Flambé: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Flambé Series Book 1)

by Elle Berlin

  “No, of course not, that would be unethical,” Simon rolls his eyes at me. “Instead, you just want them to think they’ll get a taste of whatever Mr. One-Night-Wonder got last night.”

  “The food is the orgasm,” I insist, and Simon nods.

  “Oh, I’m well aware of that. But a little foreplay never hurt.”

  “You’re going to be wearing something just as incendiary, right?” I tease back, handing him the phone number for the printers as I head toward the potential employees waiting to be interviewed. “This isn’t just a sexist ploy where I wear a short skirt and you sign the payroll checks. You own some sort of Scottish kilt that will have our female investors’ knickers in a bunch, right?”

  Simon smiles at me sweetly and pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “If you think showing off my hairy white-boy thighs is sexy …”

  I blow him a kiss and head for the picture window, the ocean sparkling; nothing is going to ruin my mood. Nothing.

  6

  Connor

  I wake up to my normal routine: get up, coffee, work out, run. I race down the boardwalk as the sun comes up, feeling the silt of the ocean in my hair. Sometimes I can’t believe I actually live in Waikiki, and have to pinch myself to remember how damn lucky I am. My life could have been so different—so very different—and I’m not going to take it for granted again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice … and all that shit.

  At six fifteen, like clockwork, my savior (and my warden) calls to check in.

  “You staying out of trouble?” My brother Ned’s voice echoes through the phone with the same authoritative resonance he brings to the courtroom—direct, forceful, and ready to make me beg for a plea deal. His never-ending seriousness makes my inner hooligan bray, ready to chide him for already having a stick up his butt; it’s barely even sunrise.

  “Trouble? Never,” I toss back at him, slowing my run and stopping to look at the sun rise out of the ocean.

  It’s our customary greeting. No “hello, how are you?” No “hey, little brother, how was your night?” Oh no, my big brother Ned is a quick clock to the jaw, with a jalapeño chaser. Swift. Painful. He always cuts to the chase without any of the niceties. I think it’s a lawyer thing, which is fair after all, since he’s the only one in our family willing to speak to me anymore, rather than disown me. So, he may be my personal pain-in-the-ass prison warden, but trust me, it’s how I know he cares.

  “You were out last night,” he says dryly, allowing for a long pause in which I’m supposed to fill in the blanks. It’s all part of the routine, even though it makes me feel like I’m seventeen instead of twenty-seven.

  “I’m allowed to go out,” I avoid, and in true cross-examiner fashion he waits me out, making me imagine his narrowed eyes and disgruntled frown.

  Our deal is simple: I keep my head down and Ned helps me get back on my feet. I get a job; I keep the job. I show I can act like an adult, and in return, I get to stay in Ned’s flat on the beach. Yeah, I’m a bartender; there’s no way in hell I own that thing. As for Ned, he gets to play the savior and pull his holier-than-thou card as many times as he damn-well pleases without even the slightest peep from me. Honestly, it’s far more than I deserve.

  “I went out dancing,” I say, to cut into his show-me-you’re-not-a-royal-fuck-up silence. I pick up my jog again and head down the boardwalk. “I met a girl,” I shrug. “You know. Normal. Nothing of consequence.”

  That’s a lie.

  There was nothing normal about Wisconsin.

  In fact, she’s everything a guy like me fantasizes about and I got to actually live it for an evening. Hell, I already thought she was hot as sin, and then she blew all my expectations out of the water. Just thinking about her has my skin aching.

  I pick up my pace. Pounding harder into the boardwalk to blow off this knot of bunched up energy.

  “Do you approve?” I ask into the receiver of my cell, still holding up to my ear. “I’m allowed to have a one-night fling, yes? Or is that rule number three-hundred-and-twenty-seven?”

  “There aren’t rules,” Ned clips out, a tang of annoyance in his tone. “More like guidelines. Goal posts. Future plans.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “A ten-step plan that outlines my future and checks all the don’t-be-a-fuck-up boxes. And bonus: it comes with a cup of your eternal judgement.”

  “Look, if you don’t appreciate—” he starts, but I cut him off.

