Bayou Vows by Geri Krotow Book Tour and Giveaway :)
The Bayou Bachelors #3
by Geri Krotow
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Pub Date: 1/8/2019
Not even the wildest Bayou Bachelor of all can resist the right woman.
Jeb DeVillier has a lot of explaining to do. True, he did steal millions from the sailboat business he ran with his partner, Brandon, and disappear to South America. But Jeb has a good reason—Brandon’s sister, Jena Boudreaux. A decade ago, she broke his heart when she chose career over their relationship. Still, when he learns she’s being held for ransom by drug dealers, he doesn’t hesitate. He’ll save her life, no matter what the danger.
When Jena called Jeb out of the blue, it was to ask him to give her last words to her family. She knew the risks when she took one final mission for the CIA. Suddenly, Jeb’s riding to the rescue like her own personal Cajun knight. Yet now that they’re both safe in New Orleans, he refuses to give her a second chance.
That’s not good enough for Jena. Because when you find someone crazy enough to risk everything for you, the only sane thing to do is to hang on tight . . .
Rain battered the condo roof, and for the fifth time in as many minutes Jeb DeVillier reread the contracts from the many accounting firms eager for his CPA experience. He wondered which job he’d pick to start his life over. All four positions were out of state, far away from his native New Orleans, which had been his comfort zone for too long. Away from Jena Boudreaux. Usually the rain soothed him and gave him the peace he needed to think, but since he’d come back from Paraguay nothing had filled the crater in his soul. Her face had been cut from lip to cheekbone. No matter how many times he went over what happened last month—especially the part where he stole his best friend’s money to save that same best friend’s sister from certain death—he hadn’t been able to justify his actions to himself. At the very least he should have told Brandon he was taking the company coffers to Asunción, Paraguay, to save Jena. She could have died. Should have, statistically. He’d saved Jena by getting the ransom to the Paraguayan drug cartel in time, gaining a lifetime’s worth of stress in the process. His first trip to South America had been a matter of life or death. There’d been no time to think, no chance to second-guess. He’d received the alarming text from Jena and acted on instinct. The image of her motionless figure, bloody and battered, flashed into his mind for the millionth time. Unlike any other memory in his life, this one didn’t fade. It grew stronger, the utter despair it elicited strangling out any flicker of hope left in his battered heart.
And he’d realized that he could no longer see Jena as a fuck buddy, and in fact, that he had never seen her like that. It’d been sheer stupidity to agree to her proposal in the first place. They’d reconnected last year at Christmas, after barely having seen one another in seven years. Like a fool, he’d convinced himself that the years and space had allowed him to see their shattered adolescent and college relationship for what it was: growing pains with a childhood friend and first love, nothing more. But their red-hot chemistry was still there, and it’d been too tempting to turn down no-strings sex with Jena. He’d gone along with her offer, anything to be able to be with her. Even risking his relationship with her older brother, Brandon Boudreaux, his lifelong best friend. They’d kept their sex-only relationship secret, and it worked. Until it didn’t. After seeing Jena at her physical bottom at the hands of her kidnappers in Paraguay—a haunted ghost of herself—the bubble he’d been living in exploded. While he’d happily engaged in their very private, indeed clandestine, relationship, he’d also fallen for what she’d told her family: that she was in the Navy Reserves and got called to active duty as often as she did because she was doing refugee work in various spots around the globe. And it made sense, on the surface. Jena had her degree in social work, and she’d said the Navy had assigned her as a general unrestricted line officer, which gave her the ability to serve wherever she was needed, whenever. Jena excelled at channeling her compassionate tendencies in the most beneficial way—he’d witnessed it firsthand when she’d helped the teen daughter of his work colleague early last year. He grunted. That was when he’d had work colleagues. The destruction his split-second decision had wrought on the boating company he and Brandon had built from the ground up was immeasurable. The fifteen million dollars of absconded funds were easily counted, a solid figure to wrap his head around. And as rough as stealing the money was, it had bought Jena her life back. But the damage between him and Brandon—irreparable. Brandon had been his best friend, his chosen brother, much as the Boudreauxes had been his chosen family since the day Brandon brought him home after school to play Atari. The only commonality he’d shared with the Boudreaux children was school. Jeb’s family struggled economically. His father left when he was still in kindergarten, and his mother struggled with alcoholism until he was almost in middle school. Jeb had felt responsible for his siblings, but also craved the attention and security he thought the Boudreaux children had. He’d met Brandon Boudreaux in gym class at the local private Catholic school where Jeb was enrolled as a charity case. Their bond had been immediate, as had his friendship with Brandon’s younger sister Jena. He couldn’t remember his life without her. How had the girl he’d known, the woman he’d thought he’d loved on and off over the last two decades, been an undercover CIA agent and he’d never had a fucking clue? The not-knowing about her work wasn’t what painfully stuck in his craw, though. He hated to admit the truth of it, even to himself in the small apartment he might very well lose in a matter of days. What crushed him was that Jena had never needed him, had only used him for booty calls. And he’d been too blinded by his attraction to see through it. To be fair, he’d used her for the same things, but deep down he believed that Jena needed him, what only he could offer her. He’d been a fool.
