by Geri Krotow
“Any tips for me before I go up to bat?”
She laughed. Low and throaty, and he suspected she caught a lot of big fish with it. Two weeks ago he’d have been one of them.
Now all he could see in his mind was how Poppy looked in her yoga pants and sloppy T-shirt, sipping chamomile tea as she looked at her phone. It was only because they’d been spending so much time together, both needing human touch.
“They’re not an easy crowd. Limited funds, for the type of boats they want.”
“How many of these kinds of contracts do you work each year?” If this didn’t work out, maybe he’d have another chance before he had to shut down Boats by Gus.
Mary Beth shook her head. “Hard to say. We don’t get a lot of foreign nations in here. But I’ve only been with the firm for five months. As soon as I pass the bar I’ll either be offered a position or I’ll find another place to work.”
“Well, thanks.” They’d reached the door to the conference room.
“Anytime, Gus. But you know that already, don’t you? Good luck and I hope you have something to celebrate after this.” Somehow, she knew he had another woman on the line. He’d been definite in his boundaries with her. This was new territory for Brandon. He’d cared for more than one woman in his life, but none that left some kind of invisible stamp on him. Discounting it to nerves, he nodded.
“Thanks, Mary Beth.”
Showtime.
* * * *
“Hello?” Poppy had wanted to let the call from her lawyer in New York go to voicemail but she’d never been a chicken.
“Poppy, good to hear your voice. How are you doing?” Louise’s tone revealed a rare glimpse of compassion. Usually the Manhattan attorney was strictly business, no-nonsense.
Poppy looked around at her new office in the back room of Bianca’s boutique. “I’m doing very well, thank you. What’s up?”
“The initial suit from your former assistant is weak, as you already figured out. She doesn’t have anything going for her, honestly. I expect the judge will throw it out.”
“But she doesn’t have any assets, either.” Except Will. “How will she make reparations for the damage to my reputation and business?” Anger pushed heat into her face and she stood up, needing to pace. “I lost the deal for Attitude by Amber.”
Silence. Even her loquacious attorney whom she’d known for five years was lost for words.
“I’d hoped the reports I read were incorrect.”
“Nope. Absolutely accurate. Done, gone. No payment rendered.”
“I’m sorry, Poppy. I do wish you’d called me with this as soon as you were informed. You need to countersue.”
“There was nothing you could have done. They were adamant. Frankly I’m surprised they waited this long to put out a press release. As for countersuing, I want to be divested of any ties to those two idiots as soon as I can.”
Louise’s sigh sounded hurried. “Listen, it’s imperative that you countersue. I’ve known you for too long, Poppy. You’re too giving and while I admire your spiritual intention, because that’s what it is, legally I cannot advise you to let anything go.”
“This is why you’re my lawyer, Louise.” She thought about it but didn’t need to. “Yes, let’s go for it. What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing right this minute. I’ll file the petition against Will and Tori, since they’re married. There might be a way to free up enough of your funds to at least pay for your legal fees and help you get started again.”
Poppy toyed with shiny plastic Mardi Gras beads that spilled from a clear plastic container on her desk. She wanted to create an entire palette from the bright purples, greens, and golds. “I’ve come up with a new business plan but I can’t go full speed ahead until I have what’s left of my funds. I still have a few loyal clients in New York, I’m exploring some other options for a new career.” It would be much, much slower than her Attitude by Amber deal. Regional to NOLA, and only if she was very, very lucky. And it would never be as lucrative as her stylist business. But it might be the most satisfying thing she’d done to date. Since that time right after Hurricane Katrina, when she’d volunteered alongside Sonja.
“It may take months to get to your corporate accounts again. You had something put away in your personal funds, right?”
She managed a shaky laugh. “No. I’m flat broke because, like the overconfident stylist I was, I put just about all of my own money into my business.” She told Louise to call her as soon as she had word on the judge’s decision, and disconnected the call.
“Hey.” Bianca stood at the door, a large empty basket on her hip. “I didn’t want to interrupt your call but I’m going to move the rest of this stuff out of here.” She placed the basket on a shelf and Poppy helped her fill it with assorted scarves, wallets, and belts. “Were those new clients?”
“No, unfortunately, not yet. You didn’t interrupt anything, trust me.” She paused, then decided to jump in with both feet. “I know we haven’t known each other long, and you’ve already given me an office, but since you’ve read up on me, you know my former executive assistant is suing me for copyright? She claims that my sunflower design was her idea.”
“Was it?”
Poppy laughed. “That woman couldn’t draw a stick figure, much less use the graphics program I did to come up with that logo. And I had it copyrighted before she started getting a paycheck from me. She’s messed with the wrong person.”
“But she got your fiancé.” Bianca’s expression was open and sympathetic. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t want retribution.”
“A few weeks ago, yes, I wanted to claw her eyes out and kick Will’s balls up to his nose. Now? I’m looking for other ways to enact revenge. Isn’t living well the best revenge and all that? I want to grow a new business, the one I’ve started here with you.”
“I couldn’t help overhear that you lost your deal for your own brand line?
