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

by Elle Berlin

  Bridges I just keep burning.

  29

  Arie

  When Connor comes back behind the bar, he’s missing his coat and tie and the top few buttons of his shirt are open. He sees me notice and walks right up with a stubbornness that makes me bristle.

  “There are some things you are just going to have to let go of,” he says curtly. “Now get out from behind my bar and go cook something or whatever else it is you do.”

  “Whatever else it is I do?” I shoot back indignantly.

  “Or stay and be in the way, I don’t really care,” he snaps, brushing past me and walking up to the list of drinks I haven’t made yet.

  “Oh, wow. Your little friend really brings out the best in—”

  “Arie!” Connor crumples up the paper and gets in my face, his eyes going dark in a way I’ve never seen. “Please don’t give me a reason to walk out on you right now, because trust me, I will.”

  His face is hard. He means that. I step back and soften, trying to regain some space. “Okay. I’m sorry. We can talk about your—”

  “Nope.” He reaches past me and grabs the torch on the counter, practically knocking me over. “We’re not going to talk about him at all,” he growls. “I’m going to do my job, and you’re going to do whatever it is you need to do to piss the fuck off. Got it?”

  My eyebrows raise, my skin prickling at his complete lack of respect. I grab his wrist, the one brushing past me with the torch, and squeeze angrily. “Excuse me, what was—?”

  But Connor twists out of my grip and turns his back on me, snatching up the next drink ticket and ignoring me. Coals of indignation combust in my head, ruffling my self-control.

  I’ve half the mind to push him rather than quit while I’m ahead, when three of my waitresses walk up to the bar and each drop off a long list of drinks. A series of large parties have just been seated across the dining room near the window and the list of cocktails is enough to keep Connor elbow-deep in alcohol for the next hour. He glances at them, his irritation visible in the knot of his muscles as he takes in the reality of the order.

  I grab the list closest to me and don’t say anything. Instead, I start pulling glasses off the shelf and line them up for drinks. Connor doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t say anything. He lets me deal with my order and goes back to work.

  Fine.

  Just fine.

  Except, it’s narrow behind this bar and there are two of us.

  “Can you—?”

  He passes me the gin.

  “And the—”

  Rosemary, a box of matches, bitters.

  “And—”

  When the list gets too long, he curtly motions for me to move to his side of the bar, lifting his arms high to take the drinks he’s still finishing with him.

  But then, what he needs is on my side and vice versa, and this becomes a clash of space and domination—our anger and frustrations paper thin. I reach over him to get the vodka, which makes him growl, but then he has to brush past me to get the fresh fruit and sprigs of thyme on my side of the countertop. Does he do so politely? Oh no, this is Connor, who irritably grabs my hips as he squeezes himself to the other side of the bar, deliberately pressing his thighs against my ass obscenely. My pulse starts racing at how childish and infuriating it is. But that doesn’t stop me from bending over him to get the orange twists, my chest brushing against his arms as I reach for the garnish.

  “Here,” he snips, passing me the jar, only he has to reach back over me thirty seconds later to finish the smoking Manhattan he’s halfway through.

  “Thanks.”

  “Here!”

  “Can I—?”

  “Just move—”

  “Ice.”

  Our one-syllable barks at each other become part of the dance, the mayhem its own rhythm as we work and mix drinks and pass them off to the waitresses who keep handing us new tickets. After a while I’m used to the brush of Connor’s groin against my ass, his hands on my hips, the dirty looks, the elbows jockeying for position.

  Our fingers snatch for torches and glasses rimmed in black sugar, our arms swordfighting over the counter for mixers and herbs and matches. All of our frustrations mounting, drinks pouring, alcohol splashing. My arms and shoulders are sticky from orange juice and sprays of rosemary oil and Himalayan salt spilled on the countertop. The smell of burnt fruit and herbs soak the air, smoke wafting behind the bar like a billowing tornado.

  We work as fast as we can, on top of each other, brushing, twisting, pouring, and igniting.