Jena never stopped calling him her best friend. When they were kids, when they dated in high school, and then, later, college, she never stopped saying that he was the only one who really “got” her. After seeing what kind of horrible human beings she’d fought and fortunately won against, he had to face facts. The young kids they’d been—and, yes, even the more recent fuck buddies—had been based on his assumption that Jena needed him. That he was a requisite part of her life. And he’d thought it would be that way forever. That Jena knew he was the one she’d always be able to turn to, no matter what. While that part was true, what wasn’t was his fatal assumption: that Jena wanted to turn to him all the time. Because Jena Boudreaux was a self-made woman who required help from no one, least of all her grade-school friend who happened to know her body better than anyone else. He slammed his laptop shut, stood, and stretched. Hadn’t he had enough counseling about his alcoholic mother to know that he was a classic caretaker, that his codependency had spilled over onto Jena for too long? He’d destroyed his best friend’s business, their relationship, and his own livelihood, all because of a single text from Jena. Not the text asking him to tell her family she loved them, to let the FBI know what was going on. No, that hadn’t been the biggest revelation. It was the short, three-word text that came two hours later, when he’d thought it was too late, that he’d never reach her in time. I love you.
The Bayou Bachelors #2
Sweet and sultry, hot and wild…that’s desire, Louisiana-style. And there’s no one better to explore it with than one of the Bayou Bachelors…
Returning to her flooded New Orleans home to face Henry Boudreaux, the man she jilted at the altar, is the hardest thing attorney Sonja Bosco has ever done—even before she discovers she’s pregnant. Sonja backed out of the marriage for Henry’s sake. He wants to be part of his father’s law firm, and his parents will never approve of an interracial marriage. Better to bruise his heart than ruin his life.
Henry can’t forgive Sonja, and doubts that he can trust her again. But learning that they’re going to be parents means there’s no avoiding each other. Springtime on the bayou is already steamy enough…now they’re living in the same small space while their damaged house is repaired. And with each passing day they’re getting a little more honest. A lot more real. And realizing that nothing—not even New Orleans at Mardi Gras—glows brighter than the desire they’re trying to deny…
Sonja Bosco’s grip on the leather-covered steering wheel lessened when she saw the empty driveway in front of the house that had been more than her home for the past three years. It had been her very heartbeat. Henry’s car could be in the garage, of course, but she doubted it. According to what she’d ascertained from their shared receptionist, he was hard at work in the New Orleans office of Boudreaux Law. She’d gathered the courage to call into the main office in Baton Rouge, run by Henry’s father, late last week. The senior Boudreaux knew she planned to report back to work later this morning. Three weeks and two days after she’d left NOLA, left St. Louis Cathedral, and more significantly, left her ex-almost-husband-to-be, Henry, on said altar. Of all the degrees, positions, and dreams she’d aspired to, runaway bride had never made the list. The tug of remorse at her emotionally cataclysmic decision was strong, but her will to jump into her new routine, whatever that was going to look like, was stronger. She parked her BMW in the driveway for what would be the last time. Her finances as a single woman demanded she sell the once cherished Beemer, and her status as Henry’s ex meant she’d never again live in the house they’d built together. If only it didn’t still feel like home. As much as she dreaded seeing the devastation the flood had done to it the last two weeks, maybe it would crack the code on the invisible signal that made her body home in on this place as if it were her last grasp for freedom. Hell, it wasn’t just her body. Her soul had planted roots here, damn it all to hell. The graveled drive felt so familiar under her sandaled feet she almost wept. Home. She’d needed to be here, by herself, licking her heart wounds these past few weeks, instead of holing up in a close elementary-school friend’s backwater cabin. She hadn’t had Wi-Fi and had refused to check her phone, save to let her parents and family know she was still breathing, and was safe from the flooding rains that pummeled so much of the bayou two weeks ago. The flooding had been so extensive she couldn’t get back to the river house if she wanted to, not without a boat and the help of Henry or his brother Brandon. She’d only gone out twice, each time to the tiny local grocery store. Where the third pregnancy test she’d purchased gave her the same result as the previous two, before the wedding. She was pregnant, newly so. Not only was Henry Boudreaux her ex-groom and ex-fiancé, but he was also her baby daddy. She couldn’t muster the tiniest of smiles, much less a giggle, at the humor of it. She, Sonja Bosco, didn’t think she’d ever laugh again. The heavy wooden front door opened with a single turn of her key. It stuck a bit in the frame, and she wondered if it might still be swollen from the devastating rains that soaked the area the week after the wedding. So much so that Poppy, her best friend and appointed honeymoon house sitter, had had to leave for higher, drier ground. And had promptly fallen in love with her rescuer, Henry’s brother Brandon. At least some people still believed in love. Sonja sucked in a huge breath and faced the house she’d lived in with Henry for the past couple of years, where they’d planned their wedding. “The un-wedding,” she muttered to the empty house as she entered. It was worse than she’d thought it would be. The main floor had been flooded during the storm, and Poppy and Henry had done a quick storm prep by moving as much as possible to the second floor of the custom-built riverfront home. Streaks of dried mud led the way from the living room to the French doors where the water had come in. Shadowed stains on the previously ivory cream walls indicated that the water had risen to at least eighteen inches, maybe even two feet, in the house. Her and Henry’s dream home had drowned. Not unlike their hopes for a future together. Certainly her tears that first week after the wedding that never happened were enough to drown her crushed dreams. She thought she’d cried out all the pain of her broken heart, but as she gazed at the storm’s destruction, waves of anguish rushed up from her stomach and she turned around and ran back out of the house. The