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

by Elle Berlin

  “Ten minutes?” I toss at him. “What kind of dick do you think I am?”

  “Oh? You like to take your time?” Mason mocks, and I point at the trail of patrons behind the bar.

  “Do you see that line that’s clear out the door?” I toss back, filling the tiki glasses in front of me and grabbing the next order. “I think we’re a little busy.”

  “Please! That line’s not going to thin in the next ten minutes,” Mason raises his hands to keep me from talking. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he mocks. “I mean fifteen minutes, Mr. Casanova.” His eyes shoot to the back room, suggesting I take advantage of his generosity concerning the pineapple princess.

  “I’m fine,” I say, propping up shots on the bar and pouring three at a time.

  “Are you seriously passing up pussy?”

  “I need the tips more than I need the tits,” I say honestly, and Mason shakes his head, pairing his mocking with a tsunami-sized eye roll.

  “Your older brother is an asshole.” Mason drops maraschino cherries into each of my shots and I nod a thank you for his assistance. “Ned thinks he can control your life.”

  “He’s just looking out for me,” I correct, knowing that Ned and Mason go back, and Ned strong-armed Mason into giving me this job. Though, I’ve definitely proven my worth since starting; Mason knows I’m half the reason the line is out the door. “Let’s be clear, there’s no anti-pussy rule from Ned.”

  “You sure?” Mason looks over my shoulder in the direction of Pineapple Girl. “Cause every time he comes in here, I swear he kills everyone’s libido within a twenty-foot radius.”

  “That’s a completely different necromancy all of Ned’s own. He’s not a ladies’ man, that’s for sure.” I swivel around and pull fruit puree out of the fridge at my knees. “But when I needed someone to have my back, he had my back.”

  “Except for when it comes to money?” Mason nods to the tip jar I referenced earlier.

  “He’s got my back there too,” I correct. “I just—” I stop for a second to focus on measurements and rimming the glass with sugar.

  “You just don’t want to be indebted to him forever?” Mason offers and I nod.

  “Exactly.” I serve up the next drink and grab a towel to wipe down the sink. “There comes a point when you don’t want your big brother breathing down your neck all the time.”

  “And taking ten minutes to partake of the pineapple refreshments,” Mason motions to Bangles again, “isn’t part of that plan, how?”

  I shake my head. “Not interested.” Mason raises an eyebrow at me, not buying it. “Not my type,” I offer instead, but he doesn’t accept that one either. He grabs three wine glasses from the rack above us and fills them with sangria. “Okay,” I shrug. “Maybe, I met someone.”

  “Holy shit, he’s a liar too!” Mason’s eyebrows shoot up like the bar’s on fire.

  “What? I can’t meet someone?” I throw back, trying to cover. “I’m not that much of a player.” His eyes search me suspiciously as he cashes out the last three people we’ve helped at the bar, and the fact that he hasn’t responded has my skin crawling. “Don’t be a dick,” I toss at him, continuing to pour drinks. “Why is it such a shocker that I could’ve met someone?”

  “Because you’re living every guy’s fantasy life,” he says sharply, his tone more annoyed than factual.

  “What? Having my brother breathe down my neck and play uncle?”

  “No, asshole!” Mason tosses a lime wedge at me. “Because Pineapple Princess over there is only one fine specimen in the never-ending lineup of pussy that hits on you every night at this bar.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Fuck yes! Next to beef-cake caviar” —he motions to me— “I’m a smelly tuna fish sandwich.”

  “And how exactly is that an argument for the fact that I can’t meet someone?”

  Mason serves up his next two drinks and walks straight up to me. “What’s her name, huh? This special someone? Where’s she from? What’s her job? Tell me any one of those things. Can you? Huh?”

  I stare him down, not budging. Of course, I don’t know a single one, which he can read on my face.

  Mason smirks and shakes his head. “Next time I offer to give you ten minutes to fuck a patron, can you do me a solid and just pretend to go do it. That way, I don’t have to hate you more than I already do for being the guy who can not only get pussy whenever he wants, but can also refuse it like it’s yesterday’s bad sushi.”

