by Elle Berlin
“No,” I say hotly. “Remember, I’m a secret agent.” That was probably a little too far, but Connor smiles and Simon leans in, completely amused by this game of tête-à-tête we’re playing. “Your boss,” I repeat. “Told me that if I dare, I ought to ask for something off the menu.”
Connor stares me down as if he wants to read some secret on the other side of my mind. He holds my gaze so long, I snap my fingers in front of his face to break his trance.
“Helloooo? The secret off-menu miracle drink? Can I have—”
“It’s not a question of if you can have it,” Connor purrs. “The question is, can you handle it? And I’m …” For the second time, his eyes flick up and down my front, turning every inch of my skin into bubbling lava. “… still deciding.”
I level my gaze, shooting the same amount of heat back at him. He knows perfectly well I can handle anything he throws at me. I have handled him and then some, and I’m pretty sure he loved every freaking minute of it. I raise my eyebrows, daring him to deny it, and a slow smile creeps across his face. A chill runs up my neck, like when you’ve been played, and I realize he wanted me to glare at him like that. He wanted to see the dominating redhead unfurl her wings and challenge him to defy her. And worse, he winks like he expects me to crawl across the bar and remind him of how dominating I can be.
I open my mouth to put him in his place, but— “Hold that thought!” he cuts me off. “And your breath.” He smiles like he’s caught a great white shark. “You’ll need your breath, Arie. When you let me get ahold of you, you’ll need to hold on tight.” Connor turns to Simon quickly, not letting me get a word in edgewise. “You want something off menu too, or—”
“Nope, the Samoan Typhoon, please,” Simon says without a beat. “Yup, I’ll take the pesky, wee-little, tropical storm. You save all the big … big …” He motions with his hand, rotating it in a circle from the wrist, not sure how to end his thought. Connor winks, like he knows exactly what Simon’s saying.
“You’ve never seen anyone tame your dragon before, have you?” Connor says to Simon, nodding to me, and I practically shoot daggers at him. I can’t believe he even said that. Simon turns to me with his eyebrows high and his face a peakish white color.
“No, I have not,” Simon says honestly. “You, my friend—” he points at Connor “—are a rare find.”
In that moment, I see the twinkle in Simon’s eyes. He hasn’t even had one of Connor’s drinks yet, but he’s already made up his mind. He’s convinced. Hamblin isn’t going to need to twist his arm. Simon’s ready to make an offer and get Connor to sign on the dotted line.
“Simon!” I hiss, shaking my head, but my business partner is just as amused as Connor by my irritation. “No. No way! Not happening.” I snap at him. “We haven’t—!”
But Simon puts his hand up, silencing me, then turns to Connor. “You’re going to need to make those drinks, and fast. And please, in the name of all that is holy, make sure that whatever you make this girl, it brings her to her knees with the wonders of your creation.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the begging type,” Connor says with a tease, his tone announcing that he’ll be more than happy to oblige Simon. “But let’s see what tricks I’ve got up my sleeve.” Then he looks down at his chest before smiling broadly at me, making the point that he’s half-naked and of course he doesn’t have any sleeves on.
“You think you’re so amusing,” I snap at him, which only makes him puff out his chest more. “You’re ridiculous with this whole Magic Mike strip tease.” I wave my hand at him and he grabs it, pulling me forward as he steps up and leans across the bar. Suddenly, his mouth is at my ear, his cheek against mine, the smell of his skin clouding my brain.
“This game is really easy, Wisconsin,” he breathes into my ear, his voice hot and raspy and quiet enough that Simon can’t hear him. “You know my name, where I work, and where I live. Either you’re a stalker or an actual secret agent. But honestly, if you just wanted to ride my cock again, all you had to do was ask. So, I’ll spare you the embarrassment in front of your friend. I get off at two-thirty. But trust me, this time, I’m the one who’s going to be holding you by the reins of your hair and taking you from behind.”