crepe myrtles had survived the storm, and she took shelter behind them as her morning sickness left her helpless until her stomach was emptied. “Son of a bitch.” She ran a shaky hand across her forehead. “Nothing personal, baby. You’re sweet, don’t worry. Mommy’s just getting used to you is all.” Sweet Jesus and iced lemonade, she sounded like her grandmother. Grandma Edwina had made her opinion of Sonja marrying a “white gentleman” clear. “I’ll support whomever you choose, sweet girl, but you have to know that you’re making your life harder than it needs to be.” Sonja had blown her maternal grandmother off, assigning the words to a generation that had marched on Selma. While Loving v. Virginia had been decided within two years of Selma, there was still such a long way to go, and Sonja’s grandmother never let her forget it. Grandma was as protective of her as could be and didn’t want to see Sonja risk the extra pain that an interracial marriage could bring. Sonja had fallen for Henry as he had her—flat-out soul mate attraction. But the reaction from his parents was some kind of 1950s flashback. They thought the marriage was doomed before it started simply because Sonja was black. She’d been sad for Henry because she knew his relationship with his parents was going to suffer. Had suffered. But had it been enough? She still wasn’t sure that if he’d drawn a firmer line with his folks she’d never have run. The doubt and guilt that had scratched at her conscience after each altercation with Henry’s parents came screaming back, and she paused in her damaged house survey. Worry that she could be wrong; that it might be possible that somewhere underneath all of his wonderfulness Henry had at least the teeniest bit of bigoted asshole in him, like his folks. And guilt that she’d never mentioned any of the confrontations to him. They’d been almost non-events to her; racism wasn’t anything that surprised her. And the Boudreauxs were so subtle, their passive-aggressive skills so finely tuned, that it would have been hard to explain her point of view without coming off as having a huge chip on her shoulder. The best bigots were like that. Cunning. She stood under the large arched threshold into the great room, and the memory of Henry standing next to her at this spot, over which they’d hung the mistletoe last year, immediately shifted her morose thoughts to sadness. Her parents had been thrilled she’d finally shown an interest in something besides law and studying. And they adored Henry. Their disappointment at her decision to not follow through with her vows had been keen, but they’d get over it. Especially when they found out they were going to be grandparents. Her sisters and brother had always been on board with her marrying Henry and were still sending her texts to “Quick, beg him to take you back.” They meant well, but their words were starting to wear. The French doors opened up, and she breathed in the brackish breeze, allowed the strength of it to move across her face. Her hair was going to frizz to all get-out but what the hell? The wind helped her nausea. She had her hand on her nape, giving herself a massage as best she could, willing her stomach to settle. It wasn’t easy, seeing how the deck was strewn with debris that Henry obviously hadn’t taken the time to clear. Or maybe he hadn’t come back, either? A definite thud stiffened her spine and made her grip the door handles. She was alone in the house, vulnerable. If it was an unwelcome visitor she could escape from the back deck, over to their neighbor’s. As quietly as possible she turned around and looked into the living room, across to the open space’s huge granite-topped counter, to the kitchen. No one. Nothing. Maybe the wind had forced the front door open. But she’d closed it tight, she was certain. “This is a far cry from the cathedral.” An unmistakable voice, the sexiest timbre on the planet, rocked her. A startled gasp left her lips before she had a chance to even know she made the sound. She faced him, looked into the brilliant blue eyes whose look always felt like a caress. Right now it was more like a harsh slap of hail on her bare cheeks. “I didn’t see your car in the drive so I thought it’d be okay to come in.” Her defensiveness surprised her. She’d practiced how she’d behave when she saw him again, and this was nothing like the detached air she’d hoped to project. “Why wouldn’t it be okay? It’s your house, too.” Tall, lean, and with the lethal stare he usually reserved for his toughest courtroom cases, Henry stared at her from the foyer. As imperious as ever but without his usual air of humor. The self-deprecation that had endeared him to her. He wore his best attorney mask without any sign of the warmth she’d gotten too used to. He was guarded, prepared for battle. She drank in his presence anyway.
The Bayou Bachelors #1
There’s nowhere hotter than the South, especially with three men who know how to make the good times roll. But one of the Bayou Bachelors is about to meet his match…
New York City stylist Poppy Kaminsky knows that image is everything, which is why she’s so devastated when hers is trashed on social media—after a very public meltdown over her cheating fiancé. Her best friend’s New Orleans society wedding gives her the chance hide out and lick her wounds...
Brandon Boudreaux is in no mood to party. His multi-million dollar sailboat business is in danger of sinking thanks to his partner’s sudden disappearance—with the company’s funds. And when he rolls up to his estranged brother’s pre-wedding bash in an airboat, a cold-as-ice friend of the bride looks at him like he’s so much swamp trash.
The last person Poppy should get involved with is the bad boy of the Boudreaux family. But they have more in common than she could ever imagine—and the steamy, sultry New Orleans nights are about to show her how fun letting loose can be…
“New Orleans serves as a strong supporting character in Fully Dressed as Krotow gives an inside view on the sights, sounds, and tastes of the bayou.” —RT Book Reviews
