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

by Elle Berlin

Arie lifts herself up abruptly, taking that hot body and tits with her, the flush in her skin more than enough to keep a skip in my step for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Sometimes I think you gave up being a lawyer because your arguments are crude and lack coherence,” she says hotly, to which I nod.

  “Fair enough,” I concede, pulling the absinthe bottle off the shelf. “Except, you forget that a jury would’ve been able to see just how flustered you are from the way your skin has reacted to me.” I nod to the blush and goosebumps that cover her chest. “Sometimes it’s not the argument that matters, but how you draw out someone’s true nature on the stand.”

  Arie tosses her hair back, as if that’s supposed to hide the fact that her breath has shallowed or that I can see the shape of her hard nipples poking through the tight fabric of that dress. I grab the absinthe spoon and a sugar cube, tossing her another smile.

  “Sixty seconds, did you say?” I clarify the rules, but Arie rolls her eyes and walks away from me. It’s not a problem; it’s more interaction than I’ve had from her all week. And frankly, I’m going to spend the rest of the day thinking about where and how I’d dribble absinthe and sugar on that perfect body of hers so I could give her that gasping licorice dream that this drink supposedly is promising.

  26

  Arie

  Everything is ready for our soft open tonight. We’re one week out from the real thing—our grand opening event—when all the glitz and glamour and influencers in town will be packed into my restaurant for the evening. But tonight, the staff has invited all their friends and relatives to be our guinea pigs. Tonight, we make sure all the kinks are worked out and that everything runs smooth as a gin.

  Simon’s in the front foyer, checking all the hostesses and greeting staff, and I’m in the dining room with all the serving staff lined up for inspection. They look impeccable. The girls wear sexy black dresses and plum lipstick. Their hair is pulled back in sleek updos that remind me of perfectly glazed desserts garnished with sculpted chocolate and orange peels. The men are just as delicious in black-on-black suits that make them look like crushed velvet masterpieces who will emerge from shadowed corners like phantoms with flame-licked beverages. Only the slightest hint of color blushes their blood-red ties, which are dark as pomegranate syrup. They’re the perfect brightness, designed to catch the eye and suggest that the best use for a necktie is to undo it and use it later to tie up one’s lover. Restraint. Anticipation. Everything at Flambé tonight should make the mind dance with images: ribbons on wrists, thick bedposts, blindfolds, feeding time.

  Connor stands at the end of the line, looking pinstriped and delectable, his tie perfect and not a button undone. The fit of the suit Simon bought him is exquisite, making my pulse pound because I know what’s under those elegant pewter threads. He looks like a sexy demon designed by the gods to make my mouth water. First, they dressed him up like a billionaire, then they dipped him in pear-glazed cardamom. When is the feasting time?

  Connor doesn’t give me a smile; instead he holds in his scoundrel’s grin. He watches me wordlessly as I preen and inspect, pretending to fix his necktie before brushing something (nothing) off his broad shoulders. I know this man is dangerous, even more so now that it’s clear he can play sexy aristocrat behind my bar, then turn into the dirty toe-curling rogue who had me shamelessly ready in the back bathroom.

  I step away from him, letting my crimson ringlets swing at my back, above my grey corset dress trimmed in lace and black ribbing. My hair is half up, the front in two pin-up curls that make me feel devilish and powerful, the rest sashaying down my shoulder blades. I don’t know if I’m annoyed at the fact that Connor looks so good, or the fact that once we open this restaurant he’ll be unleashed on the public. Those doors will open and I won’t be able to control how much he flirts behind my bar, or what his smile suggests, or who he pulls into the labyrinth of crushed shadows that line the dining hall. I built Flambé for patrons to be able to hide away for a moment, to tease and unleash and ignite. I built it to be made of pockets and alcoves, and suddenly, I’m jealous of which ones he’ll be in—and with whom.

  Jealous? Oh man, Arie, get a grip!

  I smooth out my dress and tell everyone to make this night perfect, to wake all the senses, and to unleash the sin. My eyes flick to Connor, but only for a fleeting second. I can’t stand in the heat of the way he’s looking at me right now, dressed exactly how I dressed him, smoldering and incinerating.

