by Elle Berlin
“Esme,” Arie says, squeezing her sister’s side and making her blush. “Clearly from behind, we look a lot alike.” Arie gives me a salacious look that says she saw exactly what I did to her sister. Her twin, Esme, on the other hand is turning fluorescent with embarrassment.
“Sorry,” I mumble, catching her eye, but she just blushes deeper.
“Esme doesn’t mind,” Arie says quickly. “She’s already jealous of our late-night Wisconsin escapades. She’s my twin after all. I tell her everything.”
Esme looks like she wants to die, shielding her face with her hands.
“So, was this all a practical joke to get me to harass your sister?” I ask pointedly, narrowing my eyes at Arie, who seems to think this is all a grand lark, despite her sister’s purple complexion.
“No,” Arie says defensively. “You’re early.”
“You said dawn,” I toss back.
“The sun hasn’t even hit the horizon,” Arie points out, the palm trees above us barely visible.
“I’m sorry,” I say, annoyed. “I didn’t realize we were being technical about the precise moment in which celestial bodies roll over other celestial bodies, especially before I’ve had my coffee in the morning. Was there a point to you telling me to come out here? Or did you want me to come and ogle you and your twin sister as you practice downward dog?”
“I like him,” Esme states, the previous color draining from her face as she turns to her sister with a wry smile.
“Yes, actually,” Arie says to me, her hands on her hips, before she turns to her sister. “Sorry, Esme, Prince I-Need-All-the-Attention here clearly can’t buy a coffee in the cafeteria and wait ten minutes.”
“Note to self,” I say sarcastically. “When Arie says dawn, she means show up to your regular shift at three in the afternoon.” I roll my eyes, and Esme laughs.
“Oh, I’m so excited you hired him at Flambé,” Esme says, smiling behind her giggle. The girl may look like Arie, but she’s definitely the fluffy bunnies and unicorns version. “Arie needs someone who can dish it back and twice as fast,” she says to me.
“Okay,” Arie jumps in, grabbing my elbow and turning us toward the resort. “Yoga’s over. I’ll call you later, Esme.” Arie’s grip on my arm is angry and I can’t help but smile at her defiance, even this early in the morning.
“Look, if you needed a date for breakfast you could’ve invited me to spend the night,” I say as she yanks me around the side of the Atlantis resort toward a service entrance. “There are a few things I’m particularly good at doing in the morning … without coffee.”
“I don’t do breakfast,” Arie snips. “Ever.”
“You mean you don’t do sleepover ‘breakfast,’ or you don’t partake in the normal consumption of breakfast food in the early hours of the morning like a regular human? You know, eggs and bacon, or whatever gourmet yogurt and kimchi thing you might whip up?”
“It’s none of your business!” She glares at me, before stopping in front of a row of sleek, modern-gothic chairs that are lined next to the service elevator.
“So, we’re talking the sleepover part then. Cause I’m pretty sure you’ve made your fair share of truffle eggs and fancy blood orange mimosas, which probably light on fire for that matter. Plus, you definitely know how to handle the sausage.”
“Is everything sex with you, Connor!?” Arie snaps, looking at me hotly, one of her hands clutching violently to the rung of the nearest chair like she wants to strangle it.
“Didn’t I mention I haven’t had coffee yet today?” I ask obnoxiously. “So no, in addition to sex, I also like to talk about breakfast.” She smirks at me annoyed. “You’d better start explaining, Wisconsin. If this isn’t a breakfast date or a fuck-me-in-the-sand booty call, then what the hell is it?”
Arie frowns and points at the chairs.
“I’m not into garage sales either,” I quip, but she points up to the rooftop of the building where Flambé is hidden in darkness. “You want me to fly these up to the roof like Superman?” I sass, trying to interpret her lack of directions.
“Elevator’s broken,” she says dryly, pulling open the service door next to her. “And we’re not allowed to use the elevators in the main lobby because it’s for the guests only. So, if you can fly these chairs up to the rooftop, fantastic. Otherwise …” She points into a stairwell.
“Gothic-chic doesn’t deliver? No long-haired, emo vampires to hike these up all thirty-two floors?” I ask, finally seeing what she’s up to.
