Page 8 of Smooth Talk

“Mom, you dragged me down here to meet Poppy, didn’t you? What, did you see a picture of her and think, she’d be perfect for my eldest?” I pitch my voice at the end to impersonate her. I’m teasing her, but she’s being awfully evasive. “And I met you here because I never miss an opportunity to remind you who your favorite child is.” Hint: he’s grinning at her now.

“Now, you know I don’t play favorites.” And honestly, she never has. All of us Maxwell children receive equal, healthy doses of love and support from both of our parents. We’re all truly fortunate. I open my mouth to remind her that she still hasn’t answered my question, when she cuts me off, “Is your speech ready?”

“Yes, I had it written two weeks ago, and perfected last week, as you well know.” She opens her mouth to ask more questions, I presume. “And yes, my tux has already been dry cleaned.” I preempt.

“I was going to ask if…” she pauses, she’s got nothing. Ha! For once I’ve outfoxed my mother. And I did it with zero sleep in a thirty-two-hour period.

I’m so busy mentally high fiving myself, I miss her question. “I’m sorry?”

“I said, I was going to ask if the reason why you were detained was anything I needed to worry about.”

I don’t want my mother worrying about me. She worries enough as it is. And besides, she’ll read all about my supposed alcohol-induced sexcapades, along with every other resident in this town, in the Willow Weekly in two days.

“No ma’am. Everything will work out exactly as it should. So, there’s no reason to worry.”

“Since you’re in a placating mood, I’ll ask about my business instead of yours. What did you think of Ms. Monroe? She’s my first choice. I can’t wait to see how she molds the interior of the cottage with her talent.”

I’d like to see how talented and moldable she is in the bedroom, my thoughts taking a slightly different path than my mothers. A vision of her bare creamy skin sprawled on my gray silk sheets springs forward in my mind without warning. I can hardly tell my mother that sweet little Miss Monroe, with her luscious curves, flaming locks and brilliant turquoise eyes, is undeniably fuckable. With her peaches-and-cream-complexion dotted with light freckles across her pert nose and high cheekbones, and pouty lips, a pale shade of pink, like cotton candy (I can’t help but wonder if they taste like it as well).

She smelled like coconuts and citrus. I’d inhaled her soft beachy scent deeply when I was close enough to take her hand, which felt soft and dainty covered in mine. I was going to do the requisite shake, but as soon as we touched, I felt an odd prickling sensation travel up my arm. That tingle sent warmth throughout my body. When she smiled, I latched on tighter, not comprehending what I was feeling. Then she’d blushed as red as her namesake and locked her ocean eyes on me. I was semi-hard within seconds. I was also speechless. It happens so rarely; I was unfamiliar with and unprepared for the experience. For the life of me, I could not find one intelligent thing to say. Thank God my mom wasn’t suffering from the same wordlessness that had descended upon me. If she hadn’t spoken up, I would’ve just stood there holding Poppy’s hand and staring forever. Forever, huh. Obviously, I don’t mean it like that.

“She seemed… nice.” Unsure what my initial reaction to her means, I try to play it cool. I’ve been around beautiful people my entire life. And while Poppy is gorgeous, there’s something more there. She obviously wasn’t unaffected by me. I won’t soon forget the way her hungry gaze roved over me, sending chills over my skin. But when that gaze collided with mine, she’d blushed worse than a schoolgirl with a crush. It had only enhanced her natural beauty. But then she’d spoken to me like she was completely unaffected, politely said her goodbyes to my mother and walked away with her head held high. It was extremely sexy. She might be the first woman to walk away from me without asking for more and that instantly earned my respect.

“Nice? That girl is gorgeous. Intelligent, passionate, talented.” She’s shaking her head at me and mutters, “nice.” Then adds, “I think I’ll invite her to the gala. Maybe while you’re at lunch, see if Oliver plans to bring a date.”

“Why would I see if O…? Oh, you think she’d be a good match for Oliver?” I find myself irrationally irritated that one: my mom thinks I’m not interested, and two: she thinks my brother is a better match for Poppy, and three: that Poppy might actually prefer my brother to me. I just met the woman; I have no idea where this possessiveness is coming from. That being said, if she’s going to the gala with a Maxwell, that Maxwell will be me. One problem. I’m already going with someone else.

