded. Of course she remembered. Like Sonja, she’d grown up on hand-me-downs and thrift store finds. It had been a celebratory moment for both of them when they’d gone shopping together in New York City for new outfits. The first of many joyous occasions they’d shared. Poppy would be damned to let this particular joyous event go down the drain.
“Talk to me, Sonja. I don’t get it. I thought you’d be thrilled to have Henry’s parents show up last night, after all. They looked as I expected, but you and Henry seemed to handle it okay.”
“I was excited to see them, at first.”
“But?”
Sonja fiddled with the crepe overlay of her long skirt, her cocoa skin perfectly highlighted by the rich pearl hue. “They spoke to me when Henry went to the restroom.”
“You didn’t mention any of this last night.” Poppy regretted that she hadn’t stayed with Sonja, insisted on a girls’ chat the night before the wedding.
“I couldn’t. I can’t tell Henry how awful his parents are. I decided to ignore them, to ignore all aspects of it. I’m going to resign from the law firm when we get back…”
“From your honeymoon?”
Sonja shook her head, her braids set off by the waxy leaves of the magnolia tree behind the bench they sat upon. “There won’t be a honeymoon.” She looked at Poppy with her big round dark green eyes and Poppy knew the intent. Whenever Sonja was certain about any decision, whether in life or law, she got the same determined glint of steel.
“I’m calling Henry.” Sweat dripped between Poppy’s shoulder blades and her sweaty hands made gripping her plastic-covered phone difficult.
“No, you’re not. I will.” Sonja’s hand covered Poppy’s, stilling her fingers. “Give me five more minutes alone. I need to…to say a prayer. Then I’ll call Henry and work it out.”
Always a sucker for a spiritual moment, Poppy stood up. “All right. Five minutes. But then I’m coming back here and we’ll do whatever you want me to.” She wasn’t going to allow her dearest friend to mess up the best thing that had ever happened to her because of some overbearing racist bigots who happened to be her future in-laws.
Poppy let herself back into the bridal room and found five sets of concerned eyes staring at her.
“Where’s Sonja?”
“They’ve seated her mother!”
“The hostess says we have to start the procession now!”
Poppy held up her hands in the universal sign to shut the freak up. This was her territory, her bailiwick. “Ladies. Sonja is taking a minute to meditate, to calm down before she enjoys the most important event of her life. She needs each one of us to stay grounded.” She made a point of making eye contact with each bridesmaid, not relenting until each face let go of concerned lines and puckers. “That’s better.” She motioned toward the entry to the narthex. “Let’s go ahead and start lining up for the procession. Sonja will be back in here before it’s my turn to walk.” She sent up a silent prayer that this was the case.
The hostess was waiting at the entry to the sacristy when Poppy looked out of the bridal room. She went back in the room and watched as, one after another, each bridesmaid disappeared in a fluff of the palest pink pearl, the tulle skirts echoing the femininity and nod to the past, similar to Sonja’s gown.
Poppy had helped dozens of nervous brides and bridegrooms pick out gowns and tuxedoes. Sometimes she was asked to be there on the wedding day, too, as an extra measure of reassurance. Only one or two had bailed. Three if you counted Will, but that was well before their scheduled wedding day.
Poppy resented that any thought of Will materialized at all. She had thirty seconds before it was her turn to walk down the long, centuries-old aisle of St. Louis Cathedral. Her palms sweated and her heart pounded as if she were the one getting married.
Before the hostess could come in and start asking about her and the bride, Poppy ran back into the side garden to get Sonja. She’d drag her friend down the aisle if she had to. Henry was the love of Sonja’s life and there was no reason for them to not marry. Fuck the Boudreauxs.
“Sonja—” She gasped in horror at the sight of the garden just as her phone buzzed to indicate a text. From Brandon.
WHERE ARE YOU?
“Sonja!” she shouted, uncaring of anyone overhearing her frantic cry. The garden she thought was a courtyard actually opened up onto the cemetery, with easy exit to the large parking lot.
Her heart thudded like a sailor’s feet on the gallows. Shakily, she typed a reply no maid of honor ever wants to make.
SONJA IS GONE.
