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  “You okay?”

  Poppy stood in his office doorway, her eyes wary. Her hair had dried into a riot of waves around her face, the blond emphasizing her caramel eyes.

  “Did anyone ever tell you your eyes are the exact color of Southern Comfort?”

  “No, but if that’s a bourbon then yes.” She leaned a hip against the pocket door frame. “Usually they get compared to Jack Daniel’s.”

  “I see you got your clothes washed.”

  She plucked at her yellow pullover, every ounce of her body filling the delicious jeans that clung to her. “Yeah, I threw in what I’d brought in the bag, too. Everything was damp. At least my computer stayed dry.” She ventured into the office. He smelled her—the fancy guest room shower soap, his laundry detergent, and the flowery smell she’d brought in with her from New York. “I thought I’d seen the fanciest laundries onboard the yachts I’ve been on. But yours is space-age.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes sought his; for what, he didn’t know. The compassion in them made him want to run, fast. Because Poppy Kaminsky was dangerous.

  “Well, I’ll go back to work if you’re busy.” She stood there, obviously not wanting to be alone. Guilt sucker-punched him.

  “Have a seat. I’m not getting anything productive done.” He nodded at his screen, which thankfully boasted a photo of one of his boats with him, Jeb, and the country’s most popular hip-hop artist posing in front.

  “Wow, you’ve sold a boat to Honey Child?” She smiled, her first one since he’d brought her back here.

  “He’s not as tough as his songs make out. He brought his wife and kids, and the boat has a special infant crib area because his wife was pregnant with twins.” He clicked through to photos of the boat. “Do you see what I meant about needing help with the decor? Customers like Honey Child bring their own interior designers with them. But we’ve, I’ve, been trying to branch out and come up with a line of sailboats for the average boater. I want to bring quality to everyone.”

  “That’s admirable. You seem to be a real expert at your job.” Her voice had grown small again. Probably thinking about her ex on his boat with her former assistant. Married. Brandon wasn’t above doing a few Google searches to find out more about a woman who fascinated him, even if the timing stunk.

  “I’d like to think I was on the right track with the company, but a few things have happened that are making me question what the hell I’m doing.”

  “Like what?” She sat down on the easy chair next to his, where he often spent hours with his tablet, sketching out new boat ideas. “You can trust me. There’s probably nothing I haven’t heard from my clients when it comes to business troubles. Are you experiencing a dwindling demographic, or maybe you need to up your social media presence?”

  His laughter erupted and surprised him as much as her. Poppy startled and answered with one of her tiny smiles. God, that bastard must have really taken her through heartbreak city.

  “Naw, nothing like that. You know how a guy left you high and dry, Poppy? Well, the same thing happened to me, only I wasn’t in love with him. But he was like a brother, my best friend.”

  Her expression was neutral, her posture open and receptive. “Go on.”

  And for the first time since it happened, Brandon spilled his guts.

  * * * *

  Poppy had lied. Customers didn’t regularly share any of their private lives with her. Sure, she caught glimpses of their true personalities from how they behaved as she suggested different outfits, styles, or colors. No one told her about their companies going belly up. But Brandon had looked so…lost. As if his dog had died. She’d chalked it up to the wedding and his parents’ role in it. No one could blame him or Henry for what had happened, but she understood feeling the weight of shame because of something your family had done. Or in her case, her almost-family with Will. Will, Will and Tori—not two people she wanted to be thinking about right now. Ever, in fact.

  “Jeb is solid. He’s not a criminal. That’s what’s making me so crazy.”

  “He cleaned out your accounts.”

  “Yes, he did. There’s no question it was him.”

  “Unless he was kidnapped and killed by thugs after he gave them all of his financial and banking information at gunpoint?”

  Brandon didn’t pick up her attempt at humor. “I know it’s crazy but I actually thought about that. That’s how out of character this is for him. Jeb is the epitome of a solid guy. He was right next to me, making all the big decisions, from the very first boat we sold.”

  “Then why is it called Boats by Gus?”

  “I founded the company and its basic concepts were all mine. Jeb is my numbers guy, the CPA who also knows the business inside and out.” Brandon stroked his chin. “It’s the worst kind of feeling, to realize that for at least the last six months, he’s been planning this. The private investigator working the case for me showed me how it had to have been at least that much time to figure out how to do it without a hitch.”

  “What does the FBI say?” At his stunned look she pressed further. “Maybe it’s not the FBI, but you did contact at least the local police about this, right?”

  He stayed silent for a long while and she waited. Could it be that pulled-together Brandon Boudreaux was as much of a hot mess as she?

  “I haven’t told anyone besides the private investigator. And you. I keep telling myself to call my lawyer.”

  She felt the weight of his crisis as if it were her breakup all over again. From the forlorn look on his face, Brandon felt as abandoned as she had.

  “You’re an adult; by definition you can’t be abandoned. This sucks, Brandon, but you have to stand up to it and grab Jeb by the fucking balls!”

  His lopsided grin was like a hook, reeling her in. “Did you grow up learning to talk so sweetly, or is it something you picked up in New York?”