“Poppy!” Poppy Amberlin Kaminsky had never been so happy to hear her real name, no matter that she’d spent the last eight hours and had taken a taxi, train, and plane to do so. All to get to a place she swore she’d never come back to after a Spring Break visit almost a decade ago. It was hard to tell whether the New Orleans’ Bayou air or her best friend’s cloud of Kate Spade Live Colorfully perfume embraced her first, but once Sonja’s arms crushed her against the familiar curvaceous figure of her college bestie, it didn’t matter. Poppy meant to give the bride-to-be a reassuring, ‘glad to see you’ hug, but instead ended up holding on for dear life. Tears shoved past her carefully made-up eyes, threatening to drip off her lash extensions. They were the only part of her previous life that she’d kept. Sonja pulled back and stared. “Let me get a good look at you. What the hell did you do to your hair?” Sonja’s expression reflected the shock Poppy had also experienced at her first glance of her new ‘do. Gone was her, or rather, Amber’s, signature sleek brunette bob. Her wild waves were back, as was her honey blonde ombre, albeit with a little more brass. She self-consciously reached for her bleached locks. “It’s part of my get-away disguise.” As was the huge pair of sunglasses she’d worn from New York City to Louisiana, which had worked since she’d garnered minimal attention on her flight. An unusual event for Poppy since being publicly dumped and Twitter-shamed by her ex-boyfriend. ‘Ex’ as in ‘I want to draw an ‘X’ across his face every time I see it.’ “It’s my real color, so at least the roots will grow out with no issue.” “Aw, boo.” Sonja lifted the shades from Poppy’s nose as she uttered the Cajun endearment and Poppy wanted to weep with the relief of having the one person who really knew her—who got who she was, who she’d been, how far she’d come—look into her eyes and smile with no judgment. “That rat-ass did a number on you, didn’t he?” Poppy shrugged. “Screw him. That’s history, baby. Two months and twelve hundred miles away. I’m here, and you’re getting married!” They both squealed and hugged, hopping around as if they were still college roommates with big dreams in front of them. Intact dreams that weren’t shattered in skin-piercing shards about their feet, as were Poppy’s. “I can’t wait for you to meet Henry.” Sonja gushed as she opened the hatch of her BMW SUV and reached for Poppy’s tote. “And he can’t wait to meet you.” Poppy put her sunglasses back on and took in the upgraded Sonja. Gone was the straightened shoulder-length hair of their college days, replaced with a sexy soft afro. Lustrous pearl drop earrings set off Sonja’s mocha skin. No more flip flops but designer wedge sandals. Sandals that matched her thousand-dollar bag. “What?” Sonja didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, these old things?” She posed like the magazine model she resembled but after a split second bent over in laughter, her smile flashing as honest and warm as it had ever been. “Poppy, you look like you can’t believe it. A nice paycheck and fancy clothes aren’t exclusive to New York City.” “Did I ever say they were?” “You don’t have to. Hell, I’ve been trying to get you here for years and I had to go and get knocked up and married before you showed.” Poppy’s stomach flipped. “You’re pregnant?” “Surprise!” Sonja threw her arms up in a big ‘V’, joy radiating from every inch of her curvy frame. Which was about to grow rounder. “But it’s going to have to be our secret. It’s super early, but I have all the signs and symptoms. I’m waiting until our wedding night to tell Henry. That man is always surprising me, spoiling me, and I want to be able to do it for him, just once.” Sonja’s eyes sparkled the way Poppy had once dreamed hers would. Once she was married and having Will’s babies. “How exciting!” Her response sounded so lame even to her own ears. It wasn’t Sonja’s fault that Poppy had planned to be pregnant with her own baby by now, after having her own spectacular wedding on Will’s yacht as it cruised Long Island Sound. She decided on the spot to save her pity-party for later. This weekend her wounds had to remain in her room, away from Sonja and the gazillions of Louisianan’s she was about to meet. She hadn’t packed mini-bottles of Maker’s Mark and a two-pound bag of Hershey’s kisses for nothing. Although as the heat was already weighing in on her, she’d be lucky if the chocolate drops weren’t all mush. Brushing her ruminations aside, Poppy leaned forward and gave Sonja a solid kiss on the cheek, seriously happy for her friend. And for herself—it was a relief to close the door on her sad life for the next few days. “We have a lot of catching up to do. I know it’s your big weekend, and that we can’t do it all now, but I have to tell you I’m so thrilled to be here with you, and happy that you’ve found your soul mate.” Sonja laughed and gave her another quick hug before she hustled them both into the car and drove away from the New Orleans airport. “How much of this do you remember from Freshman Spring Break?” Sonja spoke loudly as she had the sunroof open and the windows halfway down. The tropical air that blew against Poppy’s face was a balm after the chill that remained in New York’s still-slumbering spring. “I remember that,” Poppy pointed at the Super Dome as they sped by it, “and I remember it being a lot muggier than it is right now.” “It’s supposed to get ugly by Saturday but I’m hoping the rain stays away at least until Sunday. All I’m asking is for the wedding to go off smoothly and for Henry and I to get out of here for our honeymoon.” Poppy nodded, not wanting to share that the weather app on her phone predicted rain in a big way starting tomorrow, early. Before the rehearsal dinner. “The ceremony’s all inside, right?” “Of course. Henry’s from a long line of Catholics—they wouldn’t be happy with anything but a full-on Mass. They wanted it at Our Lady of the Rosary downtown. It’s where Henry’s little sister went to school so they have ties there. But we ended up picking St Louis Cathedral. We love the history of it.” “Our Lady help of what?” Poppy had been raised in a Polish-Catholic enclave of Western New York and her own parish had been Our Lady Help of Christians but she couldn’t help teasing Sonja, the professed agnostic. Sonja laughed. “You haven’t changed one bit. Don’t even try to tell me that you’re not the same girl I met in college.” “Okay, I won’t.” It wasn’t the weekend to tell Sonja that any belief in something greater than herself had sailed away with Will’s humiliating betrayal. “Where do you live again? I know you said it was outside of the city but not far from the French Quarter. Is it near where you grew up?” New Orleans was behind them and they appeared to be following signs for the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. “Did you even read the invitation, Poppy?” Sonja softened her sharp query with a wide grin. “I did.” And promptly forgot the details as her life had been entrenched in trying to put a positive spin on the bad press over her broken engagement. Broken engagement, hell. More like the most obscene, humiliating dump by a man ever. Her entire professional reputation had been sunk by the painful break-up from Will. The Twitter and Instagram shaming had taken off after Poppy’s very public Plaza meltdown in front of Will’s family. She’d appeared every part the screaming banshee she still felt