Chapter 7
“You had one job, Poppy. One job.” Brandon chastised her in between shots of bourbon, his tuxedo tie long gone and his shirt open to reveal a very sexy Adam’s apple. A body part that had too much use as the bridal party all crowded together at a bar in the French Quarter, where no one batted an eye at the group sans bride and groom.
“You try outwitting Sonja. She’s a genius, always has been.”
“If she’s so smart, why did she let Henry’s asswipe parents change her mind?” Daisy spoke up from the other side of the group, her dress crinkled and her glass of Chablis almost gone.
“Yeah, explain that one, Poppy.” Brandon’s voice was smooth and she didn’t hear anger in it, per se, but she couldn’t shake the gut instinct that he blamed her for the hot mess that the wedding of the bayou had turned into. Plus he was calling her by her given name, not something he’d done much until now.
“Wait a minute. You’re acting like I knew about this. As of last night Sonja was still excited to be getting married today.” Well, sort of. She and Henry had been unusually quiet, and Henry left after the rehearsal dinner to stay with Brandon. All in the name of tradition, which right now didn’t seem as charming as it had last night. “You’re the one who had Henry at your place last night. What did he say that might have tipped you off to Sonja running away today?”
“Nothing. He was as surprised as I was that our parents showed up, and had some concerns about how our father is going to treat Sonja after the wedding. In the office. Which is a moot point since no wedding ergo no issues at work.”
“It had to have been your parents. They said something to her last night. What else could it be?”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt it was my parents. This has Hudson and Gloria stamped all over it.”
“Did they…did they ever try something like this with you?”
His eyes pinned her for a heart-stopping moment before he threw his head back and laughed at the tin-tiled ceiling. “Honey, that’s all they know how to do.”
She let the endearment run over her skin like its moniker. The things that she’d do with honey and Brandon’s body…nope. She put her drink down. No more booze—it wasn’t a good way to keep her heart safe.
“Well, it’s a sure thing that when Henry catches up with her he’ll change her mind.” Pathetic words even if they were her own.
“Who says he wants to find her?” Brandon pulled at his open collar as if his tie was still there, revealing a smexy sprinkling of chest hair. Which probably indicated the start of a path to between his legs, where no doubt hung a magnificent cock. Because men like Brandon didn’t do anything halfway. “See something you like, Yankee?”
Caught.
“Not at all. It’s the artist in me—I scope out my surroundings.”
Heat flared in his eyes and her nipples were pressing against her pink chiffon halter dress as if they’d been imprisoned for years. And it had only been, what, a few months since she’d had sex?
Try six. Okay six months since Will stopped the bedroom activity. Three months since she’d had a man as much as run his fingers down her arm, scratch her back. Until Brandon.
A warm hand on hers, pinning it to the smooth oak bar.
“Stay here, Poppy. With me. Forget about whatever happened in New York.”
She looked at their hands, and at him. “What do you mean?” Her words came out like a torch, drawing a definite line between them. His hand lifted. They didn’t know one another well enough. What was he thinking?
“Just don’t want you to have another panic attack. None of this is your fault. I shouldn’t have teased you.” His puzzled expression underscored her pathetic neediness.
“I thought you meant stay with you. You meant stay here, in the present moment.”
His expression sobered. “I’d never tease you about staying with me.”
Her stomach flip-flopped. Rubbing her hand over it, she tossed her head and managed a smile. “I can handle teasing. And I’m not about to have a panic attack.”
“You drifted there.”
She had. And she wasn’t sharing why. Hell, he already knew, along with the rest of the world that paid attention to social media and reality television.
“I take it you’ve never followed the rules.” She stirred her Manhattan, preferring to stick to what she was used to. Besides, it was her comfort drink.
“I tried to. Until I couldn’t.” He motioned for the bartender to bring them another round.
“Oh, no, I’ll take a soda water.” One more Manhattan and she’d never be able to work in the morning.
“You have somewhere to go in the morning?”
“No, but I have work.”
“And you expect to still have the house to yourself for the next two weeks?”
Faced with the same two weeks to house-sit, but not knowing if either Sonja, Henry, or both would appear sooner, Poppy planned to work on her home decor line for the following spring, fourteen months out. She’d already turned in the autumn designs for Attitude by Amber and was waiting to hear at any minute which distributors had picked up which designs.
