Page 20 of Smooth Talk

Chapter 7

Grayson

It’s too warm for this tux. I should’ve worn a lighter one; the weatherman lied about that cold front. Then again, a cold front in late May means the temperatures drop to the low seventies. I pull on my tie, slightly loosening it. That’s better. There are too many people packed in the entryway. It’s like they don’t realize they can, in fact, come in and roam about.

The family home is enormous and most of the rooms on this level are open to the public. The west wing, where the bedrooms are, is off limits and roped off to deter exploration, but there are the grounds (almost 20 acres of them). It’s cooler outside than in tonight, and I have a good mind to wander out and spend most of the evening there myself. If I could trust my date not to act crazy while I’m away that is. I have no idea what’s come over her.

I’d left the receiving line with my parents and siblings as soon as I realized Presley was on her fourth, or it could’ve possibly been her fifth glass of champagne. Someone needs to check her, and since I’m her date, that duty officially falls to me. I’m tempted to set Cannon on her. If she doesn’t take a break, she’ll have to leave. I can’t have her ruin such an important evening for my mother and Mimi. I love those women too much to disappoint either of them.

Presley looks beautiful tonight. Her pinkish-red colored gown (I think she called it flamingo, which is the perfect pretentious name for that color) hugs her trim figure. Her blonde hair is twisted up and away from her perfect face, and her makeup is a little heavy, but again— perfect. If only the inside matched the exterior. For everything that appears right, there’s something that feels off. She’d been short with me when I picked her up earlier. Like she was angry. With me or someone else, wasn’t clear. I’d asked if she was all right, but she’d brushed it off, and told me she was fine. You’d think I’d realize by now that when a woman says she’s fine, it actually means the opposite. With the way she’s drinking, it seems I have every right to be concerned. Not that she never drinks. It’s just far too early in the evening for her to have this strong a buzz. She’s swaying a bit when I catch up to her at the bar trying to order a vodka tonic. I say trying because she’s slurring so badly the bartender can’t understand her.

“Water,” I say coming up behind her taking her arm at the elbow. She leans into me, trusting me to hold up her entire hundred-and-ten-pound frame. He pours a glass of sparkling, adds a lime and hands it to me. I hand it to her. With any luck she’s drunk enough to think it’s what she ordered. I need to slow this train down any way I can.

“Mmmm,” she says and tries to wink, but it comes as more of a long flutter, of both of her eyes. “G, you’re the best. I can’t even taste the vodka in this.” At least I think that’s what she says. Then she leans up and whisper yells, “Take me to the library, and fuck me against the bookshelves.” Of course, every word of that sentence is clear as day, to everyone in a ten-foot-radius. The bartender at least has the decency to look away, but I don’t miss his smirk. Shit. This is not what I need.

I’m thankful most of the guests are still milling around close to the entry, and can’t hear her, her parents being among that crowd. My eyes meet Cannon’s, and I wave him over. Pres is too far gone; slowing down isn’t going to help. She needs food and a nap.

I pass her off to him at a bench on the side of the room. “Sit with your sister for a second, I’m going to see if Thomas can take her home. She’s had a bit too much tonight.” He looks at her and starts in with a quiet guilt trip about how important this night is for all of us while she rolls her eyes, then looks desperately around the room for someone to save her from the fresh hell of a well-deserved brotherly ass chewing.

Thomas, my father’s driver, is standing near the front door. I’m a few feet away from him when I spot her. Red hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. Her eyes and smile bright. She’s breathtaking, and I have the sudden urge to break into a solo version of Kiss the Girl. What? Vi loved that movie, and she must’ve forced me to watch it a million times growing up. Seriously though, Ariel’s my favorite (it’s not every fairytale that the princess saves the prince), and that information is strictly off the record. I don’t know if it was the long red hair, the big blue eyes or the tail fin that did it for me, but it appears my boyhood fantasies have come to life in Poppy Monroe.

I stand tucked behind a small potted olive tree, obscured from her view, where I can peep my fill without judgement or interruption. That dress is mermaidy as fuck and deserves some heavy observation. The dark blue material brings out the color in her eyes and stretches tightly over her perfect body then suddenly flares out around her knees, doing amazing things to her curves. Hell, it’s doing some amazing things to my dick. Just one look at her has me at half-mast.

I take a deep calming breath. It doesn’t matter how incompetent Sanders is, I can’t walk around an event with hundreds of locals in this condition and still expect to win the election. Thank God Rusty isn’t here. He’d have a field day with his camera; I could look forward to a very unflattering spread in the Willow Weekly. “Mayoral Candidate Hides Chubby Behind Ficus.” That imagery seems to settle me down a bit. Rusty has taken a brief hiatus from printing wildly inaccurate stories about me. I can’t start handing him fodder on a silver platter now.