  I can’t stand in the heat?

  Jesus! What the hell is wrong with me?

  My instinct is to stomp over to him and say something salacious and disarming, just to prove he has no effect over me. Only, it would be childish, and it’s exactly what he wants me to do. Plus, my staff is watching, hanging on my every controlled movement. The last thing I need right now is to fly off the handle. I take a deep breath and fidget with my dress, dismissing everyone to their stations and turning to go meet Simon up front.

  Only, I don’t head for the hostess desk. My chest tightens and I’m turning down the dark hallway that leads to the kitchen instead. A fist clenches deep in my lungs, shortening my breath, then a flutter of nerves unfurls like a giant raven soaring into an open gorge. As much as I want to blame this unsteady feeling on Connor, I can’t. It’s something else entirely. It’s a big ball of discomfort and nausea coiling wildly like serpents in my stomach, their scaly bodies glittering and writhing on top of one another. I take several more breaths—too shallow—and lift my arms, shaking out my hands like a nervous actress about to go on stage.

  Lightheaded. Knocked off balance. Not enough oxygen.

  What the hell is happening?

  I’m fine.

  Really, I’m fine!

  Three more shallow breaths are an anvil on my chest, and it feels like I’m breathing through a sieve. I hear the snap of flames—in the kitchen, a sizzle, a heat, grease popping. I feel it, warmth and flames all over me, tightening my ribs, clenching, wheezing. My hands are buzzing wasps, fluttering blindly in the darkness of the hallway, and ... and … I can’t—I can’t—

  Hands on my waist, turning me, pushing me against the wall—a sturdy, solid wall, despite the frenzy inside me. It’s Connor, grabbing me, turning me, capturing my hummingbirds of hands and pinning them to my sides.

  “Breathe!” he says, but I shake my head and try to push him away. I can’t handle him right now, not as swarms of locusts explode in my skull and waves start swirling and crashing through the darkness of the hallway. Waves that become oceans, waves that spill and tug with black undercurrents of water, yanking me down with slimy kelp and seaweed, dragging me under.

  “Breathe, Arie!” He’s too strong, holding me like bladderwrack and nets and the currents keeping me from clawing my way to the surface.

  “Connor, I—I—”

  The room is spinning and I’m moving again—we’re moving. Salt and freshness invade my lungs, crisp and sharp, scraping away the heavy water slog. I take several breaths of air—it’s salty and humid—but air, and cleaner than the shadow clogged darkness of the restaurant. I take several gulps, globbing it down like I’d been suffocating. Tingling heat skitters over my skin, my mind and body full of bubbles and prickling, first surging then fading.

  “Hey? Arie?”

  Connor is in front of me with stars and darkness and a bouquet of city lights haloing him. He’s blurry and faded, the discs of color pulsing behind him like throbs of fireflies and garden globes and moonlight sparkles.

  I swallow and shake my head, trying to breathe. Connor’s hands are still at my sides, holding my arms down, holding me against the side of the building. I roll my head to the side, looking down the terrace of the rooftop, past the blur of lanterns that are strung over the patio like burning purple suns. A gob of shapes and shadows—people—mingle at the far edge of the building, looking out at the bay and waiting for the restaurant to open. People. Lots of people. My restaurant! My heart squeezes and I hear the ocean a
gain. I hear thunder and darkness and horse hooves pounding.

  “Arie!” Connor turns my face away from the purple-gold lanterns and buzzing shadows wearing cocktail dresses. “You’re having a panic attack right now.” His words register, making sense somehow, but everything in my periphery starts turning deep red. “Arie, hey!” He snaps in front of my face, forcing me to focus. “Right here, look at me. Now breathe. Forget the rest of it, just stay focused right here.”

  “We—we—” I mumble, my head feeling too heavy for my neck. “People are here. We have to—have to be inside—” I swallow harshly and frown at him. “I need to talk to the cooks, and you—” I try to poke at him for emphasis. “You can’t be out here. You have to man the bar.”