  “I know Southern women who use ‘fuck’ way more than I do. And you’re avoiding my suggestion.” She leaned forward and put her hands on his forearm. His face filled her vision but she didn’t allow herself to soak it up as she wanted. Instead she looked him right in the eyes. “I know it hurts, Brandon, but you’ve got the facts right in front of you. The sooner you accept them and take action to get some of your money back, the better you’ll feel.”

  His eyes were downcast, staring at her hands as she pulled back. Touching him, skin to skin, even something as platonic as his forearms, was a bad idea. Because her skin sent signals to the lust part of her brain and her brain was telling her most intimate parts to get ready and raring to go with Brandon.

  “There’s no getting it back. If Jeb intended to leave with all that money, he didn’t plan to have a way for me to get it back. He’s too smart for that.”

  “Okay, well, you’ve still got your company. How many people work for you?”

  His face pinched up and if he was a decade or two older she’d be worried he’d grab his chest next. “Directly? I have twenty-three managers. I had plans to hire a half dozen more but now that’s impossible.” He shook his head before looking at her with that intensity that was sexy as hell when he was focused on her but scary when it reflected his despair. “I’ve got nothing left. I’m going to have to close the company within the month, probably file for bankruptcy.”

  She stared at him. He didn’t know it, but she was in the same exact place. It kept her from asking him about how many employees total, for now.

  “Don’t you have more orders? For future boats?”

  “All the advance deposits are gone, used to order the parts or for overhead. We maintain a large storage facility that’s about to lose power, and not from this damn storm.” His head was in his hands, his elbows on his thighs as he leaned over in his chair.

  To hell with skin on skin and what it did to her sexy parts. They’d have to hush up. She leaned forward and
grasped his arms again. “Brandon. I know it feels like it’s all over, but trust me, it’s not. You’re a brilliant boatbuilder. I didn’t just read your website, I checked out the media reports. You might have to totally rebuild your financials from the ground up, but you’ll survive.”

  “I’ll survive, sure, but what about my team? They’re all screwed. They can’t wait for me to turn the business back around. The economy’s bad enough down here and besides my highly skilled laborers that I’ve fought to keep, I employ the skilled laborers that can’t pick up and get a job anywhere else, not this quickly.” He pulled back from her and slammed his hand down on his desk. She winced as if she could feel the pain jolt up his bones. “That’s the worst part. Not Jeb’s betrayal of me, but my stupidity that led to this. I’ve put all of these families at risk.”

  She stood up and walked to the large sliding door on the other side of his office. The rain continued, allowing only glimpses of the water beyond the marsh. It was a metaphor for her life and career but one thing she was good at was motivating others. It was part of being a personal stylist. Yet her skills that she’d prided herself on were incapable of bringing Brandon out of his pit. And he was in a deep one, all right.

  “There is one job that might make a difference.”

  She spun to face him at his quiet declaration. “What?”

  He sighed. “It’s such a long shot. I wasn’t going to even consider it when the offer came in last month. But now it might be all I have left.” He stood up and joined her at the window, his hands in his pockets. His handsome features reflected the shadows of rivulets from the window and he looked like the saddest clown she’d ever seen. She didn’t like clowns, but if Brandon were a clown she thought she might.

  “Have you ever heard of San Sofia?”

  “The island in the Bahamas?” He nodded. “Yes, I actually helped a Broadway actress get ready for a gig down there, for a corporation’s annual conference. She wanted to be professional, but comfortable she wasn’t performing for the crowd.”

  “Well, San Sofia is an island nation. It’s independent and has its own president and everything. My lawyers checked it out, and I had a few conversations with the State Department. They’re having a huge opioid problem, just like ours in the U.S. They want to contract for a dozen of my boats to help them monitor and protect their coastline.”

  “Do you mean you’re going to build military boats? Like, navy gunships?”

  “No, no. They want the more modest line of yawls—sailboats with engines—fully equipped with all the gizmos and gadgets we’re known for. They have their own coast guard that works with ours, and that’s where the enforcement part will come in. Our Department of Defense will work with them on fitting out weapons as needed. I just have to produce the boats they want in the amount of time they want them.”

  “How much is the contract worth?”

  The figure he named made her reach to the windowpane to steady herself, to feel the hard surface of the glass to make sure this wasn’t a dream. “Brandon, Boats by Gus is going to be just fine. Say yes and tell your employees that it might get tight for a month or two but that you’ll make it up to them. Give them bonuses at Christmas. It’s win-win.”

  “I’d have to win the contract first, Yankee girl. An island nation doesn’t put all its money in one boatbuilding outfit.”

  “So win it.”

  He shook his head and looked at her. They stood only inches apart but the gauntlet he threw down, while invisible, was palpable. “It’s not my gig. I don’t know the first thing about protocol, and I’d have to ensure our own government that I’m doing this on the up and up. There are huge corporations, shipbuilders that regularly produce platforms for the global economy, vying for this. I’m literally a guppy in this ocean.”

  “You don’t strike me as a coward, Brandon. You’re a self-made man who built this business from the ground up. You’re going to quit now, just because your best friend broke all your trust and took all your money?” She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

  He looked at her for several moments, unflinching. She’d pushed too far, encroached on his private life where she had no business. The guy had been nice enough to give her shelter during a hurricane and she’d done nothing but antagonize him since she’d arrived here. And the attraction she had for him, it was insane, out of her control.