  We’re almost caught up, trying to finish our last order when Connor squeezes past my ass again and—I stiffen. Is that? There’s a new thickness in his trousers and I still, suddenly aware—no, overly aware—of the bulge that’s snuggled up against the round of my skirt. Shocked, I look back at him and Connor’s hands tighten on my hips.

  “Are you—?” I hiss under my breath, not daring to say the words, and trying to keep this discrete. Only, how the hell is this sexy when I’m ready to tear his head off and vice versa? But a ripple of goosebumps sears up my neck and my chest blossoms with heat. I take a breath and realize the position we are in. The position we’ve been in half the evening. He’s behind me with his thighs against my ass, and I’m bent slightly forward, hips against the bar, my back and spine visible through the laces of my corset. The girls are pushed up high from a tight cinch of the bodice and he’s taller than me, which means he can look right over my naked shoulders to get one hell of a look at the view. Yeah, I’m the dumbass who didn’t realize this whole charade is ridiculously provocative. Not to mention the fact that we’ve been hip-clutching and ass brushing past each other like this for the last hour and I’m just now realizing he’s aroused. Shit, this may have been going on for—

  Connor pushes past me and doesn’t address my question, focusing on the Chambord and blackberries he’s mixing. I try to act like this hasn’t affected me, that I’m not suddenly aware of how tight this corset is, or the tickle of my own hair as it brushes past my elevated tits. I fumble with a lemon slice, my fingers slippery with the tangy juice, when Connor moves to pass me again and I flip around so I’m facing him. It’s instinctual, like a defense mechanism, only it makes everything more awkward because now his arousal is pinned against my stomach.

  Lemon juice drips down my wrist as his eyes dance over me, skating down my ruby mouth, my pink neck, lingering on my rose-flushed skin that heaves with every breath. Connor grabs my hip possessively and my eyes flutter as he leans forward and drops his mouth to my ear.

  “It just means I’m human,” he says gruffly, the stubble of his cheek brushing against mine. “Any man who has to brush against your ass all night is going to get hard.”

  My lips part and our eyes catch, the reality of his cock against my abdomen, waking my own body’s reaction. I’m sure he can read it in my eyes—how I suddenly want this restaurant to be empty and for him to lift me up on this counter and proceed to lick all the alcohol that’s spilled over my body.

  I lock my jaw and glare at him, annoyed at how visceral the heat between my legs is. He tilts his head as if he saw that pang of need fleet through my eyes, my pupils dilating, my skin emitting a mist of heat, my frustration on display. He watches, waiting to see if I’m going to do anything about it.

  “Fuck off,” I hiss, a tug of amusement feathering his cheek before he moves to the other side of the bar to finish his drink, leaving me to squeeze my thighs together and try to pretend my insides didn’t just turn molten.

  Thankfully, he has the grace to finish the order, both of us turning to our respective glasses and continuing to mix and pour. I grit my teeth and suppress the moan that claws at my throat each time he passes behind me, my thighs aching for him to drag me into the back room and lick off every sticky splash of misplaced sugar.

  We line the string of flaming cocktails on top of the bar for the waitress and when there’s only one drink left on the ticket, I wipe my hands off and I wa
lk out from behind the bar. I don’t say anything to him. Instead, I beeline it through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  I’m blasted by the smell of spice and butter and meat roasting. It’s fucking heavenly—thick and full and stuffing my lungs with so much savory wanting that I let out a raw moan.

  “God, it smells amazing in here!” I practically growl, playing it off like this is the den of mouth-watering orgasms I always wanted it to be—which it is—as proven by the throng of guttural sounds that rake up my throat. I compliment several of my chefs, nodding approvingly to their side-dishes and entrees before striding up to the pastry line and setting a whoop of meringue on fire. Under my torch the soft white fluff turns golden then brown, then it melts into a char of sugary perfection. I blast through several more of the delicacies, savoring the way the sugar ignites and the skin puckers before it burns.