He lets go of me and jets back to his side of the bar and I hope he doesn’t hear me whimper. I’m so pissed off, I’m practically puffing smoke, but I’m mostly angry at the fact that I’m completely turned on. My stupid mind is already dancing with the image of me on all fours, looking out his gorgeous picture window at his apartment, my mouth open and gaping at the glittering lights of Waikiki. I bite my lip, trying not to imagine his hands fisting my hair as his hips slap against my ass, his cock pounding me hard.
“I, I, don’t—” But I don’t know what to say. My whole body is aching, just like when we were dancing last night and I actually considered screwing him somewhere seedy and public. I turn away from Connor because I need air and lean my back against the bar, avoiding his eyes and Simon’s.
“He’s perfect,” Simon says beside me, but his voice is like a cloud caught in the stupid fishnets hanging from the ceiling.
“This won’t work,” I say. “Trust me Simon, he’s…”
“Charming?” Simon throws back, which is code for ‘Connor knows how to best me.’
“Yeah, if you’re into Magic Mike serving you cheap tequila mixings,” I snap, finally turning to look at my business partner.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure that’s not what you were into,” he says with a wide smile. Only Simon has no idea. He thinks this is all some silly flirtation that Connor will use on all our patrons. He doesn’t realize that if I have to work with Connor every day, and night, I’m going to turn into Mount Vesuvius times ten.
“Look Arie,” Simon starts in again, dropping his impressed-by-Connor’s-dragon-tamer game and talking business again. “All Connor has to know is the measurements of your drinks. He needs to make a decent cocktail and be a pretty face, no creative input.”
“He’s a pretty face that’s all sass and innuendo!”
“Exactly,” Simon concedes, rising his eyebrows like that’s the point. “He saw through your unshakable exterior.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Simon. Just cause some cocky guy can ruffle my feathers doesn’t mean—”
“On the contrary, it means exactly that. If he can get to you, he can get to anyone. And that’s exactly what Hamblin was talking about. We need the male version of Arie.”
“There is no male version of Arie,” I snap back.
“I like him,” Simon says flatly. “I really like him.”
“Of course you do.” I shake my head. “You like him because he talks back.”
Simon raises his arms like this is a no-brainer. “Which, let’s face it, he’d have to be able to do.” Simon folds his arms and starts to get that determined look in his eyes. “No one could have the job we’re talking about and cower to your … delightful personality.”
“Now you’re starting to piss me off.”
“Because you know I’m right.” Simon looks back at Connor and I sneak a glance over my shoulder to see him adding the finishing touches to our drinks. “He’d be perfect.”
“If perfect is a walking shirtless disaster as the co-face of our company. What happens when he makes our reputation look trashy?”
“That’s what I have you for,” Simon smiles. “To whip him into shape. Show him how high-class seduction is done.”
“You think that brute of a man is going to listen to me? Did you forget it took him twenty minutes to come back from his break?”
“And about five minutes to show you he won’t back down.”
“Exactly!”
Simon laughs. “Are you suggesting that the great and wonderful Arie can’t tame a man? Absolute blasphemy!” He shakes his head, way too amused by all of this. “Snap out of it, girl. I saw that glow on your face this morning. After eight-months, you go out for one night and come back
transformed. I’m certain you can conquer anything.”
I swallow hard. If Simon only knew the irony of that comment. In fact, I consider telling him exactly who I tamed last night and why that makes this business proposition ridiculous. But before I have a chance, I hear two drinks clank down on the counter behind us.
Two beautiful cocktails glitter on the bar. Simon’s typhoon is a cosmic swirl of colors in a deep bowl glass and mine is an elegant gypsy, black in a chic martini flute. It’s like he knew I’d be pissed if he served me a drink in some tiki-themed piece of trash.
“No tiki goblet?” I sass, making a point of it, and Connor shrugs.
“You always have to read your audience,” he says softly, and I see Simon turn in my peripheral vision to look at me like Connor was a gift sent to us from heaven. Connor pushes the drink closer to me, the midnight liqueur inside shimmering like a black potion. “Your dress seems more 007 dangerous than a kitschy Gin n’ Lava vice,” he says smoothly. “Shaken not stirred, right?”