  As was the warmth of an emotion she dared not identify when his face slowly broke into an answering grin. “You’ve got me there, Yankee girl. You got me. But if I do this I have to have the right demeanor for the government meetings. Hell, I don’t even have a conservative suit to my name.”

  “You have suits though, right? You said you did.”

  “Of course. But they’re not the trim, white-shirt red-tie type. What I have are more suited for cocktails with my more financially sound clients. Linen. I’ve never seen a G-man in a linen suit.” His self-deprecation was a huge turn-on. Brandon exuded confidence but not the narcissistic kind she’d discovered Will was full of. Brandon was financially sound, or had been, and yet he never lumped himself in with his super-rich clientele. She liked that about him. It was a big part of her motivation to help him out of his rut.

  “Well, Gus, it just so happens that you’re looking at one of the finest stylists this side of the Mississippi. I can turn a toad into a slick CEO in no time.”

  “Only if you’ll let me pay you.”

  “Consider it rent for the emergency lodging.”

  Chapter 12

  “You don’t have to do this, Poppy. It sounds all fine and good when there’s nothing else to do in the middle of a storm, when you’re stranded here. But I’m not one of your celebrity clients, Yankee girl.” Brandon stood in all his sexy glory in front of her, his back to one of many of the door-sized mirrors in his closet. He wore a suit as finely cut as any Poppy had purchased for her customers. It was day three of being stormbound, day three of advising Brandon on how to carry himself.

  It was day three of pure torture for her sorely neglected lust.

  “Quiet. I can’t hear myself think.” Which was true. Her thoughts were drowned out by her incessant desire for him. She held up several different ties, settling on a silk cranberry. “Change your shirt. White’s too stark. Try the pale blue.” She turned toward the racks of clothes, mostly very bayou, very casual, to avoid looking at his naked chest. The stillness behind her told her he wasn’t moving.

  “You don’t have to get all shy now, Brandon. I’m the one you were trying to hump next to Sonja’s car, remember?”

  “I’m trying to keep from getting ill is more like it.” It’d been like this since they’d agreed she’d coach him through his fashion and protocol choices. Banter but never the all-out flirting that would get them into hot water higher than the bayou’s flood.

  “Okay, you can turn around.”

  She turned and looked him over. “That looks good. You have one ‘conservative’ suit, after all.” She made air quotes in the small space.

  “It feels so damn stiff.” He tugged at the tie but she looked south when he said ‘stiff.’ “Stop staring at my crotch, Poppy.”

  Heat singed her cheeks and she deliberately shifted her attention back to his jacket. The navy suit, pale blue shirt, and contrasting tie were perfect. Except. “Maybe we should try the lemon tie.”

  “No. Red is the most conservative I’ve ever worn, and it’s better to err on the serious side, right?”

  “Hmm.” She tugged on his shoulders as he finished tucking his tie in and buttoned his suit coat. “This fits you perfectly.”

  “It wasn’t off the rack. I had it made in Hong Kong on a whim.”

  “Obviously.” She walked back around to face him. “Now let’s go over your pitch. First for the State Department, then for the ship buyers from San Sofia.”

  He tugged at the tie he’d just knotted.
“I’ve got it, Poppy. I’m tired of going through it. You must have a ton of work to do for your nationwide brand launch.”

  “No, not really.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d neglected to mention that she didn’t have the job anymore. If she said it aloud, it’d be game over for her denial, which was keeping her pretty steady at the moment. “Any idea when the Wi-Fi will be back?”

  He slipped off the tie. “No. It’s one thing to have the generator, as it ensures power. But I can’t control access to the satellites. When the weather is this heavy, no one is getting a signal.”

  Thank God. If he had a signal he might be able to catch the news that her huge home decor deal was kaput.

  “No problem.” She wandered around his huge master bedroom, somehow grateful for the cocoon of the pounding rain. It’d been relentless, like nothing she’d experienced before. “Do you think the French Quarter is under water?”

  “No telling, but there’s a good chance it’s not. The rainfall can be isolated in local areas, completely flooding neighborhoods out, while the next down gets no more than a few showers.”

  “Like snow bands in the Northeast.”

  “I suppose so.” He moved around in the closet, his voice muffled. She used the chance to slip out.

  “I’m going to get lunch going.”

  In the kitchen she surveyed the dwindling fresh veggies and fruits in the spotless refrigerator. There was enough to whip up a spinach omelet so she set to work. So far Brandon had either set out the supplies for sandwiches or heated up one of the frozen meals he said his housekeeper made on a weekly basis for him. The least she could do was cook for the man who’d given her shelter in a storm.

  More than he knew. Being in the spacious home, so far from the tiny cramped studio she lived in, allowed her to almost believe there was hope for her life beyond New York. Almost.

  “That smells fantastic.”

  She felt his body heat behind her and peeked sideways at him from her place at the stove. His legs were too bare under the long shorts, his chest too big in one of his T-shirts. The hair on his chest peeked over the collar and her fingers tingled.