  “Ned, stop. Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight,” I say, verbally backpedaling, even though I know I was being completely defensive. It’s just not my favorite thing to be reminded every day that I have to keep everything on the straight and narrow. “You asked what I did last night, and I told you. I went out dancing, I took a woman home … is that kosher? Or are you going to come disinfect everything?”

  There’s a long pause at the other end and I brace myself for a lecture. I know Ned’s got me on a short leash, but seriously? Yes, I should be more grateful. Yes, I’m thankful for all of his patience—even if I don’t deserve it—but, I’ve also got to be me.

  “It’s fine,” he says finally, with a huff in his voice, and for a second, I think he might be jealous.

  “You know, I have no problem helping you meet women,” I say seriously, and the silence on the other side of the phone confirms for me just how badly he needs it. Ned’s a workaholic and letting loose has never been a part of his disposition. Heck, picking up a one-night stand might be against his religion. “Hey, I’m not kidding, we could totally—”

  “I’m hanging up now,” he says in clipped tone, and I have to smile, imagining him behind his big lawyer desk with a blush of red inching up his collar, some hot secretary he has peeking in at him wondering what’s got him so flushed. “I’m glad you’re okay, Connor.”

  I’m more than okay. Last night was phenomenal.

  Of course, I don’t say that. Instead, I mummer a thanks and hang up, wondering if I really need to get Ned out on the town to loosen him up. Hanging out with him the last six months and watching him juggle all of his responsibilities has been a good influence on me, but honestly, I could be a good influence on him too. If he let me.

  7

  Arie

  Spiced dates, star anise, and burnt sugar fill the air as I bring two flaming cognac drinks out to the dining room. It’s my twist on Singapore’s signature “Playing with Fire” cocktail, a blaze of turquoise flames atop a smooth pairing of sweetness and spice. Our investor, Mr. Hamblin, sits across from Simon at the picture window with the Waikiki seascape reflecting the stars behind him. His eyes widen as I walk up with the two flaming goblets, one for each of them. I know Simon won’t drink during this meeting—he gets too nervous when there’s money on the line—but letting his drink sit on the table like a sexy blue torch of dragon fire will help to create the magical ambiance.

  “Imagine every table aflame with cocktails,” I say, carefully placing the drinks at the center of the table. “It gives everyone a taste of the modern and the medieval at the same time. Sleek, twenty-first century comforts with a hint of open flames and magic.”

  Mr. Hamblin looks at the drink like I just handed him a sip from the fountain of youth. Not that he’s old enough to need it. He’s a bonafide silver-fox in his mid-fifties, clean cut in a suit and as dashing as George Clooney. Yet, despite his good looks, his eyes sparkle with the flames of the drink as if he’s hoping for some hint of the fountain’s elusive mystery. His eyes flick to me, convinced I’m some kind of sorceress—red hair, ruby lips—clad in that lacy black dress Simon told me to wear, and I’ve just placed before him a drink of seduction. He may be made of money, but seduction requires more than just cash. His chocolate eyes sparkle, hinting that an experience like Flambé (which he’d have stock in if he invests) would be one more magical way he’d be able to get laid. That’s exactly why the young—and the old—will flock to my restaurant: for the exoticness of it.

  Hamblin runs his fingers through the f
lame of the goblet before him like a giddy schoolboy, an impressed smile crinkling his eyes into crow’s feet.

  “The drink is called Playing with Fire,” I say appropriately, nodding to his fingers teasing the blue sapphire.

  “Impressive,” he says, giving me his stoic poker face. It’s one he’s practiced, making him look powerful and handsome. However, his fingers are his tell, dancing through the flames and revealing his cards. “How do I …?” He nods to the glass, testing the goblet with his fingers to see how hot the surface is.

  “Drink fire?” I raise an eyebrow, tossing him a wicked smile. He nods, his eyes glittering with the blue flames. “Well…” I lean forward, not acknowledging how his eyes skip through the flames to ogle my cleavage. “It requires caution,” I say, having him exactly where I want him. “Every patron gets a fire-safety lesson at the beginning of the meal. At Flambé, we stress that this is an experience meant to be savored. We ask that you don’t rush things, but take it slow. Foreplay, if you will.” I flutter my eyelashes through the drink and he licks his lips, loving my pitch. “There’s a fire extinguisher at every table, per code regulations.” I point to the elegant black bottle clipped to the back of the booth, designed specifically for our restaurant. “But no one will need to use it, if they’re patient … and good things come to those who wait.”