like. “Well, I know you’re a busy gal. I used to think I was, too, but then I met Henry, and now we’re having a baby, and we’ve been planning the wedding for over a year…” Sonja changed lanes to avoid a trailer hauling what appeared to be a load of empty cages. “Let’s just say I didn’t know what ‘busy’ meant.” Sonja’s profile hadn’t changed, nor had her effusive warmth and positive energy. She’d always been the bubbly one in their relationship, while Poppy was more deliberate and definitely less talkative. Sonja always seemed so much more certain of herself. Of life. Poppy looked out her passenger window. Of course Sonja was grounded and happy. Most twenty-eight year olds had a good idea of where they wanted their life to go, right? Except Poppy. Whoa. Pity party is later. Sonja playfully tapped her thigh. “Listen up. Our new home, where you’re going to housesit, is in the little town of Millerville. It’s nothing like where I’m from, closer to the city. My parents are still in a bit of shock that someone from New Orleans society has asked me to marry him, and Henry’s parents are, well, coming around. Let’s just say this isn’t New York City, right?” Sonja tapped her long fingers on the steering wheel. Poppy sensed there was more emotion under Sonja’s casual demeanor. “Our house is huge, on the river, and it’s spectacular if I do say so myself. Roomy, with a huge deck to enjoy the water view. We even have a small guest cottage. But you’ll stay in the main house, of course. You’re going to love the greenery after all that concrete.” Sonja and Henry were both attorneys for the generations-old Southern law firm owned by Henry’s family. It’s how they’d met, when Henry’s father had hired her. “So things are still going well with the firm? No conflicts of interest with Henry’s family?” “It’s his parents that have issues with our marriage, and they’re all calmed down for the time being. By that I mean they haven’t requested any more meetings with us, to try to persuade us differently. And they’re not totally awful people, if you ignore the ‘Henry’s marrying a black girl from the bayou’ ‘tude.” Sonja adjusted her sunglasses and pursed her lips. “I hate seeing him so torn up about this. They’ve given him such a hard time over marrying me. As if I’d sully their good family name. It’s the god damn twenty-first century.” “From what you’ve told me, Henry’s family is very old school.” “Say it like you mean it, girl. You mean ‘bigots with old money’ and they sure are careful about anyone who gets close to it! Hiring me was one thing; my résumé speaks for itself. I made them look as if they were diversifying the partners by hiring a black woman who wasn’t family, and I wasn’t a threat to the family bank account or gene pool. They put me in the New Orleans office, of course, far from where his father runs the offices in Baton Rouge. But having their son fall in love with me? Another thing entirely. This wasn’t part of their equal opportunity plan.” “But they’ve decided to come to the wedding, and are supporting you both now, right?” Sonja stayed silent for several minutes. Poppy waited, knowing that her friend was trying to keep a positive spin on the ugly circumstance. “Let’s hope so. It’s either that or look like the asses they are. They’re often in print in the society pages. I’m betting they’ll show, at least for the professional photographs.” Sonja’s smirk forced a quick laugh from Poppy. Laughter. Not something she’d been doing much of. “Doesn’t sound much different than New York. The high society part, I mean.” The sun was healing on her nape as the rays reached through the open sunroof. “Trust me, when it comes to high society, they’re all the same. Just not the bigoted part.” Sonja made a lane change and gratitude washed over Poppy in a brilliant wave of nostalgia. Sonja was every bit the open, honest young woman she’d been years ago. “Enough about the wedding drama. I don’t want to spend our precious time together talking about Henry’s parents. Are you still sure you can stay here for the full two weeks to housesit?” “Are you kidding me? You’ve seen the latest on my Instagram and Twitter accounts, right? Before I shut them down, that is. I can’t go back to New York, not yet. You’re doing me the favor by giving me a safe place to catch my breath. I have a lot to work on, with the new Attitude by Amber deal.” Poppy was excited to have Sonja and Henry’s waterfront home to escape to. No paparazzi, no constant stream of Instagram pics of her at her worst moments. Leaving the gym with her consolatory Ben and Jerry’s nights displayed prominently in the width of her ass, walking in or out of her apartment with that awful pinched look on her face that she felt down to her toes. “I am so thrilled for you, Poppy. I read that they’re saying you’re the new Nate Berkus. This is so incredible! My college roommate, the country’s darling stylist. I’m so proud of you for landing this deal with what, every single most important store in North America? You’re on the brink of being a gazillionaire. You know that, right?” The money wouldn’t be in her accounts until the actual launch of her custom line of clothing, furniture and home accessories. With her personal stylist business accounts frozen, she was feeling more than vulnerable, financially. But Sonja didn’t need to know about Poppy’s money woes. “I’m lucky, yes. But after a while, how much does anyone really need?” Sonja’s smile disappeared and she gave Poppy one of her classic “don’t bullshit me” looks. “Let’s get real, honey. As in, how are you really doing, Poppy? You’ve sounded better on the phone this past week, but I can’t say you’re looking your best.” Sonja was right; she had felt better this week. Until the last round of tweets from Will. And the threatening private texts from her former assistant, Tori. Nothing she was going to talk to Sonja about now, during Sonja’s wedding weekend. No ma’am. “Thanks a lot! I don’t have much makeup on, and I’m a little tired. Things are better. I’m better. Really.” “Is that so?” Sonja frowned. “Remember me, Poppy? The one who knows you better than anyone else?” “Yes, you do, and you’re right—this has been hard. But I’m doing a lot better. Sure, the psycho tweets and photos suck but it’s not about me. I’m not the crazy one here.” It was never about her, even when she and Will had been together. That was what probably hurt the most. Not disappointment in herself that she’d broken her own personal ethics code and dated a client, nor that she’d believed what she’d seen too many women fall for: that she’d be the one to change him. That Will Callis, billionaire entrepreneur and famous playboy, would stop whoring around and settle down for one woman. Her. She’d been partially right. Because