Page 39 of Smooth Talk

Chapter 15

Grayson

Three weeks since I’ve seen Poppy in the flesh. Three long weeks of touching myself in the shower while remembering her soft curves under my fingertips on the dancefloor. This may be the longest I’ve gone without sex since I started having it. I haven’t looked at or thought about another woman. And believe me, there have been opportunities.

My buddy Randall’s wedding in Jamaica had a surplus of willing women. There’s just something about one of their friends getting married that turns women into horn balls. I had to literally peel myself away from more than one lovely lady. And they were all lovely, gorgeous even, but none of them compared to her. Meanwhile, O just laughed his ass off at me. He’s never seen me like this. I’ve never turned down an easy lay, but I’m tired of the game. After witnessing how blissed out Randall was with his new bride, the green hammer-fist of jealousy hit me hard. I want what he has. He’s happier than I’ve ever seen him, and we’ve been to Vegas and Amsterdam together. If Randall can be that fucking happy about spending eternity with just one woman, why couldn’t I?

The change had come so gradually, I hardly noticed. But now that I’ve had a fucking epiphany, I can’t do this anymore. The endless stream of one-night stands, not remembering their names, not feeling any kind of real connection has lost its appeal. Variety is not the spice of life. It’s a partner. Someone who understands me. Accepts me. Keeps me on my toes. And I have a specific someone in mind.

At first, I thought it was just a physical connection; we obviously find each other attractive. But it’s more than that; I don’t just want her; I need her. When I end my day without talking to her, it’s hard for me to fall asleep. I lie in bed thinking about how her day was. What she and Harp did. Are they okay? It gets to the point where I can’t sleep unless she answers my late-night text confirming we’ll talk in the morning.

She’s taken control over me. And I’ve allowed it; it makes me nervous, a completely novel feeling. My heart rate spikes, my palms sweat and my tongue ties itself in knots. Yet we still miraculously manage to have fascinating conversations. For hours. I think I’m most nervous about fucking things up between us. Poppy’s everything that I could’ve wished for. She’s kind, funny and genuine; my fame and money don’t impress her. She likes me for me. Mom and Mimi are practically in love with her and Harp; in their eyes, they can do no wrong. Most importantly though, I can trust Poppy. She’s real. I feel something for her I’ve never felt for anyone before. And no; it’s not just my dick getting hard. Although, that does seem to happen every time I see her or talk to her. Or think about her. Fuck, it’s happening now. Down boy.

I know it sounds crazy, but I think I’m finally ready to settle down, and I don’t want to ruin what promises to be a bright future with Poppy for an easy lay today. It’s not worth it. I can wait. But at the same time, I can’t fucking wait. I need to see her and let her know how I feel. I’ve refrained because I’m not certain how receptive she’ll be. She went through some rough shit with her ex and has some trust issues holding over from that relationship and doesn’t care for public shit shows (which my life occasionally turns into—okay, more than occasionally. Mainly because the editor of our local paper has a vendetta against me). Also, her recent dip into the dating pool was less than stellar.

I want her to see that I’m different, that she can trust me, that I’m not like those other guys. Trouble is, up until a few weeks ago, I was just like those guys. Looking for nothing more than a good time. I’ve changed. She makes me want to be more. Better. And while it’s new and scary it’s also exciting. But I need to take it slow. If I’ve learned anything from Poppy opening up about her past, it’s that she’s a runner. And I can’t afford to let her get away.

I more specifically haven’t mentioned dating since I took her and Harp fishing, because I want to do it in person, and I had the grand idea that if we were friends first, she’d trust me enough to finally say yes when I asked her again. And I want to take Poppy out—The Three D’s (again, not talking about my dick): dinner, drinks, dancing. Astound her with my rapier wit, wine and dine her, hold her in my arms and if all goes well, she’ll let me fuck her senseless before the night’s over. Hopefully, multiple times. She’s the first woman in forever that I’ve imagined doing all that with, for more than one night. Possibly for years.

Hell, I’m half in love with her already. I feel like I know her so well and we have so much in common, from politics to religion to movies and music. Ever since I got her number, I’ve basically been harassing her. Not that she seems to mind. I’m looking forward to tonight; I look forward to hearing her voice every night but talking and texting just aren’t the same as being with her. I miss seeing her eyes sparkle with laughter, smelling her sweet beachiness, touching her smooth skin. God, I can’t wait for Saturday. I’m surprising her at Harper’s party and giving the birthday girl my present. It’s a gift for Poppy as well. Kill two birds with one stone if you will. I hope they like it. I wasn’t formally invited, but I did promise Harp we’d be there. I’ve got just under 48 hours before I see her. Two more days. But now I’m wondering at my ability to wait even one more day. My need for this woman continually grows. She’s never far from my thoughts. Even when I try to actively push her out, she pops back in, and we haven’t even really kissed yet.