“Oh, no. Vampires are afraid of wooden chairs,” Arie shoots back with a mocking-tone, running her hand along the back of one of the gaudy pieces of furniture. “One splinter to the heart and poof—glitter and stardust. But I told them not to worry about it, since I just hired my own bit a brawn who’s perfect for the job.” She squeezes my arm condescendingly. “What else am I supposed to do with a big, strong man like you!”
“Vampires can’t handle wood?” I toss back. “But you, you’re pretty good at it, huh?” Arie rolls her eyes, making me smile. “So, do you want me to take my shirt off while I do it?” I ask. “Big, strong man like me? Or would you be kind enough to feed me a little breakfast first, so I don’t pass out? You can have the sausage and I’ll have the—”
“Connor,” she snips, squeezing my arm again and covering her annoyance at my cheap jokes with a broad smile, “just move the chairs, thanks.”
I pick up the first one, and damn, they’re heavy, made out of solid wood. “Are these for climbing up on so you can put the glassware away? A little sturdier than that stool yesterday? Are you going to put on something short and designer after you’re done with yoga?”
Arie looks at me for a long beat before a wicked smile curls over her mouth. “When you’re done with these, you can do the patio furniture.” She points to another set of boxes that are lined up along the side of the building.
“And the elevator just broke?” I ask, realizing this is going to take all day.
“I guess so,” Arie shrugs, her tone less than innocent. “Elevators can be so finicky. Fast and hot one minute, ready to go … then out of nowhere, a screw is lost and it’s broken down for the whole week.”
“Of course,” I say, knowing she did this on purpose. “And you can’t wait till the damn elevator is repaired, huh? This all has to be moved upstairs right now? Crack of dawn, huh?”
“Oh yes!” Arie blinks at me innocently. “I mean, look at this stuff. It’s gorgeous. What if it rains?”
I look up at the sky. A hint of pink has started to inch up the horizon, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky.
“You wouldn’t want any of this to get ruined, would you?” Arie asks, and I shake my head at her.
“No, of course not.” I pick up the heavy chair and haul it up over my shoulder. “Clearly you’ve got a thing for big, thick wood … en furniture. I won’t let a single splinter get wet.” I give her a mock-smile. “I wouldn’t dream of letting anything of yours get wet, sweetheart. After all, I know how angry and frustrated and pushy and aggressive you can get when things are … wet.”
I push past her and start up the stairs, knowing that was childish. Sure, it’s not smart to run my hand the wrong way across the scales of a dragon, but this day is going to suck. If I’m stuck hauling furniture all day, then she sure as hell is going to have to watch me do it. And I’m going to do everything in my power to get her hot and bothered as I sweat and grunt and heave every last piece of this furniture up to her penthouse restaurant. Arie Noel, if you think you can break me with a little manual labor, then you didn’t pay attention when I spread you on all fours and pounded you into tomorrow. When I play, I play hard.
24
Arie
Through the window in the kitchen, I can see Connor placing the last of the patio furniture on the side deck that overlooks the bay. He’s shirtless and sweating in the afternoon sun like an oiled-up swimsuit model. If that wasn’t enough, he keeps stopping to guzzle a bottle of
water, drinking half and then using the rest to drench himself so his skin is soaked and his jeans are damp. It’s completely childish, even though he has been hauling furniture up those stairs all day without a single complaint.
Right now, two of my new waitresses are on a break from training and they’ve both gone outside to talk to Connor. It’s a preview of what every night at Flambé is going to be like: Connor with his harem of gorgeous women batting their eyelashes at him, heads tilted, lips pouty and flirting, each deliberately placing their hands on his arms as they laugh at whatever trite thing he’s saying to them.
“That man is going to make us a ton of money!” Simon says, startling me, having sneaked up when I wasn’t paying attention, the two of us peering out the window side by side.
“Please!” I practically hiss, poking the slab of meat I have sautéing in a pan of garlic butter. “Promise me you’ll make him wear a shirt, because this shirtless charade is getting old quickly!”