“Yes. My one big regret. The buzz over the breakup and my erratic behavior was too risky for the retailers.” She shrugged. “It still stings, I can’t lie. But if it had gone through, I wouldn’t be standing here and dreaming up ways to empower women with fashion in New Orleans, would I?”
Bianca smiled. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“So you’re in? My plan is to establish a solid base here in downtown NOLA before trying to expand. Frankly, I don’t see it going out of the local area.”
Bianca’s wide grin flashed her affirmation. “Bring a pen when you bring me the contract.” The bells over the boutique entrance chimed and Bianca left to greet the customer.
Poppy couldn’t help it. She did a crazed happy dance on the spot.
* * * *
Poppy peered up at the sign “Flapjack Heaven” and compared the address to Brandon’s note. Yup, she was in the right place. “Dive” didn’t describe the dirty-windowed café, and she was using “café” in the loosest sense of the word. She was ten minutes early and she looked up and down the street for a nicer coffee shop to wait, but she stood far off the French Quarter, on a side street that more closely resembled an alley. It was an odd place to show up to wearing her sexiest thong set under her outfit.
She pushed open the front door and an ancient brass bell clanged overhead. The greasy-aproned man at the cash register didn’t look up, merely continued to scroll through whatever on his phone screen. In the middle of the wall, a rectangular opening to the kitchen revealed several cooks, all industriously whisking, flipping, and ringing the bell on the counter across said window. From a back door two servers rushed in, each grabbing armloads of plates laden with pancakes, French toast, and grits before they disappeared through the same swinging door.
“I’m meeting someone for brunch.” She stood in front of the cashier. He looked up as if she’d caused him an extreme inconvenience.
“Go pick
out a table.” He motioned over his left shoulder with his head and went back to his phone.
Poppy looked around the tiny front of the building, where there were no chairs, no benches. She walked back toward the only other door, wondering why the hell, with all the incredible places in New Orleans to eat, Brandon had picked this dump.
She shoved open the swinging door, bracing in case one of the servers came crashing through at the same time. A few short steps across an Art Deco–era tiled corridor, with his and hers restrooms on either side, and she opened a second, screen door onto a courtyard garden. She was embraced by an enormous lush tropical escape from the hot, humid street with nothing remotely urban in sight. Red- and violet-hued macaws hung out in giant cages, tearing with relish into mango slices. The sweet chirp of songbirds flitted down from the high tree boughs that covered the space, allowing shafts of sunlight to float down when it wasn’t obscured by clouds.
Only after she inhaled the sweet jasmine, touched the leaves on a low-hanging magnolia branch, did she notice the patrons. And what looked like dozens of servers, not just the pair she’d seen earlier. Tables were scattered all through the parklike setting, most in their own alcove to offer privacy to the diners. The place was packed and she had to walk deeper into the garden before she spied an empty table partially obscured by a hanging palm tree branch.
“Coffee?” Her bottom had barely hit the cushioned chair before a waiter in a crisply pressed white shirt, rolled sleeves, and with a linen towel over his forearm smiled at her, his shiny silver coffee pot reflecting her stunned expression.
“Yes. Please.” She noted the tiny silver pitcher of cream in the center of the table. “I’m meeting a friend—I’m not sure he’ll find me in here.”
“No problem, we’ll send anyone who describes you back here.” The waiter spun and walked off before she had a chance to laugh at his response. The inescapable New Orleans charm reached into her chest and hugged her heart. It wasn’t the first time since she’d landed at the airport almost three weeks ago that she’d felt it. Only now, it wasn’t the simple thrill of being in a new part of the world. It was more definite, as if the city were wooing her.
She poured a dollop of the rich cream into her cup and stirred with the exquisite silver filigree coffee spoon. The first sip was pure pleasure on her tongue. She closed her eyes and soaked up the scent of the fresh brew, the surrounding vegetation, and the flowers. Allowing a sigh to escape her lips, she existed in this moment as if none of her Manhattan transgressions ever happened. If it were only this simple. Maybe it is.
Solid footsteps on the crushed-seashell path forced her eyes open and she gazed up into the brilliant blue of Brandon’s contemplation. He took in her hair, her eyes, lingered at her lips before going down along her throat to the cleavage she’d left professional but still obvious, telling herself she hadn’t left the extra blouse buttons undone for him. She hadn’t been anticipating their brunch like it was a date or anything. Liar. His gaze continued its downward sweep, and the way he looked at her bare toes in her gladiator sandals made her press her thighs together. A movement her short skirt couldn’t hide, and one that Brandon didn’t miss. He slid into the seat across from her and nodded at the server’s offer of coffee, all the while keeping his eyes on her. A seductive smile lifted his mouth as he noted the heat in her cheeks.
“Good morning, Yankee girl. You look incredibly sexy, as always.”
“Hey.” He had her breathless and wet and he hadn’t touched her yet. ‘Hey?’ As if they were more than friends or associates meeting to discuss his meeting. His meeting. “How did it go?”
“In a minute.” He reached over the table and kissed her, full on the lips with a tantalizing quick lick of tongue. Poppy breathed in the scent of Brandon as much as she savored his taste. He drew back and his eyes sparkled, his skin crinkling. “Isn’t this a nicer way to start the meal?”