A peck isn’t what I have in mind when I see her again. But that will have to wait. I hate waiting. Almost as much as I hate pretense and deceit. Which is all I got from my dear old sis last week. Something is up with Lily.

Lillian has a knack for getting into trouble, and I have a bad feeling about whatever is going on with her. She’s the queen of practical jokes, but this feels like more than her run-of-the-mill type of prank. Some might think the prankster of the Maxwell clan is Mase, and he’s conceived their fair share, but it’s Lily that dreamt up all the whoppers when we were kids. Pretending O was adopted until he was old enough to hack his birth records—Lily. (He was 11 in case you’re wondering. Lily always said he was way too smart to be a blood relative of ours.) Painting the football field bright pink (for breast cancer awareness) right before the homecoming game—Lily. Temporarily replacing Mrs. Magnus’s cat (that was being abused by her nephew) with a hungry, quite possibly rabid, racoon—Lily. That kid learned his lesson the hard way.

Now that she’s older, she likes to take a stand in less invasive ways. She cultures this unjust world through her support of various charities and her proficiency with the written word. Proving that sometimes, the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. Lily’s a New York Times best-seller ten times over. She writes mystery novels with a bit of romance thrown in. She still occasionally gets in over her head, but she’s always been more than adept at getting herself out of trouble. This time, though, I have a feeling something isn’t right. She’s scared. She’s trying to hide it, but I know that look. I know her.

We (Mase, Lily and I) had planned this mini family reunion a few months ago to coincide with her book launch and Mase’s post-camp/pre-pre-season. He only gets a couple of weeks off in the Summer completely free, and next week he’s going surfing in Hawaii with his teammates. Ash, obviously, couldn’t make it, O was working, as usual, and Vi had already planned a cruise with some co-workers before she knew our plans. So, we were it; it gets harder every year for us all to get together outside of the holidays. I’d love to go to the beach house with everyone again, like when we were kids. Maybe when we all have families of our own, we can take them together. Picturing myself beachside with two sweet, red-headed girls doesn’t make me nauseous like it would have months ago. It actually makes me happy. I shake my head clearing it; I can’t seem to focus on work today my mind’s waffling between Pop and the mess my sister has gotten herself into.

We’d do anything for her, and her brothers being by her side meant more publicity for Lily’s book tour. Who am I kidding? Mase Maxwell—star tight end for the Tennessee Cyclones and two-time super bowl MVP—is bringing all the added attention. My baby brother’s got skills. All the added attention will hopefully translate to increased book sales, but it’s not Lily’s bottom line I’m worried about. Even if the book flops, she’ll be more than okay financially. Not that any of her books would ever flop; she’s pretty brilliant. Takes after her older brothers. I’m worried because she thinks someone’s been following her. Her creep-o-meter went off at her first book signing, so of course, being the awesome, over-protective brothers that we are, we attended the rest while we were in town, and I hired a bodyguard after we left. I asked him to follow inconspicuously behind her (so she wouldn’t figure it out— she’d never hire protection on her own), and I haven’t gotten a call from her yet, so I guess he’s doing a damn good job at being discreet. I just want someone there ‘just in case.’ I feel better knowing someone has her back.

We’d gone out for dinner the first night, and she’d gotten several calls from an unknown number that she brushed off as telemarketers. As far as I know, they don’t call back to back to back after 9pm. Even my idiot brother wasn’t buying it. She’d flipped her phone over and silenced it, but Mase grabbed it the next time it vibrated and put it on speaker. The creep breathed heavy on the line for a full 10 seconds then said, ‘You can run, but you can’t hide, Lillian. I’ll always find you,’ in a deep raspy voice and hung up. We’d insisted she call the police after she’d admitted this wasn’t the first call like this she’d received.