  I frown at him. “I really met someone,” I say lamely, and he rolls his eyes.

  “I hope that’s true and she ruins you!” he says, going back to mixing drinks. “Now get back to work, before I fire you for pissing me off with your too-damn-pretty face.”

  “It’s the shirts,” I toss back at him, lining up my next string of drinks to mix and push out. “The creepy Hawaiian pervert shirts.” I point over to Mason’s current doozy, which looks like fluorescent-colored dildos sword fighting. He looks down at his open shirt, then shoots me a deadly look. “You heard me,” I continue. “No girl wants to bang a guy wearing a shirt covered in flowers that look like dicks.”

  “This is my signature look,” Mason shoots back at me.

  “Well, it screams ‘I want to suck cock.’”

  Mason glowers at me again, but a girl in front of the bar nods and chimes in. “He’s right,” she confirms. “I totally thought you were gay.”

  “I’m going to kill you later,” Mason snaps, pointing his fingers at me like I’d better watch my next step, but all I do is laugh.

  “I’m not the one wearing the dildo shirt, man.” I shrug and go back to serving up mai tais. Only a second later, something whaps me in the head. I pull the fabric out of my face to realize it’s Mason’s shirt with its phallic stamens taunting me. I look over and he’s shirtless. “That’s definitely a better look for you,” I tease, and he frowns and points to the back room.

  “Go to the back room and get me another shirt, before I fire you.”

  I smile wildly, even though I know he’s pissed. He at least gets my point. “You want the one covered in purple eggplants or—?”

  “Actually, I have a better idea.” Mason struts back over to me, the entire front row of the bar paying attention. “Give me your shirt and go pick one out for yourself.”

  He reaches for my top button.

  “No way!” I bat his hand away, but he doesn’t back off.

  “Give me the shirt, I’m your boss. Take it off!”

  “No.”

  But Mason doesn’t miss a beat, he turns to the front row of the bar. “How many of you want him to take his shirt off?” Half the bar erupts into catcalls and whistles and chanting. “See?” Mason turns to me and holds out his hand, waiting for my shirt.

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” I glare at him.

  “Thank you,” he says, motioning for me to start my strip tease. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now pony up, your audience awaits.” The crowd whistles and cheers and I roll my eyes, but I do start unbuttoning. The second I bare my chest, there are so many catcalls and whistles I can’t hear a word Mason says. I hand Mason my shirt and do a quick spin, just to let the bar soak it in and cheer me on. I put my hands on my hips and turn back to Mason, flexing my pecs just to get an extra whistle out of the crowd. I lift my hands up, as if to say, “this is what you wanted,” and they all whistle and laugh.

  Mason strings his arms through the Hawaiian shirt I gave him and I have to admit, he looks much better with my shirt on. It already significantly tones down his perv vibe.

  “You know,” I say, as he buttons the shirt up. “I could probably sue you for sexual harassment for this.” I nod to how he’s put my body on display.

  “Not with that shit-eating grin on your face, you can’t,” Mason says, tossing it right back at me. I try to clamp down my smile, but I can’t, this whole thing is just too funny. “Now go in the back and get yourself a shirt, geez.”

  I shake my
head at him. “I’m pretty sure you don’t own anything even remotely appropriate,” I say, washing my hands off with a rag.

  “Too bad,” he says. “Pick what you want or go shirtless.” The crowd erupts again, starting to chant: In the flesh! In the flesh! Making it clear that I should leave the shirt off and serve them in my birthday suit. Now it’s my turn to glare at Mason and he only offers a wimpy shrug.

  “Give me one reason I shouldn’t walk out on you right now and quit?” I ask.

  Mason smiles, knowing me too well. “Because this is your audience,” he motions to the crowd. “And I also have your brother on speed dial.”

  I shake my head at him for pulling the Ned card. But he does have a point when it comes to the crowd. I turn to my audience and give them my best sideways smile, grabbing half a lime and squeezing it. Lime juice sprays all over my chest and abs like this is some ridiculous tropical beer commercial, to which they go absolutely wild. Mason has a point. He may be crude, but when I want to be, I’m crude too. And this gig just works.