“I don’t know,” Simon says, leaning against the counter and giving me a sideways glance. “The ladies can’t seem to get enough of him when they get to see all that skin.”
“We are not a strip club!” I flip the steak over and press into the tender meat, releasing a spray of juices that sputter and sizzle. “And those are our waitresses! Need I remind you that they’re going to be carrying around flaming cocktails. I can’t have them distracted by all that—”
“Fire,” Simon interrupts.
“—all that inappropriate skin and catching my restaurant—” I continue, caught up in my ranting.
“Fire, Aire!”
“Exactly!”
“No!” Simon rushes toward me. “You’re on—”
Heat sears my abdomen and I look down to see my shirt is in flames!
“Oh shit!”
I stumble back, patting down my front frantically when a flare of heat roars up next to me. Oil from the steak catches and ignites. Suddenly, Simon’s pushing me aside as he shoots white foam out of a fire extinguisher that I didn’t even see him grab. The blossom of yellow flames cowers under Simon’s spray as I manage to extinguish the embers that char my flimsy shirt into rags.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I hiss, it all happening so quickly—grease, flames, heat searing my front. I look down to my bare stomach under the ash of my shirt and it’s thrashed with a nasty red mark to the right of my belly button—which hurts like a motherfucker I might add. “Okay! I’m sending him home for the day!”
My abdomen throbs as I stomp out the kitchen, ignoring whatever Simon is saying behind me. I’m not in the mood.
Outside, the humid air on the patio slicks across my navel, making the burn ache with a new strip of pain, the brine in the air the equivalent to throwing salt in the wound. I grit my teeth as I swing around the side of the rooftop to confront the giggling group.
“Ladies,” I snap, motioning with a flash of my hand for them to get back into the restaurant—right now. “I need a moment with Mr. Voss, thank you.”
The girls look up quickly and blushes race across their cheeks, but my glare is enough to send them hurrying past me toward the restaurant’s main entrance. Connor gives me a knowing smile as if he expected this grand Arie-entrance, before dropping his hands to his hips (which are mostly naked I might add, with those pants slung so low, he’s showing off the one-way route to the south pole).
“I’m impressed,” he quips. “You actually know my last name.”
“You need to stop flirting with the waitstaff and do your job!” I snap, which only makes his cheekbones lift in amusement as he makes a show of wiping the sweat from his brow—his hair soaked, his body soaked—that ruddy tang of physical exertion wafting off of him.
“I thought that was my job,” he tosses back. “Keep the ladies smiling, right?”
“Patrons!” I hiss. “Not the waitresses.”
“Maybe I need practice.”
“Ha, ha,” I sneer, only my stomach sears with pain and I wince sharply, turning away from him to hide my grimace. Suddenly, Connor is next to me, looking down at my charred front.
“Is that a burn?” he asks, concerned. “What did—?”
“It’s nothing!” I bluster, pushing him and his pestering away. “I’ve burnt myself a thousand times before, and I’ll burn myself a hundred times mor—”
“That isn’t nothing!” Concern rakes across his face and I move to say something, but Connor grabs my hand and pulls me toward the back entrance of the restaurant. “We need to get something on that.”
“I’m fine!” I hiss. “A little ice and I’ll be right as—”
But we’re moving too quickly and he isn’t listening. The bright sun and humidity of the patio extinguishes as he drags me in through the narrow back entrance, dousing us in darkness. I’m momentarily blinded, trusting the rush and pull of his guidance, his hands on my shoulders, my hips, moving me through the corridor, swinging open one of the bathroom doors and pushing me inside the tiny chamber.
“Wait here!” he snaps, walking away and leaving me stunned by his intensity.
I take a breath, trying to use the moment to find some stillness after Connor’s game of rush and pull. I look at myself in the opulent, octagon-shaped mirror and feel small and claustrophobic, despite the fact that everything in this tiny, one-person room is meant to make you feel beautiful. Decadent marble countertops are framed by gold filigree trim and peacock-blue paint that turns everything a jewel tone. It’s like being inside a velvet jewelry box where every metallic nob and spout is meant to glitter and shine. A moment later, Connor returns, shutting the painted door behind him and flipping on the light. A baroque chandelier ignites above us, donned with tall, fake candles that shower the room in an elegant flickering. Yes, I spared no expense. Even the bathrooms are sexy.