“How would that work? I don’t even know who’s harassing me. It’s only happened a couple times. It’s probably just my moronic editor trying to scare up some ideas for my next book. She’s like that.” She’d explained and we’d dropped it, but we haven’t forgotten. I’ve already had a quick chat with Sheriff Walker. Jake has been my best friend since the fifth grade when he and his brother, Hudson, moved to town after their father died. Their mom wanted to be closer to her sister. Jake’s always been a straight shooter. I’ll see if there’s anything he can do. I need to bring O into the conversation too. Maybe he knows something she’s not telling me. O shares a mind-meld with all of us; he got the intuition gene from mom. I wish I’d inherited it. Could’ve saved me from making more than a few mistakes. Gunner whines from the couch, like he agrees. He’d stayed with my mom while I was in Jamaica. I made a quick stop at home to pick him up before heading to Nashville, and he’s been with me for the rest of the trip. I hate boarding him as much as he does. And to be honest, I’d miss him too much if I had to leave him for three straight weeks. I need to get out of this hotel room and stretch my legs. Gunner’s too. He has to be so bored. He’s been watching Animal Planet all day. Rotting his brains.

I shake my head again; but it doesn’t do shit to help me focus. I have a client that needs my undivided attention, but I just can’t find the energy to read through these documents. Usually, I find that I’m eager to dig into something new, but for some reason, lately, my interests just aren’t piqued. I practice commercial property law, which means I spend the majority of my time writing contracts or representing investors, developers or municipalities. Really came in handy when we started developing The Enclave.

Property law sounds boring, but each case has its own set of unique issues that I get to solve, and I enjoy the challenges each one presents, at least I used to. It’s probably a good thing I’m taking a brief hiatus while I’m in office. Until then, I have a job to do— get these docs and case law reviewed before I submit my brief. We lucked out with Judge Lyons, he’s as straight-laced and by the book as they come, so I won’t have to worry about any backdoor deals. But I do worry about taking a break from law.

I know my mayoral duties will take precedence and I’ll no longer have time to dedicate to cases. I’m not exactly ambitious when it comes to politics. I have zero aspirations to run for governor or any higher public office. I love Willow Creek. That’s why I’m doing this. But what comes after? After I fulfill my duty and desire to better my community, will I have what it takes to return to my roots? Will I still want to? Maybe my journey lies elsewhere, and I just need to be open to possibilities. That sounds nice.

I need a pep-talk; I’ve got to get my head in the game. I’ll go for a walk, grab some coffee, get re-energized, and make a dent in this mound of paper. My phone rings for the umpteenth time today. Maybe I should take this one. Guess I’m settling for a C for effort this morning, and an A+ for procrastination.

Cannon’s peppy voice greets me, “hey G. I’ve been trying to reach you all day. You definitely don’t pay me enough for this shit,’ he ends on a chuckle. ‘The bank called to alert us to some possible fraudulent activity. I told them I’d get in touch with you, since you weren’t answering your phone and have you get back to them. In the meantime, they want to suspend two of your accounts.”

“Okay, pain in the ass, but better safe than sorry. Hit me with it.” I’ve been trying to ignore my phone and get some work done today. Apparently, that was a mistake.

“There were some charges from your personal checking in Jamaica and Nashville, and I already told them that those were probably legit as you’ve been travelling the past couple weeks, but I’d check just in case. I sent you an email. It’s so nice of them to notify us ten days after the fact.’ He says, sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘But a good chunk of change came out of the account where we hold the campaign funds this morning. I sent that in a separate email. I checked Bev’s records, but I couldn’t find anything matching it, that’s when I tried to reach her, to see if she knows anything, but she’s not answering either.”

“Probably because she’s on vacation. Don’t get between that woman and her hot stone massage,” I chuckle.

Cannon gives an audible shiver. I’m guessing he just imagined my 58-year-old assistant, nude and getting rubbed down with oils. It makes me shiver too.

“Okay, I’ll check it out.” I put him on speaker and pull up the email app on my phone. I run through the first list of charges. Everything looks legit, so I go through the second list. Two charges were made in the amount of ten thousand each to a company named Costent. Never heard of it. I do a quick search; nothing comes up. After hyphenating and spacing the words in the search bar, I still find nothing. Odd. I don’t want to worry unduly, but I don’t like how this looks.

“Okay, I hate to say this, but it looks like twenty grand of my campaign funds may have been misappropriated.”

“Holy shit! We need to get to the bottom of this stat.” My thoughts exactly. That’s a huge chunk of change. And it’s not just my money that’s been taken. It’s the money of the hard-working citizens of Willow Creek who’ve donated to my campaign. People who believe in me and trust that those funds will be spent appropriately. It’s not right. And someone should be held accountable.

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