  “Well, we’ll just have to see,” I say, brushing off my naked shoulders like I might just walk out on him anyway. “Maybe I look amazing in purple eggplants.”

  I raise my arms and show off my biceps, to which the girls whistle and scream. “Is this backroom full of inappropriate shirts, this way?” I do the classic “the beach is this way” pose and the room howls again. I look back at Mason and he’s laughing, happy I’m playing it up for the crowd.

  Only, over his shoulder I see a flash of red hair.

  Temptress red.

  Dragoness red.

  A sharp chill runs down my spine and I do a double take. There’s no fucking way she’s here, because you never see a girl like Wisconsin again, not after the night we had. And you definitely don’t see her at a complete dive like the Gin n’ Lava. A girl like Wisconsin doesn’t frequent places with cheesy puff-fish décor and harpoons. Sure, she needed one night at The Orchid to dance out her frustrations, but a girl like Wisconsin is classy, high end. She knows her way around whiskey … and men. She’s the kind of girl who lives on the other end of the world. Is on the other end of the world. By now she’s flown back to whatever mainland state she comes from. Wisconsin doesn’t slum it down here in the cheeky-tiki-torch streets. Oh no, that woman frequents fancy restaurants and expensive high rises.

  I tilt my head and step to the side to get a better look, to convince myself it’s all in my imagination. Because the last thing I want is my fantasy girl to walk in and see me acting like a clown and flexing my muscles to an ogling crowd like I’m Thunder from Down Under’s latest employee.

  But even in the misty patchwork of light, I wouldn’t forget that color: dragon red and burning. I do a triple take, but it’s just muscle memory at this point—a stall—because it is her. There’s no way it isn’t. I wouldn’t forget that face, that mouth, that sultry stare. Hell, I memorized the shift and the weight of her body on top of me, the perfect shape of her tits rocking. The presence of her is immediate, even across the room with a sea of people between us, my pants are tightening.

  Only—

  The fact that she’s here isn’t the craziest part. The fact that my body wants to swing over this bar cowboy-style and take Mason up on that ten-minute break isn’t the only thing that makes my pulse race.

  It’s the fact that she’s not alone.

  Wisconsin just walked into my bar with her hands clutching the elbow of someone else.

  She’s with some good-looking, upright chap with glasses, looking way too fancy for the Gin n’ Lava, and by the look on his face, he’d like to turn right around and head back out the door. Wisconsin’s all dolled up too. She isn’t wearing that simple jeans and a tank number that fell onto my floor, no, she’s slipped into a sultry lace dress that shows off all her perfect curves. They’re the perfect couple, magazine ready, on their way to the opera or some such bullshit. Nothing about them says “I need a tangy tiki drink before we head back to our expensive hotel to fu—"

  I grab a rag from my station and wipe the lime juice from my chest, looking away from them, because there’s only two ways I can place this. One, he’s her husband or boyfriend or her fiancé, and last night was some crazy night before she ties the knot in paradise. Or, he’s nobody to her, like I was nobody, and she’s playing some other role for some other prick, and later tonight she’ll swing him down on the floor and dominate him just like she did me.

  Either way, it doesn’t matter.

  Those are the rules of a one-night stand. One night. Period.

  “Mason,” I call out, getting his attention, tossing my rag at him. “I’m going to take that ten.”

  “But we’re slammed!” he yells back at me, like I’m a moody chick he can’t wrap his brain around. I shrug, catching that red hair in my peripheral vision and not wanting to look at her. Frankly, I want to slip out of here for a minute in hopes that she and her glasses-punk will scram.

  “Ten,” I say, heading for the back room, gripping his stupid phallic shirt and wondering if she saw that whole exchange. Wondering why it matters when it doesn’t. Wondering why I’m being a complete pussy and walking away.

  9

  Arie

  The Gin n’ Lava is so packed, it feels like we’re in a mosh-pit of sloshing pineapple bits and tequila. It’s everything Flambé is not. It’s a cheesy, kitsch paradise that tastes like licking an old ash tray when you breathe. Sure, it’s filled with tourists, but not the kind I want to attract. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to see someone wearing one of those curly-straw beer hats.