Will had changed and settled down, but not with her. The new and improved Will was on this very same weekend marrying her former personal assistant, a twenty-one year old college intern. Who was five months pregnant with his child. Will had been screwing around on her for more than half of their engagement, at a minimum. “So what will you do? When you go back to New York?” Poppy watched the water that surrounded the causeway, finding the deep shade of blue soothing. “I’ll become the goddess of American style. It’ll be a full-time job running Attitude by Amber. I never have to style another person again if I don’t want to.” She ignored the New York City part. Of course she’d go back to New York. It was where she belonged. “Oh, Poppy. I hope you mean it. I never thought being a personal stylist was the best job for you. You’re too smart to just cater to other people. And Will wasn’t the guy for you, sugar.” “Sounds like you’ve been talking to my family again.” Poppy’s mother and sister had at first resented that she’d made it out of their downtrodden suburb, away from their sorry family drama, and made a name for herself. Until they realized her earnings could be their ticket out, too. Her mother had been vociferous about her suspicions that Poppy had somehow bought her engagement to Will. Why would he want a girl like her, after all? “I beg your pardon. I’d never sound like them.” “No, you won’t, and you don’t. I’m sorry, Sonja. It’s just that they’ve always thought Will was crazy to date me, and wondered what he saw in me.” “Poppy Kaminsky. I never want to hear that out of your mouth again. Will is a lying no-good bastard. You deserve better, so much better. And why are you taking any kind of relationship advice from your family?” Because even though she’d survived her upbringing and against all odds made it into the big-time, a happily-ever-after love wasn’t in the cards for Poppy. She was just like her mother and sister, and grandmother and aunt, and all the women in her family. They didn’t find true love with the men in their lives. Birds flew, bees buzzed, and men left. Poppy had outrun the poverty of her childhood, the struggles of a fatherless family. And ran headfirst into the wall that derailed all of the Kaminsky women. Men liked Poppy; they might even love her at times. But men didn’t stick around in her life. Poppy wasn’t a woman men gave everything up for. Which wasn’t a problem for her, because Poppy had everything she needed. Good friends, a great paycheck, or well, soon-to-be humongous paycheck, and freedom to do whatever she wanted. After the haters stopped stalking her and Twitter judging every aspect of her life. The aroma of spicy gumbo wafted up through the French doors of Poppy’s room along with the tinkling laughter of women as the first pre-wedding party began. Casual barbecue and early cocktails were to be followed by the women and men splitting up in New Orleans for a night on the town. All Poppy really wanted to do was hole up in the guest room of Sonja and Henry’s fairytale riverfront dream home. To her dismay the chocolate had indeed melted but the bourbon was intact. Unlike her pride and reputation. No one knows you here. Even if there were any celebrity gossip addicts present, she was fairly certain they’d have a hard time recognizing her. She hoped. Making her way down to the back deck she noted many of the rooms stood empty. The lack of furniture cast shadows in the rooms and made the new construction home feel older, like it was imbued with Southern history and lore. It was exactly the kind of decor Poppy was drawn to and hoped to make available to her shoppers with Attitude by Amber. Something new and made with quality, but evocative of the history, the ambience of whichever area of the country they lived in. Quite a crowd was gathered out on what Sonja had described as a deck but in reality functioned as a beautiful terrace. Flowers Poppy had never seen before spilled from oversized terra-cotta pots and she let the blooms cheer her. There weren’t any flowering outdoor plants in Manhattan in January. The bright pops of yellow and fuchsia jolted her creativity the way the warm sunshine boosted her vitamin D production, she figured. A mermaid fountain gurgled near where the bar was set up and Poppy wound her way around several groups of young, attractively dressed people to reach it. All were engaged in what appeared to be animated, no-care-in-the-world conversation. The most delightful part of the evening so far was that not one head turned sharply, followed by “hey, is that…?” No sudden clicks from camera phones that sucked in her image and whose owners sent it out to the world without her permission. Better yet, it was pure heaven to not hear any mention of her professional name, Amber. Or the other name she dreaded more, Will Callis, followed in short order by Tori. Tori Callis by tomorrow. But no one here cared about a wedding thirteen hundred miles away. Maybe there was such a thing as life beyond Manhattan. Her heeled, beaded gladiator sandals and gauzy sundress were so far off from the tight-fitting style she was famous for she had to keep reminding herself that she was dressed. So used to Spanx and clothing with extra tummy-control to make herself and her clients model-slim, it was at once freeing and disconcerting to let her belly relax in public. As for her hips and butt, which were always what her trainer in SoHo focused her grueling workout-until-you-puke sessions on, she was beyond caring. So what if her diet wasn’t nutritionally perfect? It wasn’t as if she needed it to be any longer. She didn’t have to put on a perfectly tailored haute couture wedding gown in a month. As she’d planned for the past two years. Sonja was the one wearing the white gown this weekend. And Tori. Anger threatened to tear away her careful composure. Why the hell did that little witch think she could claim Poppy’s designs as her own? Breathe. This weekend is about Sonja. She smiled to herself as she sipped the cocktail she’d grabbed off the bartender’s table. It was going to be fun to be able to relax and enjoy the entire event without either being the stylist or bride. She and Sonja had agreed she wouldn’t work Sonja’s wedding for this very reason. Besides, as she looked at what everyone was wearing, her contemporary, take-no-prisoners New York styles were far off from the softer, more casual tastes of this crowd. “What do you think of your Sazerac?” Sonja appeared next to her, pointing at her cocktail. Sonja was a vision in a simple white halter-top and cut-off jeans. Her gold jewelry and flowered sandals made up for the casual wear, so Poppy didn’t feel too overdressed. “It’s delicious. Kind of like a Manhattan, but more