“I was going to see if you would escort her, but it seems you already have a date.” My mother echoes my thoughts, watching me intently. Remember when I said she can get me to do all kinds of things when I’m tired? Well, this is exhibit A of her efforting some crazy shit. “If you’re interested in taking Poppy, why not see if Presley would prefer Oliver; he’s a better age for her anyway.”

“Yeah, but,” I freeze. Had I really been about to say that O’s never finger-fucked the senator’s daughter in the back of the family limo before? To my mother. Jesus! I’ve to get some fucking sleep. I try again. “She and O don’t get along all that well, and I can’t cancel on Presley this close to the gala.”

“She’s invited regardless, and she always sits with her family. You’re really just giving her a ride.” I manage to hold the snicker inside; thankful she missed the blatant innuendo.

“Mom, you don’t know if Poppy’s even dating anyone and you’re trying to attach her to one of us.” Maybe I can get her to see reason.

“Oh, you are so right! I’ll ask her tomorrow if she wants to bring someone with her so I can find out for you.” She winks.

Damnit. “Not for me, mom. I have a date. And I’m not cancelling on her. It would be rude.” Like she doesn’t know. The woman who taught me my good manners is sitting across from me trying to get me to go against her own instruction. Maybe this is a test.

“You’re right, of course dear. I don’t know what I was thinking. You must honor your engagements, and if Poppy doesn’t have a boyfriend, she’ll want to go stag. Do you have any idea how many eligible bachelors will be there this year?” That twinkle she gets in her eye when she’s up to something is out in full force.

She’s obviously playing me, but I’m helpless against it, and there’s no point stopping her. Instead of giving her the win, I maneuver away as graciously as I can. “Mom, I’ve got to go. I’ll be late, and you know how O gets when someone disrupts his schedule.” I kiss her cheek and get up from the table.

I can’t shake the idea that meeting Ms. Monroe earlier was significant. Something about her struck a chord with me. Something I’m more than willing to explore further. That is, if my meddlesome mother doesn’t throw a wrench first. “Do me a favor?” Goddamnit, I can’t believe I’m letting her get to me like this.

“Anything, darling.” She says like she doesn’t know what I’m about to say. She’s my mother. She knows.

“Don’t play matchmaker with all the ‘eligible bachelors’ just yet.”

She grins. I hate when I play right into her hands, but I’ve strangely never been happier to be a forgone conclusion. She invited me today specifically to meet Poppy. She wanted to see how I’d react. If I wasn’t interested, I’m sure O would’ve gotten a hasty invitation to tea tomorrow. Poppy must have made an impression on her as well. “Give Oliver my love. I’ll see you both for family brunch. And since you take Sundays off, you have no excuse.” She stands and pecks my cheek, “I love you, son. Get some rest; you look tired.”

“Yes ma’am. Love you too.” Our family has a brunch every other Sunday at the farmhouse and all of my siblings, who are in town, attend. Oliver, despite living and working in Willow Creek, usually misses once a month on account of him being a workaholic. But brunch is the furthest thing from my mind as I walk out of the restaurant. I can’t get the thought of a bunch of douche-canoe rich pricks wooing Poppy Monroe at the gala out of my head. Worse yet, she could have a permanent douche-canoe rich prick in the form of a boyfriend. Or a husband. That’s nauseating. How can someone I just met and spoke to for a total of two minutes affect me this much? The thought of Poppy Monroe dancing with or being touched by any man other than me, makes my skin crawl. And I honestly have no idea why.

The doors on the elevator ping open and an almost mirror image stands before me. My father is an inch or so shorter and his dark hair is streaked with gray. Now that I’m looking closely, it is more silver than black, and his wrinkles seem deeper than the last time I saw him. He’s aged well, but he’s beginning to show his years.

“Grayson,” his dark eyes shine, and he smiles brightly at me as he leans in for a hug. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today.” He pats my shoulder, moving next to me, standing in the doorway, holding it open.

“You either. I thought you were retiring, old man.” I jokingly smirk at him.

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