  “Simon, this is a big mistake,” I say, trying to elbow my way to the bar where a good-looking guy is flipping bottles of alcohol. “I mean, who does that guy think he is? Tom Cruise in Cocktail?”

  “That film is super dated,” Simon agrees with a nod, sizing up the cheesy juggling act.

  “Precisely my point. We aren’t Cirque de Alcohol. The last thing we need is someone flipping bottles like those contortionist acrobats who can dislocate their elbows.”

  “Though you have to admit,” Simon says, giving me a cross look. “You are a fan of the pyrotechnics. And last time I checked, pyrotechnics are decidedly circus-y in their inspirational lineage.”

  “Maybe I’m inspired by dragon fire, or luaus, or seances. Fire can come from all sorts of places.”

  “Which all still sound rather kitschy in origin.”

  I roll my eyes at Simon. “You say that to me next time I’m Flambé-ing someone into a chocolate orgy of sensational bliss. See if you bring up juggling acts then.”

  “A flame swallower could be fun,” Simon teases, prickling my feathers on purpose, just to watch me bristle.

  “Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” I ask, pushing past him to make my way to the bar.

  “You’re always a better negotiator when the iron’s hot,” Simon wiggles his eyebrows as if that’s my secret sauce.

  “That tactic didn’t work out the way I thought it would with Hamblin,” I gripe, and Simon shrugs.

  “Au contraire, Hamblin is one-hundred percent in.”

  “Only with this prick on the menu,” I point to the bartender.

  “A tiny consolation,” Simon shrugs like it’s nothing, and I shake my head.

  “You forget, I’m still not convinced it’s worthwhile. And you already decided to get into this partnership bed with me. Don’t forget that.”

  “Funny,” Simon looks at me with a glittering tease in his eyes. “I would have taken you for a threesome girl. Or at least open to try it.”

  “Oh, I have my wild side.” I flash him my wickedest grin. “But when I like to play with fire, I like to be in control.”

  “Compromise, my sweet,” Simon sasses back. “Plus, letting loose is good for your heart, your skin, your complexion, and that goddamn overthinking brain of yours. Which I swear you can’t seem to toss off unless some handsome lad’s got you bent over a barrel.”

  “A barrel
?” I snap him a look. “Is that what you think I’m into?”

  “I don’t care what you’re into. Go ahead and spend your midnight hours chasing weirdos dressed up in cat suits or strap on the leather and crack a whip. But please, bring back that vixen I saw this morning with the cheery glow who was happy to take on the world, and—dare I say it—not gouge out the eyes of everyone she meets.”

  “Yeah, well, last night was a one-night thing.”

  “So, make it your every-night thing,” Simon sasses. “And remember that I’m always looking out for you. Or have you forgotten I’ve always got your best interests at heart?”

  All the playful banter falls and Simon stares at me seriously, he means that last bit. A part of him looks a little hurt (and definitely a little annoyed) that I can’t seem to back off and let him take the reins with this.

  “Fine,” I say with too much sarcasm to be truly convincing, but Simon isn’t one to pass up even the lamest of overtures. He nods briskly, pushing his glasses back up his nose, before waving down the bartender.

  The man who was flipping bottles comes up to us and I give him the once over. He’s not bad looking, but he also doesn’t strike me as the wet-your-panties-with-a-smile ladies’ man that Hamblin had promised. In fact, he’s a little spindly, with straining muscles that hint at an addiction to steroids. My only guess is that he’s one of those pheromone-stacked guys who’s so damn charming, you find yourself randy and overwhelmed by some biological undercurrent that you just don’t understand, but you still want to fuck him even though he’s not that hot. And maybe the fact that he seems attainable makes it even more erotic. That has to be it—or his drinks are out of this world—which I’m going to have to taste to believe. Cause frankly, I’m not buying either.

  “Are you Connor?” Simon asks, and the man rolls his eyes at the suggestion.

  “I wish,” The bartender says sarcastically. “That guy’s got every broad this side of Tuesday clamoring for his goods. I’m Mason,” he clarifies, looking Simon over. “And clearly even the gay ones want to play around with Connor’s impressive package.”