Page 22 of Smooth Talk

Chapter 8

Poppy

Tonight, has been so amazing. Delightful conversation with my tablemates while shamelessly plugging my business and drinking my fill of expensive champagne has taken up the majority of my time. I couldn’t be happier. Cloud nine is an understatement. I even ran into Ruby’s brother Beckett. I haven’t seen him in months, and I just love him. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew, but he’s here covering the event for the paper.

Beck’s a serious journalist (i.e. after graduating from Boston University he took a job at The Post for a couple years then moved on to work as a field correspondent for CNN for six years before moving back home to help out when Mrs. Kendall got cancer a while back— she’s currently in remission, thank God). I’m afraid his talents are wasted at The Willow Weekly, which has turned into more of a tabloid than a newspaper as of late. But I think he secretly enjoys the slower paced lifestyle moving home has afforded him. I just hope he finds more local stories worth reporting that will actually get printed, and he has a reason to stay. I’d hate for him to move away again.

Maybe he could take over for whoever is currently in charge of the paper; it needs a major overhaul. I’m considering cancelling my online subscription. I like catching up on local news, but reading recently has been an exercise in patience, as it displays everything I despise about the media. Exploiting people, politicizing the issues and sensationalizing crime statistics. Taking a breath and hopping off my internal soap box, I let my gaze wander the room and see that Beck’s currently engaged in a friendly conversation with a handsome blond at the edge of the dancefloor; you go boy.

My mind drifts to the only dark cloud of the evening— my moment of muteness with Grayson and his girlfriend, or soon-to-be fiancée, apparently. She was gorgeous, and perfect (if not slightly drunk). I was a little jealous when she’d staked her claim earlier. Which is ridiculous; he’s nothing to me. They grew up together. Probably Summer in the South of France together every year. They’re a ‘foregone conclusion.’ I’ve allowed an engaged man to monopolize my thoughts for the past two weeks! It’s high time to let it go. And dance with his brother.

Oliver’s handsome and his dry humor lends him an appealing charm, a bit more reserved than what I typically go for, but alluring, nonetheless. He’s like that cute nerd from high school all grown up. You know the one that wore those dorky thick glasses and mathlete sweatshirts, with a bad haircut, and lanky build. Only Oliver wears chic tortoise shell frames (that do nothing to detract from his hotness) and a bespoke suit; he clearly works out and his hair is perfectly coiffed. He’s the epitome of post-make-over hot math nerd. Smexy.

It’s not like I could decline the dance (not that I’d wanted to); there was just another Maxwell I’d wanted to get my hands on more. Now that not only seems unlikely, but also highly inappropriate considering his relationship status. Oliver saved me from the purgatory that is Sanders Montgomery. Who’d pounced on me almost as soon as my tablemate had gotten up to go on stage to make speeches with his family.

My mother had set up a profile for me on a site called Three Blind Dates. They apparently ‘match criteria with other singles in your area’ and use an algorithm to set you up with people. The website states that they will find your perfect match in three dates or less—money back guarantee. I had zero faith in that thing because, after all, it had matched me with Sanders. (Maybe the fault lay with my mother’s answers to the questionnaire rather than the service itself.)

Regardless, I wasn’t using it again and I forbade my mother from doing so as well, seeing as the date with Mr. Montgomery had gone so abominably bad. I did not want a repeat. He’d picked the day and time of the date, the restaurant, my meal, and the wine; proceeded to talk about himself for ninety straight minutes, offered to go Dutch, then said, ‘I feel a real connection here. Like I can be myself around you.’ To which I just nodded, then he asked, ‘shall we continue this at your place or mine?’ Cringe. I’d faked a headache and have been ignoring his texts ever since. Get the hint already. I mean, no one is continually ‘busy’ for six straight weeks. This is the first time I’ve seen him since that night, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s too soon.

As he was pulling me out of my seat (I mean literally pulling me up with both hands— guy cannot take a hint), Oliver came to my rescue, “Actually, Poppy promised me the first dance of the evening. Sorry, but you’ll have to wait your turn, Monty.” Sanders sneered at the nickname and for a split second, I thought he wasn’t going to let me go. He dropped my hands after what seemed like an eternity, and Oliver wasted no time leading me to the floor and gliding me around like we’re skating on ice.

He’s good. Graceful. Something I’ve never been accused of, but I am feeling it right now. He puts me at ease, unlike his brother. I feel my cheeks flush just thinking about Grayson. I lie and tell myself it’s only the champagne that’s making my skin bloom. I’ve had a couple glasses, but I wouldn’t mind one more. Maybe two.

“You look like you could use another glass of Dom, maybe when we’re finished dancing,” he states quietly, searching my features. Close up, I can see he is even more ridiculously attractive than I’d first thought. Like a 9 out of 10, but Grayson is an 11, maybe even a 12. They favor each other. Oliver’s features are just a little lighter than Grayson’s. Gosh, I’ve got to stop thinking about him. And comparing every man I meet to him. He’s obviously already taken. Put him out of your mind, Pop. You are not a homewrecker. My pep talk seems to momentarily shake my lustful thoughts free.

“Maybe I don’t need another. I wasn’t aware I’d said anything out loud.”