  I try to push him off and move toward the door, but he holds me in place—a weight on my chest, my shoulders, my neck—a weight that makes all the buzzing seem less loud and the crispness of the air start to leak in.

  “Shhhhh,” he says softly, a thumb stroking my temple. “Just close your eyes a second and breathe.”

  I don’t want to listen. I want to stalk back inside and start yelling. I want to chuck a pan against the wall. But the weight of him, the pressure of him won’t let me go. In fact, the heaviness seems easier in this moment, easier to give into. My mind says fight, but everything else says let go.

  Everything else says trust and surrender and release control.

  With sandpaper at the back of my eyes, I shut them into darkness. Immediately, the loudness of the sky and the people murmuring and the waves smashing on the shore start to dampen. A blanket of silence is wrapped around my mind and it makes everything smaller. Suddenly, my lungs are stronger and I can suck the brine-soaked air in through my nostrils, and push it out through my mouth. A light rhythm pads against my temple: soft, soothing, calm. It’s Connor’s thumb at the edge of my hairline.

  His body is curled around me, sheltering and protecting. I don’t understand it, but I need it—him, or someone, standing out here and holding me. I need this cocoon of space and time and distance. After what feels like a long time, I open my eyes and the tide inside me starts receding.

  What I see is Connor standing calm and waiting, like he’d stand there all night if he had to.

  “I’m fine,” I say softly, trying to push against him. But again, he doesn’t budge. “Connor, I, I—”

  The weight of him is too much, the weight of all of this is too much, and I stop struggling and pushing. I close my eyes again and breathe, deeper, longer—getting it.

  I’m not fine.

  I’m really not fine.

  I’m terrified. I’m terrified that everything will blow up in my face and none of this will work out. I’m terrified I’m not good enough to really make a go at this restaurant dream and I’ll lose my life savings. Worse, I’ll lose Simon’s life savings and this will all be one great big shit show. What if no one understands what I’m trying to create here? What if they all think it’s overblown and ridiculous, that I’m—

  “Connor,” I practically gasp, trying to find words to fill my lungs. “What if this is all a disaster? What if I can’t do it? What if I made a mistake?”

  “You didn’t,” he says firmly. “You’ve planned everything perfectly.”

  “But what if I missed something? What if everyone hates it? What if—”

  His thumb strokes my cheek and I quiet, the softness of his touch moving over my cheekbone in a hushed rhythm.

  “You’re a force of nature, Arie Noel,” Connor says quietly, not in a tone that’s trying to convince me, but instead he speaks plainly. “You’re magnetic and passionate and irresistible. Whatever is racing through your head right now, whatever you’re afraid of—it isn’t true. It’s the tiny voice of doubt that we all hear when we’re about to do something important.”

  “But what if—”

  “Don’t listen to it!”

  His hands cup my face, delicate, but stable. Sturdy in a way that makes me understand he’ll keep holding me as long as I need him to, but I’m standing on my own. Standing tall was always something I could do.

  “Everyone who walks in those doors tonight, and every night that follows, is going to wish they had even an ounce of the confidence and vibrance and bravery that you do,” Connor continues. “If this restaurant stumbles, it won’t be because you or your vision is lacking in any way. If the public doesn’t like what you’ve created, it’s because you’ve dared to challenge them, you’ve woken them up from their humdrum status quo of a life. It’s scary to taste the world again, to feel alive, to reflect on the dullness and the grey that they’ve settled for. You demand excellence from them in the same way you demand it from yourself, from your staff, from your food. Most people aren’t ready to be called upon to live bravely and honestly. That’s what this place does. It may be food and beauty and sin, but it’s also transcendence, it’s also life awakening. That’s what you do, Arie, you wake people up to the fact that they are powerful and they’ve never noticed it. And yes, you better believe that it will scare the hell out of them. It should scare all of us.”

  I open my eyes and look at him: star-haloed, beautiful, holding me with just enough pressure to know I’m not alone in the darkness.

  “But you’re not scared,” I whisper, and he shakes his head.