“Um, if you’re into putting on a show.” She couldn’t stop the blush if she wanted to, and knew her face had to be the color of the crepe myrtle behind her.
He opened the menu and after staring at the barrier between them, Poppy did the same. Good Lord, there had to be no less than three dozen versions of flapjacks to include gooseberry and gumbo.
“Is there any kind of flapjack they don’t have?”
“No.”
“What are your favorites?”
“Strawberry. Sometimes peach.” The way he said the fruits made it clear that he was thinking about something other than brunch. She jumped back as he snapped the menu down and leaned toward her.
“Peach like your skin and strawberry like your nipples after they’ve been in my mouth.” His smile was the devil incarnate challenged only by the way his eyes glittered.
She leaned in, because in the short time she’d known Brandon, she’d learned that any sign of weakness only encouraged him to keep teasing her.
It wasn’t always teasing. A vision of him taking her from behind as she bent over his massive kitchen island set her center into the low, steady throb that demanded relief. She crossed her ankles and kept her knees straight ahead, avoiding his feet.
“I liked it when we did that, too.”
She laughed. “Give me a break. You’re a mind reader?”
“Close enough, from the way you’re trying to catch your breath.” His gaze lowered again to her cleavage. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a regular business suit.”
“That makes sense since when I’m home I like to be in workout clothes.” The server appeared and kept her from obsessing over how she’d said “home” as if she lived here. As if she’d let it slip to Brandon that she was hoping to make New Orleans her home. It was too soon to tell him. She was doing this for her, not a man, not a relationship.
She clenched her eyes shut for a minute, shaking her head. Brandon ordered peach pancakes and she picked banana nut. The server warmed up their coffees and left. The wall of green next to and above them leant an air of romantic intimacy to their table, and Poppy leaned back. She could enjoy a unique dining experience without worrying about whether Brandon figured out the track of her thoughts. It wasn’t as if they were like the other couples here, the ones who were completely into one another.
“You okay?” The dainty white porcelain coffee cup was tiny in his hand, but he wasn’t awkward handling it. Everything seemed to come naturally to Brandon.
“I’m great. Just clearing my head of silly thoughts.”
“Care to share them?”
She sipped her coffee. “No thank you.”
He laughed. “Poppy, when are you going to learn that you can trust me?”
“I do trust you. I trust you to be who you are.” Guilt nudged her. She didn’t trust him enough to let him know she might stay here. She put her cup down on its saucer. No more seductive lines. “So tell me. What happened with the contract?”
Brandon’s pleasure pushed a smile across his features and she knew in that moment that he was a modest man. Humble, even. Not like in bed when he loved proving his vast skill.
“It went well. As well as it could. There were several other boat builders there. I recognized a few of the company names and spoke with them in the waiting area. There were some reps from companies that I’d never heard of, too.” He rapped his knuckles on the linen tablecloth. She noted how a sprinkling of yellow-orange pollen across the table from the single hibiscus bloom in the vase contrasted with the dark hair on his forearm. “This is a big deal, bigger than I’d imagined. The good news is that I don’t need to deal with all of the intricacies of the U.S. Government—that’s what the law firm representing the San Sofia government is going to take care of. They’ll make sure whoever gets the contract has all their ducks in order, which is a huge relief.”
“Does the firm represent you or the San Sofia military?”
“Both. The San Sofia team has their own set of
attorneys, of course, looking out for their best interests. The law firm here keeps the rest of it running smoothly.”
“Could Henry help you with this?”
His hand stilled and he moved his head to crack his neck. “Right now I’m not in need of any legal help. That will come in to play after I get the contract.”
“So you didn’t get the offer yet?” She wanted him to succeed, to have the lift out of his rock bottom that he’d given her when he’d asked for her help.
“Hang on. I did okay in the presentation, and I feel I answered all of their questions and concerns to the best of my ability. According to Mary Beth, the firm’s intern in charge of the administrative process, I was the only one they showed that much interest in. On the way over here she texted me that I’m one of three callbacks for next week.”
“Why do you have to wait a week? I’d have thought San Sofia would want to go to contract as soon as possible. You said the boats are needed to fight their opioid epidemic, right?”
He nodded. “Yes. They’ve got help from the U.S. Coast Guard for now, but it’s never enough. And there has to be a week between the interviews to allow for recording the process with our governments; federal, state, and local.”
“It’s the same in New York City. Everyone gets their piece of the pie.” What she’d accomplished in a month in New Orleans would take several months, even a year or two, in New York. She’d lucked out when she walked into Bianca’s shop.
His eyes darkened when she said “pie” and she silently cursed him. Would they ever have a conversation that wasn’t laden with sexual innuendo?
“A piece of—yes, death, taxes and all that.” He reached across the table and grasped her hand as it lay on the table, surprising her with the sudden intimate gesture. “I wouldn’t be this far without you, Poppy. You asked the exact questions I needed to be prepared. I don’t think there was one you hadn’t thought of in advance.”
She ignored her pulse as it jammed in tune to her attraction to him, somewhere alongside her throat. She swallowed. “I was using your notes. Anyone could have helped.”