“Sure, why not? For all we know they went on the honeymoon anyway.” She doubted it but hoped. Hoped that at least Sonja found true love, a real happily ever after.
“What do you have to work on? Now that your office in New York is, ah, on hiatus?”
“There’s more to Designs by Amber than personal stylist and event planning. I’m getting ready for a major launch of a home fashion and decor line. I have plenty to do.”
The large home on the banks of the tributary was quiet and the perfect place for her to set up shop. Thank God for the home decor line and associated women’s fashion line or she’d be sunk, career kaput. She wanted to sink into her too-familiar world of stewing over why she hadn’t been good enough for Will, what she could have done differently. Unfortunately Brandon’s annoying intensity wouldn’t let her go anywhere but the present.
“What are you staring at?” She used her best New York attitude.
“Come walk with me, Poppy.” The warmth of his hand on hers wasn’t clammy or suffocating as she wished it was. It would be so much easier if this man was a turnoff in at least one little way. Before she could come up with a protest, she was following him out of the bar, into the misting evening. Brandon’s profile under the streetlights was tall, dark, and combined with the heat of his hand holding hers, sexually potent. A little groan escaped Poppy’s lips.
“What’s that?” He sounded distracted as he led them through the more familiar streets, back toward where they’d been the first night she’d met him. Two nights and a lifetime ago.
“Nothing, where are we going? The others are going to wonder.”
“They’re halfway drunk by now.”
She couldn’t argue with that, as she probably was, too. She’d fought to not drink too much, hoping Sonja and Henry would call and the entire nightmare of a day would have a happy ending.
“Have you ever done something that you know is completely out of the norm for you, totally inadvisable?” He spoke as he tugged her along, impatient to get wherever they were headed.
“Sure, I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. Wait—we’re going back to the garden?” Poppy was all about atmosphere and ambience but what did Brandon have to say in the garden that he couldn’t tell her in the bar? “Are you talking about Sonja running away from her own wedding?”
“Sonja and Henry aren’t on my radar right now.”
Nothing sexier than for the man holding her hand to be determined, confident. Her mind raced with all kinds of sexy encounter ideas. Her stomach tingled at the possibilities and the heat between her legs, which had become a damned glow s
tick since she’d met him, raged.
“Brandon, wait, it’s raining. I don’t have a coat.” Actually, all she had was a wrap, which was a frothy pile of pink on her abandoned barstool.
They’d reached the private garden and Brandon led them through to a side area they hadn’t visited the other night. He smiled at her in the dark, his white teeth promising things her body would gladly beg for.
When they stepped up onto a small gazebo, Brandon took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. As he drew her up against his hard length, she felt surrounded by him—his musk, his fresh-wood scent, his presence.
“Poppy.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and she didn’t stop him, couldn’t look away as he lowered his lips to hers.
* * * *
Brandon couldn’t let another chance to kiss Poppy Kaminsky go by. After tonight, he’d never see her again and—
Hell, who was he kidding? He wasn’t after one kiss from this incredible woman. If they ended up back at his place, that’d be even better. She wasn’t a shy debutante or young college grad who’d expect more from him. Poppy was as worldly as he when it came to sex, he was certain. And besides her burning body that he was insane to explore, he sensed they both needed this. Poppy had survived a huge personal loss and so had he. It didn’t matter that she had no clue what he was going through. He needed respite and inexplicably felt that she did, too. A healing. Two adults, helping each other. What he needed to do, wanted to do to Poppy, with her, for her, became clear.
Until his lips touched hers. All certainty, all of what he was so sure of, vanished like the millions in his bank account had. Instead of being absconded to God knew where, though, his thoughts formed into a tight, hot, uncontrollable awareness of the woman he held in his arms.
“Poppy.” He spoke against her lips, afraid if he broke the intimate contact she’d disappear. Her mouth opened to his and her tongue met his with sinful hot need. When she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him he lifted her a couple of inches off the gazebo deck and turned them around until he had her back up against a smooth white column. He took his time to set her down, allowed her front to run along his, allowed her to feel his erection against her softest parts. Even through layers of clothing his cock felt her heat as he ground into her. She rewarded him with gasps and sharp, short pants. Not anxiety breathing this time but turned-on, let’s-keep-it-going gulps for air. Seeing that she wanted him as much as he did her was the biggest turn-on. Ever.