Connor doesn’t seem to notice, dropping a first aid kit, towel, and a bag of ice on the marble vanity next to us. He pushes me back against the counter and lifts what remains of my shirt to expose the red welts that puff my skin.
“Connor, really I’m fi—!” Only he leans down and blows across the red tenderness of the burn and my eyes prick with water, forcing my hand to slap against the flesh of his shoulder. “Jesus!” I hiss, my nails digging in with the pain. “Are you doing that on purpose to piss me off?!”
“Sorry,” he says, taking a bag of ice and wrapping it with the towel. “I needed to see how sensitive it is.”
“Um, it’s really freaking sensitive, I’d say!” But my anger doesn’t faze him and he’s already below me on his knees, folding the towel of ice carefully.
“We need to cool it down,” he instructs, before pressing the towel against my burn and forcing me to clip out a string of rather unladylike curses. My nails burrow deeper into his sweaty shoulder as he kneels on the floor beneath me. He sandwiches me with his hands, one at my back holding me steady while the other presses ice into my abdomen.
It takes several seconds of my eyes watering and the pain blistering before I can feel the ice chill seep into my skin and relax my furiousness. Annoyingly, the ice feels good after the initial pressure and sting, the chill spreading over my stomach where the burn is.
“Give it a minute,” he says calmly. “Then I’ll dress it.”
I take several deep breaths as he holds the compact in place, my lungs wavering more than I want them to be. My instinct is to say something nasty, but Connor isn’t being an asshole right now; he’s surprisingly caring. I shake my head at him, dumbfounded, trying to work through the clash of emotions inside me.
“Where—” I start, catching the wobble in my breath and starting again more confidently. “Where did you learn to dress burns?” I ask, trying to ignore the perfect way his hand covers my stomach and how his fingers brush at the edge of the towel against my unburnt skin.
He shrugs, not answering. “How is it you don’t know how to dress a burn?”
I do actually, but I hold my tongue.
“Flambé is the name of the re
staurant,” Connor continues. “Isn’t this the sort of training that should be mandatory?”
“Maybe,” I agree, realizing that’s probably a good idea. When you play with fire, you get burned. Connor lifts the ice from my stomach and I hiss, tilting my head back and gritting my teeth at the burn’s sensitivity. I stare up into the gold arms of the chandelier, the crystal candle flutes shimmering as water leaks out the side of my eyes. “You still didn’t answer my question, Connor. Were you a paramedic in a past life?”
“Something like that.” He shrugs, pulling out a gauze pad and starting to unwrap it. I watch him carefully, not sure what he means by that.
“Seriously,” I push. “How do you know this much about burns?”
He focuses on my stomach, layering the gauze against my burn, and then quietly, almost like an aside, he says, “I had a client once who was suing over a burn injury. I learned far more about burns than I ever needed to know.”
I frown, watching his fingers delicately tape the gauze into place. “A client? Suing? What are you talking about?”
He looks at me for the barest second before shrugging it off with a smile. “Like you said, a past life, one I don’t fit anymore. One where it would make sense for me to own that fancy apartment I took you to, where you were more than happy to pretend I was whoever you wanted me to be.”
I’m silent, feeling the weight in that comment and thinking about his chic oceanside apartment, the expensive whiskey, the designer furniture. Connor finishes taping the bandage and stands up. Suddenly, he’s towering over me, impressive and glistening with sweat. The gold chandelier above highlights all of him, but somehow I want more than that. I want to know where the sadness in that comment comes from.
“It would be smart,” Connor says, “to give everyone burn training. To protect yourself and the business. I’ll talk to Simon about it.”
“You’ll talk to Simon about …” My voice trails off as I stare at him puzzled. “Did you practice law? Were you a lawyer before working at the Gin n’ Lava?” I shake my head, knowing that doesn’t make sense. Lawyers don’t throw away their pension funds to hawk cheap tiki drinks to tourists. That just doesn’t happen.