  If no one was here, I’d scoop up two handfuls of cooked meringue and take them back out to Connor. I’d feed the dessert to him, smearing the sticky white globs over his lips as I climbed on top of him and fucked him on the floor behind the bar. I’d do it in the middle of the night in the cloak of darkness, my knees wet with alcohol and his hands clutching my ass as I straddled him—our mouths and tongues thick with meringue, my body teaching him exactly what happens when the boss gets angry.

  30

  Connor

  Simon is counting the money in the register as the last waitress piles her brûlée torch on top of the bar and waves goodnight. I put the torches away and go back to wiping down the bar, which I’ve already done enough times you can see your reflection in it. The smart thing to do would be to go home, but Arie hasn’t come back out of that kitchen since she stormed off.

  It doesn’t bug me. I don’t care. Honestly, I’m glad she left, because there needs to be some damn rules about her behind my bar, in my space, cramping me. I grab the last trash bag and round past Simon, heading out back.

  “Great night,” Simon says with an elation in his voice that makes my muscles bunch. I nod curtly, knowing it’s not Simon I’m annoyed at. I’m pissed at Mason and Ned and Arie for—I don’t know what. I just am.

  I make a point of walking past the kitchen and peeking in, but Arie isn’t in there, no flash of red sizzle and fire. I head out back and throw the trash away, the rooftop wind catching the dark lanterns and making them pitch violently. First, I had to talk Arie down out here tonight, then I had to deal with Mason. All the shadows twisting against the building pulse and breach and don’t add up. Is Arie like Zariah? Am I really being that naïve? Am I really spitting in my brother’s face? The fact that I actually like this job has to mean something, though I’m not sure what. And it doesn’t help that Arie pisses me off every chance she gets, or the fact that it makes me want to—

  I ball up my fist and storm back into the building. Rules. She and I need lines and boundaries, big fucking boundaries—battlements, concrete, a wall of China. I shouldn’t stomp back into the restaurant, but I’m too angry to let sleeping dogs lie.

  I fling open Arie’s office door and she yelps. She jolts up from the casual lean against her desk, a stack of papers in her hand, startled.

  “What the hell?” she snaps as I lock the door behind me. “Do you know how to knock?”

  “The way you like to knock on Simon’s office door?” I ask, reminding her of her own inability to be polite.

  Surprisingly, Arie’s office is small, too small for Arie’s mammoth presence. A tiny metal writer’s lamp drops a weak ping of light on the desk, everything else cast to shadow. The space reminds me of an antique hoarder with bell jars and curios crammed into every nook imaginable: mini-file cabinets, an antique desk, a plush Victorian loveseat. Candles and bouquets of flowers and ivy vines spill out of the bookshelves between recipe books and copper decanters and piles of wrapped Italian chocolate. The whole room is like the restaurant—only messy and smaller, all the gold and crystals piled in the clutter.

  “Your shift’s over,” she snaps, tossing the papers into a wire bin. “Go home, we’re done for the night.”

  “Oh, we’re not done,” I shoot back, stalking up to her and cornering her between the desk and love seat. Her chest heaves, that flash of defiance igniting in her eyes and meeting my audacity. “Rule number one, you’re not allowed behind my bar.”

  “Your bar?” Her eyes seethe, anger straining in her neck. “You don’t make any rules around here!”

  “My space—”

  “My restaurant!”

  “You hired me to do my own thing and I can’t have you—”

  “Helping out when you have too many drink tickets? I’m sorry, but that’s how things work around—”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “You don’t have to! I’m the boss and—”

  I grab her hips and yank her toward me, making her yelp before I crush my mouth against hers. She struggles and thrashes—but kisses me back, her tongue and mouth demanding. I clasp her against me as she bucks and writhes and practically climbs my hip, surprisingly nimble for a girl in a corset.

  I pull back and snarl. “Let me be clear. If you come behind my bar, then this is what’s going to happen to you every time.”

