Bayou Vows by Geri Krotow Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Bayou Vows
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 . . .
Chapter
1
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.
Bare
Devotion
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…
Chapter 1
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.
Fully
Dressed
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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