  “Of course I am.” His thumb brushes the corner of my lip, tender as when you test the ripe skin of a plum. “It wouldn’t mean anything if I wasn’t scared. Being scared is part of being alive. It means I care. And you being scared means you care. You care about what you’ve made, about what you want to share. It means something is at stake.”

  I stare at him, the universe of stars in my chest shaken. How can he know all that and be so calm? How is it not eating him alive? My hand finds his face. It finds the curve of his jaw and the sandpaper of the thousand grains of peppercorn that sprout in his skin. How can so much roughness and kindness and wisdom be in one man?

  I breathe deeper, longer, looking at him—all the surging and storm clouds and ocean swelling and subsiding.

  “This restaurant has your soul in it,” Connor continues, tilting into my touch. “It’s beautiful because you made it. And it doesn’t matter if they like it, okay? You don’t need their approval. You just need to create food that’s art. If those people can’t see your soul, then they aren’t worth it. It’s their weakness, not yours. It’s their inability to stand in your presence.”

  I drop my hand from his cheek and look to the ocean. “You make me sound like some otherworldly being,” I quip, needing to make a joke to handle all the things he’s saying. His outpouring of confidence warms my chest and makes me feel oddly brave when I’ve never been the person to be afraid. Except right now; right now it’s all pouring out and upending.

  “At what point did you stop believing you weren’t other-worldly?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Ha ha, aren’t you witty.” He only smiles and drops his hands from my neck, stepping back and shrugging like I can believe what I want to believe, but he knows the truth. “This doesn’t mean I’ll be cutting you any slack!” I point at him. “Just because you said all those nice things doesn’t mean I won’t be holding you to my standard of excellence.”

  “I put the suit on, didn’t I?” he responds, making my gaze drop over him again. He does look fabulous.

  “Yes, thank you. You do look very nice in it.”

  “How conciliatory of you,” he says, taking my pointing hand and cupping it in his own.

  “Big words,” I say, shivering as his fingers trace my wrist.

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Big—”

  Suddenly, the door next to us swings open and Simon charges out in a bluster of wild hair and obscenities. “Arie? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking all over for—?” But the intensity in his voice trails off as he stops to look at me, then to Connor, then back to me. His eyebrows scrunch in question, eyeing Connor’s hand holding mine, not sure what he just walked in on. “We,
uh—”

  “Panic attack 101,” Connor says, dropping my hand and stepping back. He moves around Simon to catch the door. “I’d give her a few more minutes and she’ll be fine.” His eyes catch me over Simon’s shoulder. “She’ll be better than fine. She’s Arie. Dragons command the sky, remember, and this is the top of the world.”

  He slips into the darkness of the back entrance and is gone. Simon looks from the open door back at me, dumbfounded.

  “I’m sorry, but did …” Simon’s face scrunches, trying to parse what he just saw. “Should I be more concerned about the fact that you just had a panic attack or that it was Connor who talked you down from it.”

  I shrug, not really sure. “I don’t know. You pick.”

  “Um …” Simon’s eyes narrow suspiciously, not giving up that quickly. “Call me crazy, but is something going on between you two—”

  “No!” I clip out instinctually. The word flies out harsh and without me thinking about it, which frankly comes off more defensive than convincing.

  “Okay…” Simon steps back with his eyebrows even higher, like I just pulled out a whip and lashed him.

  I roll my head back to look at the stars that lace the sky in a thousand tiny diamonds. I take another deep breath, realizing there are things I can keep avoiding or I can just stand in them. Simon is my best friend—my business partner—and I did promise to tell him everything. No more secrets. “Actually, if I’m being honest …” I start, looking back at him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Excuse me?” Simon’s hands fly up to meet the alarm in his voice. Everything about his demeanor just went from ‘hey, we’re running behind’ to ‘did you just give me a hand grenade?’

  “Look,” I shake my head. “It’s a long story, but I promise—”

  “Wait! What’s a long story?”

  “The Connor and me thing.”

  “There is a Connor and you thing?!” Simon is pacing now, his fingers opening and closing into fists. I’m not the only one overly stressed this evening.