Simon is once again laughing, cupping his storm-bowl of tropical colors and loving every second of this. I pick up the martini glass and my ruby fingernails shine in contrast to the silken drink. I hate the fact that the glimmering liquid looks mysterious and elegant and is exactly the kind of cocktail I’d serve at Flambé. I move it closer to my mouth to see there are flecks of gold floating on the surface.
“Goldschläger?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. “Cinnamon schnapps? Isn’t that a little sweet and syrupy?”
“Sometimes you think you’re getting one thing, but then it blows your mind and you realize it’s not what you expected. It’s a hundred times better.” His eyes never leave me and my neck heats. I love the way Goldschläger looks in a drink, sparkling with a hint of decadence, but I never use it because it’s a sugar bomb.
“I don’t like sweet,” I warn him, to which he nods obnoxiously.
“Trust me,” he says. “I’m well aware that the last thing you want is fluffy marshmallows and cotton candy.”
I smell the drink and a mix of blackberry and licorice floats on the air. I tilt the glass to see anise stars floating under the gold flecks, drowned in violet-black bath.
“What do you call this?” I ask, and he shrugs again, making all those muscles in his shoulders move and glisten.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he says softly. “I’m waiting to see your reaction.”
“Have you ever made this before?”
“No,” he says flatly. “Special drink, special girl.”
“What if it’s disgusting?”
“Then I’ll make you something else.”
“You think I’d bother to let you? You either impress me first or you go home.”
He smiles, the glitter in his eyes making me well aware that he’s not really worried about the drink, he’s already impressed me exactly where it counts. I almost roll my eyes, but I decide to take the plunge.
I tilt the drink back, allowing the liqueur to glaze my lips and slide over my tongue. It opens with a cinnamon sweetness, but then quickly dissolves into a hot whiskey body. It’s a sharp robust taste I immediately recognize from last night, when his mouth was against mine. My core thrums and a soft moan I can’t control slips out of me. My eyes flick up to Connor as the after-notes of blackberry licorice dance through the whiskey. A smug look colors his face and I know he heard that moan and wants to own all that comes after it. I want to tell him the whiskey was a cheap trick to make me think about skin and sex, which it was, except the mix is excellent. And now I’m thinking about his talents in the bedroom and behind the bar, which is a dangerous combination.
“It’s good,” I say softly, placing the martini glass back on the counter and licking the remaining purple and gold from my lips. Licorice and whiskey warm my mouth and it takes all my effort to stand there quietly, without gushing to Simon about how fucking good this drink is. I push the glass toward Simon, who hasn’t tasted his Typhoon yet, my gaze still locked on Connor, who doesn’t seem fully convinced by my reaction.
“I can’t tell if that was a glowing review, or …” Connor pauses, waiting to see if I’ll give him more. I throw the heat of my gaze right through him. “Or …” he hesitates at the whip of my glare “… maybe that’s code for ‘please accidentally knock this thing on the floor.’”
Simon plucks up the drink before I have a chance to take Connor’s suggestion and toss it. Simon takes a quick sip and the way his eyes light up before taking a second, sinks my resolution. Simon isn’t nearly as polite as me in the moaning department, because the series of noises that come from him are practically unruly. To add insult to injury, Simon doesn’t have the subconscious trigger of knowing how that whiskey tastes on Connor’s skin. Which means the drink is really fucking good.
“Damn!” Simon locks eyes with me and I know this is already over because he knows the only person who’s taste I respect more than my own is his.
“Shit,” I swear. “Goddamn, double shit!”
Connor’s eyebrows shoot up at the hostility in my voice. “Um … I almost think that’s a good thing.” He looks to Simon to double check and my business partner is nodding.
“Let’s just say,” Simon begins. “There’s only one person Arie thinks should be able to make a cocktail this good, and it’s her. So … I’m pretty sure you just bested her twice in one evening.”
Connor’s eyes cut to me curiously. “You’re a bartender?”
“Sort of,” I mumble.