  I blow slowly on the top of the drink, the air rippling through the flame. Hamblin’s eyes widen as the flames entrance him, whatever he desires taking shape in the curl of flames. Then, with a quick puff, I snuff it out. The flame frizzles with my exhale, giving way to a gorgeous billow of purple smoke that arches from the surface of the goblet like a blooming flower.

  “If,” I tease, “you take your time. If you take in the taste of the air, the smell…” I waft the smoke toward him, encouraging him to take a deep breath and let the spices coat his lungs. “If you bask in each sensation, then there will be enough time for the glass to cool. Then, when you lift the drink to your mouth…” I pick up the goblet, demonstrating, rolling the delicate rim of the glass against my ruby lips.

  He’s completely entranced; he wants the drink, and perhaps me with it. “Every step, every sensation, is a delicacy,” I explain, letting my tongue taste the burnt sugar along the goblet’s edge. “It warms your mouth and sends a tiny jolt of heat across your lips.” I take a sip, rippling the surface as my lips hit the cognac. “And if it’s too hot, then you douse it out. The perfect sting of heat and sweetness.” I’m close enough to catch a soft moan escape Mr. Hamblin’s lips, and I’m pretty sure Simon caught it too. Mr. Hamblin, however, hasn’t a clue he uttered anything, his mind lost in other escapades.

  I place the drink in front of him, pushing it slowly across the table, letting the smoke billow and fill the air between us. The amber liquid shivers as he takes the goblet and follows my instructions: slowly taking in the scent, then the taste of sugar, then the warmth of the glass. Lastly, as the smoke dissipates, he indulges in the drink itself, earthy and devilish.

  “Damn,” he mutters, practically out of breath.

  “That’s just one of many cocktails we serve,” I say smoothly, wanting to make sure he understands this isn’t the only drink up my sleeve. I’ve got plenty of ways to make him moan. “And don’t forget, there’s an entire menu to go with it,” I say, laying it on thick. “The menus aren’t printed yet, but Simon has everything in your dossier.” I nod to the folder on the table. “And I’ve prepared a whole meal for you. Let me head back into the kitchen and I’ll get you the seared scallops with the whiskey cream sauce and sugar brûlée.”

  Mr. Hamblin’s face goes pale and he looks like I just invited him back into the kitchen to taste something far more personal.

  “That sounds …” Mr. Hamblin coughs and takes another sip of his drink as he tries to recover, and I see Simon smile. “That sounds, um, delicious, wonderful, um …” He wipes his lip with the back of his hand and reaches across the table for Simon’s proposal, flipping through the pages without really reading any of them.

  Simon’s eyes catch mine and glitter appreciatively; he couldn’t have asked for a more spectacular opening. “You’ll see from the projections…” Simon starts in, taking his cue.

  “Be sure to save room,” I say to Hamblin, placing my hand on his shoulder. “There’s dessert too.”

  He nods, not looking at me, trying to find the page Simon’s talking about, completely distracted and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. I don’t have to look under the table to know he’s turned on. I smile and head toward the kitchen.

  Mr. Hamblin will be the perfect investor. He now understands the power of a hint of fire and the tiniest of seductions. Tease the senses with a cocktail, and who knows what the rest of the night will hold!

  Hamblin licks a dollop of toasted meringue off of his pinky finger and moans fully, no longer afraid to let out his appreciation. He polishes off the final bites of the brandy-soaked tiramisu I’ve made him, leaving a hint of coffee-cinnamon on his chin.

  “This place is a devil’s playground,” he compliments, pushing the empty dish away and nodding to his overindulgence. “The décor is seductive, the food is pure sin, and your business plan is brilliant.”

  Simon beams excitedly. “We’re glad you think so.”

  “It’s just missing one thing.” Hamblin sits up and dabs his chin.