tart.” “I knew you’d love it! Come here and meet our friends.” Sonja dragged her by the hand over to a large group of mostly couples and proceeded to show her off to her friends. Henry smiled at her, as if saying “see what I told you?” When they’d met earlier in the kitchen, he’d been icing down drinks and told her she was amongst friends. Poppy immediately liked him. He was everything Sonja had said. Smart, funny and sexy. And obviously very in love with his bride-to-be. Three of which Will hadn’t been. Will was always sexy, it was his trademark and what she’d worked with him on for the past two years as his stylist. But smart and funny? Nope. And in love with her? Um, no. She’d never recognized the signs, though. You didn’t want to. “Sonja says you’re in fashion in New York? How did you two ever meet?” A pretty blonde named Daisy tilted her head, smiling as her boyfriend snaked his arm around her tiny waist. “Uh, yes, that’s right.” Please let this bright smile stop the Q&A. “We were college roommates, all four years, in New York.” “And when I came back home for law school I couldn’t convince Poppy to join me.” Sonja kept the conversation going, and Poppy loved her for it. Daisy wasn’t done. Poppy had just enough time to swig back another gulp of her bourbon drink before the gauntlet lowered. “Wait a minute—fashion? You look just like that woman who works for the Kardashians or something.” “You do! I thought you looked familiar. But your hair is way different, right?” Another woman in the group, Marie, spoke up, her smile wide. Poppy shrugged. “I am a personal stylist, yes. But I’ve never worked with the Kardashians. Most of my clients are in the business sector.” Small lie. “Didn’t you have a television show on TLC?” “No, that wasn’t me hosting, although I’ve appeared in a few episodes.” One in particular that focused on hotshot Wall Street CEOs and their private lives. It had been the night Will proposed to her, on his yacht, with all of Manhattan lit up behind them. “Poppy’s getting ready to launch her design line all across the country. ‘Attitude by Amber.’” Sonja shot her an “I’m sorry” look as she steered the questions away from the implosion that was currently Poppy’s life. “I thought you looked familiar!” “Oh. My. God. I just read about you, your um…” Humiliation burned raw and sharp, making her skin feel as though it was being rubbed with brambles. The soft touch of Sonja’s arm around her shoulders was a lifeline. “That’s all behind Poppy now. She’s come here to work on something new while she housesits for us.” Poppy met her best friend’s gaze and smiled through her tears of embarrassment. “I’m here to celebrate your wedding, remember?” The group laughed, skittishly at first but then the women took Sonja’s cue and focused on her new line. “How cool! What will you feature?” “Will it be more of that New York contemporary look you’re known for, or can those of us South of the Mason Dixon Line use it?” Poppy was immensely grateful there was no further mention of Will or her disastrous career mistake. “I’m creating both clothing and home decor lines, all based on various regions in the U.S.” She could handle this question—it was her job, after all. “The purpose of any kind of decor, whether it’s for the home or your everyday work outfit, is to have it express your personal style. Help you enjoy life to the fullest. My focus is on helping you find what fits you, your life, your personality and tastes. As with any other customer-oriented business, style is all about the client.” “So tell us, you make a lot of money doing this, right?” One of the men spoke up. Poppy gulped. “I have. I did. I’m not as focused on that right now.” Oh God, she had to get away from this. Did she really think changing her looks and taking a plane to NOLA would make her problems disappear? No one knew about the whispers that had started right as she left New York. Rumors of the lawsuit type. Rumors that were in fact, true. “Poppy, let me introduce you to some other friends.” Henry was next to her, pulling her away, while Sonja kept chatting up the circle of interested friends. They really were the perfect couple. Henry took her elbow and led her down to the where steps gave way to a pier. The river flowed past and seemed to make a soft humming noise she didn’t recognize. “Sorry about that. Sonja wondered if she should warn our friends not to bother you.” “No, it’s fine, really.” She finished her drink and resisted the urge to throw the glass into the river. “That would have been beyond awkward. Like I was the insane relative everyone had to tip toe around. Besides, what were the chances anyone from here really follows the absurdities of a New York fashion stylist?” Henry’s smile was kind and generous. “Obviously very good. But I think it bodes well for your upcoming launch. People like you as a designer.” “Thanks, Henry. I can see why Sonja fell for you.” He looked out at the water. “Sonja and I have been through the wringer ourselves. It hasn’t been all over social media like yours, but we understand the need for privacy and a chance to heal.” “Is your family that tough, Henry?” She assumed that’s what he was referring to. Sonja hadn’t mentioned any other kind of relationship strain, not that she would this close to the nuptials. Henry nodded. “Oh, yes. I haven’t mentioned it to Sonja but it won’t surprise me if they are no-shows for the wedding. They’ve already called off coming to the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night. At least my mother was polite enough to text me that much.” “Henry, I’m so sorry!” She laid a hand on his forearm. “What about your siblings? You have two, right?” She hoped she remembered it correctly. “Yes, I have a younger sister, Jena, who can’t make it because she’s overseas with the military. But my younger brother will be here.” His eyes were a bright blue but she saw the shadows of pain and turmoil in them. “You really love Sonja. And she knows it, you know.” “With all my heart.” And he’d be so thrilled when he found out he was about to be a father. Her heart eased the tiniest bit from the hard bindings she’d tied around it. Seeing someone else so in love, so happy, was good for the soul. The soft humming of the water grew louder and turned into a huge ungodly roar as if it reached up from the depths of the river. Further dialogue was impossible without knowing American Sign Language. Sonja watched Henry shade his eyes from the late afternoon sun with his hand and followed his gaze. “What. The. Fuck.” She spoke under her breath and besides, no one could hear anything over the engines on the huge metal contraption that was obviously a boat. It had two giant turbo-fan-things on its back part, and the hull was pointed straight