“No, she’s a chef,” Simon says, starting to list off my credentials like I have a Ph.D. in such things, which of course I don’t because no such doctorate exists. “Restauranteur, mixologist, sommelier. She’s the equivalent of a Nobel-prize winning chemist, just of the food scene.”
“Are you a famous chef?” Connor asks, wide-eyed and I shake my head because Simon is blowing this out of proportion.
“Not yet!” Simon clarifies. “But give this girl two years and there won’t be a famous person who visits Waikiki and doesn’t clamor to get on her guest list.”
“Seriously?” Connor looks at me, impressed. “What’s the name of your restaurant?”
“Great question,” Simon says. “Because there’s a little something we want to ask you.”
“Simon!” I say sharply, and he adjusts the glasses on his nose and looks at me directly, that stern businessman look on his face. He pushes the martini glass with the dark liquor toward me.
“Give me one reason not to do this,” he says frankly, and I frown, the tang of blackberry still stinging my throat. I have a hundred good reasons that I can’t—won’t—say out loud. I look from the drink to Connor, knowing that I’m the quintessential rock in a hard place at this exact moment. Connor eyes me, not sure what’s going on.
“Fine,” I say sharply, not touching the glass again because I don’t want to taste the whiskey or be reminded of both of his talents. “You do the business side, right?” I say to Simon. “So, it’s your decision.”
I reach over and take a gulp of the tropical fruit typhoon thing that Simon ordered, needing to wash the hot taste of whiskey out of my mouth. Only, I cringe at how good that one is too. I glare at Connor, because he’s supposed to be a dumb bartender that’s all abs and no talent. He’s not supposed to know how to make a syrupy sugar storm taste tangy and light.
“That one too?” Simon says, genuinely surprised, reaching for the typhoon and taking a sip.
“What exactly is happening right now?” Connor asks, his sexy game of punk-you polo wearing off. “Are you two playing some sort of—”
“Nope,” I say, pulling some cash out of my purse and putting it on the bar to pay for the drinks. I look at Simon instead of Connor as he reacts to the typhoon and nods at its surprising delectability. I turn back to Connor, whose whole demeanor is guarded now, which still makes him look sexy in his damn shirtless act. “No Connor, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who’s getting punked tonight.” Connor’s eyes narrow at me in
question, wanting me to explain this all to him. Only, I know Simon will for me. I hand Simon the business card with Connor’s name on it, the one that Hamblin gave us. “Call me later and tell me what you decide to do.”
“You’re on board with this?” Simon asks, surprised.
“No,” I state clearly. “But I don’t think I really have a choice, do I? You’re the one who hires and fires. This is your wheelhouse, right?” Simon searches my face and I do my best to show him just how bad an idea I think this will be. “Text me later and tell me what he says.”
“What I say to what?” Connor asks, fully aware we’re talking about him.
I look at him and smile sweetly, if a viper can smile sweetly at all. “I just want to go on the record with both of you—I think this is an absolutely awful idea!”
Connor looks at me hard, confused, not sure what to make of any of this. I don’t answer him. I don’t look at Simon either. Instead, I hook my purse over my shoulder and turn into the crowd. I let all the hot, kitschy tourists and their too-damn-good tiki drinks brush and slosh against my shoulders as I walk toward the exit. Because I can’t be in this place for another damn minute.
12
Connor
It’s three in the morning when I walk into my apartment—strike that, Ned’s fancy apartment—and flop down on the couch, exhausted. Everything in here is his, from the sleek décor to the perfect grey tone of each carefully-placed bookend. The only thing that screams me is the liquor cabinet, and if I’m honest, even half of that is his. It’s like I’ve disappeared from my old life and started this one, but I don’t really know who I am in this place.
I run both my palms over my face, then up through my hair, trying to take in everything that happened this evening. Wisconsin in my bar. Her business partner telling me he has an offer to make me.
“I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he’d said, all Godfather-style after she left. Of course, he started laughing after he said it, making sure to explain that he meant money and not some creepy horse head in my bed like in the movie. He told me to show up at their restaurant tomorrow morning and he’d explain everything.