Poppy greets my parents, my brothers, Oliver, Mason, and my youngest sister Violet. O whispers something to Mase, and Mase starts grinning and kisses Poppy’s hand. She’s blushing. Great. Now my younger brothers are charming her. One, the prince of an empire; the other, a god on the gridiron. I find myself fighting off the urge to punch them both in the face.

Although my brothers and I are competitive, we’ve never actually gone directly after someone the other was interested in. They are off limits— unwritten bro code. You lick it, it’s yours. Everyone else must stand by and watch you enjoy the spoils. Most of the time this rule applies to food, but in this case, I find myself wondering what Poppy’s skin tastes like. Imagining my tongue sliding all over her delectable body and claiming her as mine, has me pitching a tent again. One might view that caveman behavior as an act of jealousy. I have no idea where this territorialism is coming from (I barely know this woman), but I can’t seem to stop it. I need to check myself. I also need to put a stop to the flirt-fest happening right now. If I’m going to have any chance of doing that and charming her myself, I’ll need to leave my hiding spot. First, I’ll have a quick word with Thomas.

I’m finishing my conversation when I see Thomas’s eyes bulge; he’s looking past me over my shoulder. Then I hear it. Loud giggles and a hiccup.

Shit.

I turn to see Presley between my mom, Vi and Poppy. This is my nightmare. Thomas walks out the door to pull the car around as I walk toward intervention central.

Violet’s wide eyes meet mine as I come upon them. She’s talking loudly about school. She teaches first grade at Willow Creek Primary and is thankfully just as adept at steering conversations for children as adults. “Harper is such a lovely girl. She’s so bright and funny. I have absolutely loved having her in afterschool and I need her in my class next year!”

Who is Harper? Poppy answers almost immediately.

“Thank you. Being a mother sometimes feels like the hardest job I’ve ever had, but I couldn’t be prouder of that little girl. I love hearing other people’s praise, too. Makes me feel like I haven’t dropped the ball entirely.” Her smile lights her face as she talks about her daughter. Her daughter.

Poppy has a kid. It hits me. That’s why O said she wasn’t my type. She’s a single mom. Shit, I hope she’s single. Wait… do I? All the women I’ve been with have been unattached. Would I need to step into a father role as well? Is the dad in the picture? This slightly alters my wooing plans. I need to do some recon, but first I need to get my drunk date the hell out of here.

“You have a daughter?” Presley asks, seemingly in a daze.

“Yes, Harper, she’s five, turning six next month,” Poppy answers. “She’s literally the best thing ever. Do you have kids?”

“Me? Oh… no I’m not exactly mother material,” Presley answers awkwardly. Something is up with her. She knows how to make polite conversation with strangers and, tonight, she’s not doing it. She sees me out of the corner of her eye and practically attacks my arm with her nails. And now I’m thankful for the thicker material of my tux.

“Grayson! Where have you been? First you leave me with my brother and Sanders, thankfully I escaped that torture, then you completely disappear. I couldn’t find you anywhere.” She’s virtually whining, which is doubly annoying now that I know Sanders is here tonight. He must have slipped in while I was busy ogling Poppy. My parents are cordial to the Montgomerys, but I wouldn’t exactly call them friends. My father’s father had quite the falling out with Sanders the First. Our families have been quietly at odds ever since. Public contention is difficult when you run in the same circles of polite society.

I avoid everyone’s eyes while I gently pull Presley away from them. “I was talking with Thomas.” I make sure to look up and catch my mother’s gaze, so she’ll know where my head is, and she nods, assenting.

Presley turns, however, unwilling to leave the group of women. Looks directly at Poppy and asks where her date is tonight. Poppy quietly answers that she came alone.

“Well, bless your heart. I could never come by myself to one of these things. Grayson’s always my date. We’ve known each other for years. Gib is besties with my father, Senator Nicolas Lawrence. We’re practically family aren’t we G?” She leans forward to loudly whisper, “Some might say we’re a foregone conclusion. I’m expecting a ring any day now.” I make a weird strangled noise in the back of my throat.

Jesus, my mother was right. The casual relationship I thought I had with Presley is anything but, in her mind. My mom and sister take that moment to politely excuse themselves from the conversation, and I’m left alone with a woman I desperately want to impress (but am utterly failing) and a woman I’m contemplating clapping a hand over her mouth to stop it’s incessant flapping. I look at Poppy, my face flushed with anger, while hers has gone pale. A server with a tray of drinks walks by and I grab two. “Ms. Monroe, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Champagne?” Maybe I can salvage this.

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