  I grab her ass and lift her up against me, smiling when her throat grinds out a rabid and excited sound. I pin her against the tiny bit of wall that’s available next to the love seat and lift her leg up abruptly. She sucks in a breath as I hook her thigh over the edge of the tufted cushion and effectively open her spread. Her palms grasp unsuccessfully against the flat of the wall, her body prone and balanced on one leg, the folds of her silver skirt bunched at her hip. Arie’s dragon eyes heat, her tits heaving, scandalized by the naughty way I’ve positioned her.

  “We—We—” she stutters, breathless, her mouth dark and shimmering. “Simon will hear. I’m your boss, we can’t—”

  “Then fire me.” I take her mouth again, vicious, not listening. She whimpers into my assault as I reach between her thighs and yank her panties down.

  “Connor!” she hisses, outraged. “That’s—”

  My hand fumbles with the fabric, which I was only able to drag down a few inches due to the way she’s hooked over the couch, but it’s enough for me to slip my fingers inside her.

  “Oh, fuck you, Connor!” she whimpers, her mouth falling against my shoulder and biting down hard against the fabric.

  “I love the way you burn, Arie,” I growl into her ear, the wicked smell of her pussy thick and sweet and filling the small room, my fingers thrusting indecently. “And you’re already wet. It’s like you’ve been waiting for me.”

  Her head lifts up scowling, but I kiss her before she can say anything, muffling the swears and curses that spill from her mouth. I suck on her tongue wickedly, pulling my fingers out of her to tease the inflamed flesh around where she’s wet and throbbing. My wrists tangle in her thong as my fingers dance over her thighs and the curve of her ass.

  “You’re an asshole,” she whimpers, as my assault wets her even more.

  “If you’re frustrated,” I say, tugging at the elastic of her panties, “you can always remove these.” I make a show of how the fabric keeps my fingers tangled and at a distance, barely able to swipe past her quivering folds. “Tear them off and I’ll fuck you properly.”

  She moans, bending the arms she’s draped over my shoulders, so her fingers can dig into my hair angrily. She claws and bucks and tries so hard to resist me, but it only hardens my resolve as my hands run over her knees and thighs. She starts mewing and I nip at her neck, tasting rosemary and vodka and burnt meringue.

  “Connor…” she moans.

  “Yes, Arie?”

  “You’re a fucking asshole!”

  “Mmmm, you knew that when you hired me,” I agree with a hum, taking her mouth again and punishing.

  “You, you don’t —” she gasps between my assault. “Listen to anything—”

  “I’m difficult, yes,” I agree, crooning ag
ainst her lips. “But don’t worry—” I slip my hands over the thick of her thighs, my palm sneaking behind the leg that’s balancing on the floor. “I’m still the asshole who made you a promise.”

  “A promise to piss me off,” she snarls.

  “That too.” I smile. “No, I said I’d—”

  I lift her weight up, hoisting the leg that’s on the floor up over my hip so she’s completely spread between the couch and my body—pinned against the wall perfectly. She gasps, weightless, her nails digging in.

  “I did say I was going to fuck you against the wall,” I growl in her ear and she meets my snarls with a lecherous moan of her own. “And trust me,” I whisper hotly. “I can still do that with these on.” I run my thumb over the fabric against her pussy, making her eyes flare. “Cause, I’m way too impatient to undress you.”

  I kiss her hotly as her moans increase, her hips curling up off the wall, reckless and bucking like a wild mare waiting for me to tame!

  “Do you still think that wall banging isn’t that hot?” I ask to piss her off, reaching between us and unbuttoning my pants.

  “I think if you don’t start fucking me soon, I’m going to fire you,” she hisses.

  “Oh, is that what you want, boss?” I tease, pulling my cock out of my pants but not pushing the slacks down my legs.

  “Condom,” she barks out, pointing to somewhere on the mess of her shelf, but I have one in pocket that I slip on as she pants.

  “You want my thick cock, boss?” I tug at the strip of her panties, teasing her before pulling the fabric to the side and brushing my thick head against her hungry entrance. She glares at me, pissed off and flushed, hearing every word. “Is that what you’re begging for?”