“You didn’t.” He chuckles at my shocked expression. “I’m really good at reading people. Comes in handy with potential clients, but I’m mostly adept at cracking my siblings. It’s a gift,” he smiles, his green eyes twinkling, “and sometimes, a curse.” I laugh with him. For the serious vibe he puts out, he’s pretty funny. I wasn’t expecting that. He’s kept me entertained all evening. He’s incredibly intelligent and his sarcasm is on point; he’s not particularly animated like his younger brother, Mason, but I’ve enjoyed his company. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by all the Maxwell’s actually. Not the pompous aristocrats everyone believes them to be. They’re some of the most down to earth billionaires I’ve ever met. Not that I’ve met a lot. But the majority of the ones I have, were more than happy to put you in your place.

I’m in deep thought when Oliver catches me off guard, “How long have you known my brother?”

I take the opportunity to be elusive, “I just met Mason tonight. My dad is going to be so jealous. He’s a huge fan.” Obviously, he already knew that, seeing as how he introduced us when I arrived, and I’m repeating exactly what I’d said then. Oliver just so happened to be standing right next us at the time. But I just promised myself to stop thinking about you-know-who and discussing him seems contrary.

He smiles, like he’d expected me to avoid his question (and I feel like I’ve given something away by doing so). Shrewd and undeterred, he answers, “not Mase, Grayson. Earlier, it seemed like you’d met before.” What happened to polite conversation? When one person dances around a topic, the other person takes the hint and drops it. But I can see Oliver is determined to discuss his older brother, whether I want to or not.

“I don’t really know him. We only met a few weeks ago when I met your mother,” I explain. I’d like to get to know him a lot better. Gah, I can’t stop the wanton hussy that is my champagne brain. My face heats again, and I swear he can hear my thoughts. Did I say he put me at ease earlier? Forget that. I feel like we’ve just started a game of twenty questions: I’m in the hot seat and off to a terrible start. How long is this song even? Maybe I should’ve accepted that offer to dance with Monty. Sheesh-kabobs; I’m sweating.

He laughs lightly, “relax Poppy. I’m just making conversation. My goal here is to make my brother sweat, not you.” His eyes focus on something behind me and I’m thankful he’s taken a break from studying my features so intently. “And it looks like it worked,” he whispers. Not fully comprehending his words, I inhale deeply, the breath calming me until I hear a deep voice (one I recognize instantly, even without seeing its owner), directly behind me ask Oliver if he can cut in.

Oliver smiles broadly, placing my hand in Grayson’s. “Took you long enough,” he says to his brother and sends a wink my way. It’s sexy, but doesn’t make my knees weak, my stomach flutter, or my heart beat triple-time. Not like the touch of my new dance partner; I’m too busy taking in my new state of full-body-arousal to hear his comment back to his brother. Oliver chuckles loudly, shaking his head as he walks away, but all I can focus on is the heat from Grayson’s body. One hand is wrapped around mine while the other comes to rest on my hip. He pulls me close enough that I can feel his taut torso and defined legs against my body. Holy Jeez; he smells divine, like the other day but the proximity is making it more potent. Orgasmic. My brain floats on a cloud of cedar and bergamot, and, somewhere in the distance, I hear Beyoncé taunting me. And she’s right; I don’t think I can handle this.

Oh, crap. He’s talking. I have not been listening. I’ve been thinking. And smelling. And feeling. I’m on sensory overload. His whole person is intimidating. It’s not just his handsome face or hard body, or the fact that he’s from the most powerful, wealthy and influential family in South Carolina, but it’s also the way he moves, holds me, looks at me. He’s intoxicating.

My eyes are at jaw level, and it’s really hard to look at anything else. His stubble is perfect. I’d like to feel its roughness against my fingers. My cheek. My neck. My… other parts. Whew, it’s hot in here. I need to change my course of thought because my panties. Are. Melting.

Under my now, very sweaty palm, his shoulder feels AHHMAZING. I tell myself to focus on his words, but his lips distract my eyes. They’re full and wide and surrounded by all that tantalizingly dark stubble. He’s smiling. I look up to his eyes to make sure the joke isn’t on me, and, from this distance, I can see that his sparkling hazel eyes are flecked with green and gold and rimmed with long thick dark lashes. They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful.

Oh crap, he’s talking again. I can feel the vibration of his deep voice rumbling from his chest to mine and it’s making my nipples perk up. Like it’s gossip hour and they haven’t heard a story this salacious in years. I can’t seem to stop my body’s natural response to this man. Ugh. Focus. On. Words.

“I’m sorry if Presley made you uncomfortable before. She’s having a rough night.” Right, his girlfriend. I tell my traitorous body to shut down its totally inappropriate reaction immediately.

“No worries. I can relate.” Really, I don’t know why he sought me out to apologize for his drunk girlfriend. It happens. And she didn’t exactly say or do anything to offend me, other than forget my name. And bless my heart in a way I was certain wasn’t completely genuine. Maybe I offended her and that’s why he’s here. She probably doesn’t want me dancing with her man.

I take a small step back and look around, “Are you sure your girlfriend won’t mind us dancing together? Earlier it seemed like she wanted you all to herself.” Like when she grabbed his arm and physically dragged him away from me. “She isn’t lurking behind a ficus, waiting to claw my eyes out when we’re finished here, is she?” I’m going for a joke, but even I can hear the underlying worry in my tone. And really, that girl did seem capable of going a bit cray-cray.

He chuckles and the sound nearly makes my eyes roll back into my head. How can someone’s laugh be sexy? It’s not fair. “She left. Just before dinner, actually. I hope she eats something before she passes out.” He’s taking in my mildly shocked expression. “I sent her home with my father’s driver earlier. And Presley’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.” He pauses then adds, “a stand-in for public events.” What?

“I’m sorry. Stand-in?” I know my confusion is evident on my face, but he just smiles down at me.

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