  “It’s just—?” Simon’s eyes lift with concern. “Excuse me?”

  I put a hand on Simon’s shoulder to calm him, taking a seat in the booth by his side. “Missing something?” I ask calmly. “And what might that be?”

  Hamblin looks straight at me, his eyes dilated and filled with heat. “I’ll be frank, my dear, and it should come as no surprise, but you’re completely ravishing.”

  I tilt my head to the side and smile, taking the compliment, yet I pin him with my eyes. “But …?” I prod.

  “Oh, you’re not a problem,” he says quickly. “You’re part of the sell. You play the seductress and you play it well. It’s no surprise that you have …” he shifts in his seat, trying to find the words, “… an effect on men.”

  “Okay?” I look at Simon, not sure where Hamblin is headed with this.

  “Of course, it doesn’t say anything so explicit in the proposal. I needed to have the show. But I’m convinced that the food, and the ambiance, and the tight dress, well—pardon my French—but every half-blooded man who walks in this restaurant is going to want to fuck you before the night is over.”

  Simon coughs at his directness. “I’m sorry, what—?!”

  Hamblin raises his hand to calm Simon. I may have had Hamblin right where I wanted him a moment ago, but now he’s the one explaining the rules. “Again, Arie—and her appeal—isn’t the problem. In fact, she’s part of why this business venture will work so well. Arie’s the face of this company and she’ll make every man who steps foot in here think about foreplay, sensation, sex. Hell, not just sex, but hot sex.”

  Simon coughs again, pushing his glasses back up the ridge of his nose.

  “Everything in this restaurant,” Hamblin continues, ignoring Simon and turning to me, “has been hand-picked and designed to carefully cultivate one specific end goal. Sure, you’re selling drinks, and fire, and delicious food. But at the end of the night, the brilliance of this whole scheme lies in one very simple fact. And that fact is that every man will go home and bed his date, and whether he’s thinking about his date or not—which frankly, at that point, is irrelevant—he’s going to imagine he’s fucking you.”

  Hamblin’s eyes hit me hard with a crystal sharpness that wants to know if I can bear the weight of such a truth. My mouth is dry. I’ve never thought about it that way, and yet the whole damn restaurant is my fantasy, so I should have anticipated it. I take in Hamblin’s gaze and toss it back at him.

  “Are you afraid I can’t handle the heat?” I ask sharply, my nerves bristling. “I invented the heat.”

  Hamblin smiles softly, noting my tone. “No, of
course not, Arie. A woman like you is bound to burn down the kitchen and enjoy doing it.”

  “I’m not quite tracking this,” Simon butts in, his brow furrowed. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Arie is perfect,” Hamblin clarifies. “The problem is you.” He looks right at Simon, whose face goes white as an egg cream.

  “W-what?” Simon stammers.

  “Or, the lack of you,” Hamblin explains.

  “I, I don’t quite understand,” Simon pushes back in his seat as if he needs distance from what Hamblin is saying.

  “Look, am I correct in my understanding that you, Simon, are not going to be serving cocktails and wetting women’s panties?”

  “I’m sorry? Where are you going with—what?!” Simon’s face is drained, totally flustered and looking a bit like he might pass out.

  “It’s simple,” Hamblin continues, unfazed by Simon’s peevishness. “Arie is going to get men hard. So, there needs to be an equally enticing counterpoint. A gentleman, on par, to get the ladies just as … excited.”

  “Wait? You want me to …” Simon’s eyes are wide. He’s more than happy to talk dirty about me getting laid, but the second the suggestion is in his court and we’re talking about his powers of seduction, he’s completely out of his depth. “I’m an accountant. I run numbers. I don’t—”

  “Let me be clear,” Hamblin interjects, looking straight at Simon as if he’s talking to a child. “It doesn’t have to be you. But it does have to be someone. Someone who’s willing to be the face of the company with Arie. Someone who will make women—”

  “Go home and fuck their dates while thinking about him?” I cut in, starting to get it.

  “Exactly,” Hamblin nods. “Look, women don’t like their dates ogling other women, that’s basic biology.” He points at me. “That is unless you give them someone of equal stature to ogle themselves. Then, the playing field is fair.”