at the deck. What the hell was this, Duck Dynasty? Water sloshed up and over the small pier and Poppy sucked in a breath. Holy crap, it was going to hit the pier and they were going to end up in the water. Poppy turned to run back to the house only to find the entire pre-wedding party at the edge of the deck, blocking her way to safety. They all either grinned, laughed or nodded in some kind of Cajun understanding. Or was it Creole? Either way, no one appeared as disturbed as she felt. Poppy turned back towards the boat. Miraculously it hadn’t crushed the landing but instead was pulled alongside it. As loud as the engines were, the river was again silent as they powered down without warning. A tall, athletic man in jeans and a white t-shirt hopped off the boat and wound a thick tether line around the single humongous iron cleat she’d missed earlier. Poppy knew a bit about boating from her time in Will’s yacht. She’d watched the ship’s crew bring them into port dozens of times. But this wasn’t a pink sand beach in Bermuda and the ship’s crew obviously had a different dress code. The partygoers behind her applauded as the boat hand swaggered up the dock towards them. Poppy snorted at his stride, because swagger was indeed the perfect description. She’d helped countless CEOs, male and female alike, learn to walk with such confidence, minus the shit-eating grin. That a regular workingman naturally had what others had paid her dearly for was comical. And tragic. She bit back a deep sigh. Later, with her hunk of melted chocolate and mini-bottles of whiskey, she’d indulge. There had to be a hack for carving the strips of aluminum foil wrappers out from the congealed block of chocolate. “Hey, bro.” The hunky ship’s mate smiled and only then did she see the blue depths of his eyes, the chiseled chin, the same shade of hair as … “Gus.” Henry took two steps to meet the man who’d called him ‘bro.’ This hired hand was Henry’s brother? Sonja had said he’d had a brother, but she’d assumed he’d be like Henry, like the gentile southern family that she assumed the Boudreaux’s were. Not some he-man with shoulders that stretched his optic white cotton t-shirt from seam-to-seam, tucked into worn button-fly’s. Who wore their shirts tucked in anymore, by the way? Must be a Southern thing. Or a boat hand who looks like an underwear model on a billboard in Times Square thing. As the men gave each other a friendly but not overly affectionate hug, Poppy used the few heartbeats to gather her poise. She scanned the crowd from behind her sunglasses. They all looked in awe of Gus. Gus? It had to be a nickname, right? “Gus! We’re so glad you’re here. Now the party can start.” Sonja had pushed her way through the gawking party and was on her tiptoes to give Gus a big smackaroo on his lips. A tug of awareness in Poppy’s gut broke through her observation. What the hell? Since Will, her sex hormones had abandoned ship. No way could a good ol’ boy driving a tin can on muddy waters be calling them out. She took him in again, finding no fault in his attractiveness. Maybe Gus was some kind of lusty hormone Pied Piper. “Come meet everyone, brother.” Henry looked around and —please, please, not me, not me— smiled when his gaze landed on Poppy. Fuck. “Poppy, allow me to introduce you to my younger brother, Gus.” “Poppy?” He had the same lovely drawl as Henry’s and the guests she’d met so far, but his voice was deeper. Less cultured, maybe. Definitely not a man who spent his life in boardrooms. He tilted his head slightly as he waited for her to nod in affirmation. “Yes. Poppy Kaminsky. Nice to meet you.” At the awkward pause she shoved her hand forward. Henry’s brother met her halfway and grasped it, his fingers wrapping around hers in a firm, warm clasp that she felt to the base of her spine. Double what the hell? “Trust me, the pleasure is all mine. And it’s Brandon Boudreaux, by the way. I only let my brother get away with calling me ‘Gus.’” His smile had appeared attractive as she watched him greet Henry, but at close range it was deadly. And he knew it, from his sparkling indigo eyes to the incredible six-pack he had to sport to be able to tuck in his goddammed undershirt. “What’s that I hear in your voice, a sprinkle of Yankee?” His sexy grin was so practiced she almost giggled. Giggled. As heat that she couldn’t blame on the mild Louisiana winter infused her face Poppy realized that this was the third what the hell moment in as many minutes with Brandon Boudreaux. She forced out her trademark husky laugh, but it sounded more like a bullfrog’s mating call from the surrounding marsh. “It’s a lot more than a sprinkle. More like a whole handful. I’m from New York.” She lifted her chin and mustered her inner vixen. Somewhere deep inside she knew to never reveal her quaking insides to this man. Because Brandon ‘Gus’ Boudreaux was a triple threat. And her shredded psyche didn’t have the energy to deal with him. Her heart beat hard and sure, fighting to shove her ego aside. All the more reason to consider Brandon Boudreaux off-limits. She’d only see him over the next few days, thank all the voodoo spirits in the Bayou.
Geri Krotow is the award winning author of more than thirteen contemporary and romantic suspense novels (with a couple of WWII subplots thrown in!). While still unpublished Geri received the Daphne du Maurier Award for Romantic Suspense in Category Romance Fiction. Her 2007 Harlequin Everlasting debut A Rendezvous to Remember earned several awards, including the Yellow Rose of Texas Award for Excellence.
Prior to writing, Geri served for nine years as a Naval Intelligence Officer. Geri served as the Aviation/Anti-Submarine Warfare Intelligence officer for a P-3C squadron during which time she deployed to South America, Europe, and Greenland. She was the first female Intel officer on the East Coast to earn Naval Aviation Observer Wings. Geri also did a tour in the war on drugs, working with several different government and law enforcement agencies. Geri is grateful to be settled in south central Pennsylvania with her husband.
Where do your ideas come from?
I’ve asked my writer pals about this, and the answer is different for each of us. I have a friend who outlines her entire story before she even gets to know her hero or heroine. Another friend uses a cork board, and many make collages of their story before writing. My characters usually come to me first. They show up like snippets of films in different settings, and from there I start the hard work. Some stories find me writing like a mad woman, hour after hour, straight through the first draft. Others require months of research. My stories seem to be as varied as my friends!
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