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

by Elle Berlin

  “You’re ridiculous.” I roll my eyes as she tosses me two golden high-heel pumps.

  “The state of your vagina is up to you,” Arie says, walking me out of her office and back toward the dining room. “If you want it to dry up like an Egyptian tomb, then go for it. You are woman, hear you roar!” I pull on the gold pumps and turn toward the double doors that lead to the hostess table. “But seriously,” Arie calls after me, “when in doubt, ask yourself what would Arie do—pre-Connor, of course.”

  “So, you mean what would slutty Arie do?” I toss back at her and she smiles.

  “Exactly.” She blows me a kiss. “We have the same blood, girl. That dirty vixen is inside you somewhere. Oh, and that dress—” She points to where it tightly hugs my hips. “It’s short enough for easy access!” She pretends to hike the dress up to her hips and I frown, which causes her to howl in laughter. “Have fun,” she tosses back at me, strutting toward the kitchen.

  I roll my eyes and head out to the hostess desk where Olivia smiles broadly, her slick black hair framing her delicate face. She wears a stylish dress that looks like a thousand flowers blooming, matching the large floral photographs that line the entrance: beds of dark rose petals and orchids blooming in a bath of moody light and sensuality.

  “I’ve got three tables waiting for you,” Olivia says pointing to the table chart. Two by the windows and one off to the side. I tap the dining room chart, pointing to the table that’s slightly hidden.

  “Is this by the side entrance?” I ask, unfamiliar with the table.

  “Yup,” Olivia nods, handing me a tall glass of bubbly. “And that table still needs its complimentary glass of champagne.”

  I take it from her fingers, eyeing the oily residue on the rim—that’s the bit I light on fire. “Only one patron? Not a couple?”

  “Indeed,” Olivia confirms. “The guy at that table asked for a booth that was secluded. Honestly, you never know if those are the kinky ones or the famous people. Gorgeous guy, by the way. So, my bet is on famous.”

  “Did you recognize him?” I ask, loading up my torch holster with the rest of the necessary Flambé accessories—lighter fluid, wet rag, metal tongs—it’s the action heroine’s utility belt of fire.

  Olivia shakes her head. “He’s probably a model or something. Trust me, they’re the worst,” she warns, before pointing to my ass that’s barely covered by Arie’s dress. “Fame makes people think everything is on the menu.”

  “Yikes.” I nod, thanking her for the warning and heading for the secluded table to the left of the big picture window. I hope Olivia’s wrong and he’s a nice guy. Of course, that’s me being naive, like normal. With my luck, he’ll probably make me walk out on Arie tonight and never want to set foot in Flambé again.

  I pass through the dining room, where the other waiters and waitresses are lighting entrees and martini glasses on fire, making the room shimmer with orange and blue flames. But when I turn the corner to where the booth should be—I don’t see it. It’s just a small nook leading to the side entrance through a dark hallway. If there’s a booth back here, it’s the worst seat in the house. Half the fun of Flambé is seeing what pyrotechnic frenzy your neighbor has ordered so you can ooh and ahh at the firework parade.

  I look left and right, holding the champagne glass up, confused, when a polite cough comes from behind me. I spin around to realize the booth is right behind me, and—thanks to the height of these gold pumps—my crotch happens to be face-level with the patron! Yup, my short-short skirt is exactly at the right level for Mr. Kinky Model to do all the things Arie was implying the dress was good for.

  His eyes shoot up and down my legs, and I take a step back realizing my barely covered ass was just in his face. God, what a first impression!

  “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping even further away, when two amber eyes flick up to my face and my stomach goes queasy.

  I recognize him.

  And he is famous.

  Like reeeeaaaally freaking famous.

  Sitting in the secluded booth is none other than Desmond Pike, the star of the hottest show on television.

  “Oh wow! I mean, hi! Hello,” I blabber. “I mean, good-evening sir, er—Mr. Pike, or—” I slam my mouth shut so I stop saying words, as well as half-syllable squawks masquerading as English. I pretty much hold my breath, genuinely hoping I don’t fall backwards in these pointy heels and give him a real show of the off-limits Esme surprise.

  Desmond Pike is the star of the new hit Billionaire Heat. It’s one of Arie’s favorites and she’s touted it as Sex in the City meets Fifty Shades of Grey with red rooms, and humor, and hedonistic trappings I can’t even begin to imagine. I’ve actually never seen it, but if it can get Arie’s dragoness blood pumping, it’s bound to be completely scandalous. I’ve seen Desmond Pike’s beautiful face on the cover of magazines and in my online feed, but seriously, photos don’t do him justice. Sitting in front of me is a Greek god’s sexy younger brother. Basically, grab a statue from Rome and dress it in some jeans and tight v-neck that’s designed to show off all his powerful arm and chest muscles, and that still wouldn’t be a satisfactory comparison. Let’s just say my core is suddenly pounding like a hyperventilating child—which is completely inappropriate and alarming—especially since all he’s done is push his windswept dark hair away from those amber eyes and toss me a professional-level panty-melting smile.

  No man should have this kind of immediate impact on anyone.

  Ever!

  After tonight, I’m definitely going to become his number one fan, as well as a rabid watcher of his show—if only to glimpse a little more of that phenomenal torso and back side, which according to Arie is shown often and prominently.

  I try to swallow, realizing my mouth is as dry as the Sahara, internally cursing myself for thinking about him naked, which is ridiculous and inappropriate—and probably what every girl he meets does, and now I’m a complete cliché! Awesome. Actually, I’m really glad I’ve never seen his show because it would give me more fodder than that gorgeous face to turn my legs into Jell-O, and I’m already clumsy enough as it is, without adding boneless-ness into the mix.

  Casually, his eyes slip down my front like I’m the first course that he’s lucky enough to get a taste of, and I’m simultaneously horrified and excited that I’m wearing such a little amount of clothing. This is exactly how men look at Arie every day of her life, and honestly, I’ve no clue how she handles it. My thighs throb at the indecent way his gaze plays over my fringe-covered legs, my hips, my tits. Arie knows how to stand in such raw sexual attention. But me? Gosh no, I’m overheating! My body is awake as if he’s grazed his knuckles against my knees and is teasing my skin.

  I try to calm my breathing, like in yoga when I force myself to focus. Focus! Push the unsightly (delicious) images of him away: naked, fingers parting my fringe, parting my legs.

  Focus, woman! Geez! How was it possible that Olivia didn’t know who Desmond Pike was? Seriously? The girl should’ve given me more of a warning! Though from the glimmer in his amber eyes, I’m starting to think he’s going to live up to the warning she did give me about famous people and their inclination for off-menu delights.

  After what seems like far too long, Desmond’s gaze reconnects with mine and he gives me an amused smile. Yup, I’m absolutely just standing here like a horny lunatic monkey, ogling him. It’s creepy. Not like looking at a beautiful piece of art, oh no, I’m lining up to be genuine stalker material.

  “Hi! Sorry. You’re—” I back pedal. “You know who you are! Uh, your drink.” I lift up the glass of champagne like it just appeared in my hand as a cheesy magic trick. “R-right!” I unholster my brûlée gun and I click the trigger, the tiny torch igniting. I lift the flame to the rim of the glass and the whole thing bursts into a torching goblet above my fingertips. Desmond’s eyes flare, his sideways smile turning more genuine as the champagne bubbles sparkle under the blue and gold flames. I place the glass on the table in front
of him, inadvertently breaking the do-not-bend-over-in-this-dress rule and I nearly knock the damn thing into his lap when his gaze flicks from the flames to the prominent tit-show this dress is now displaying.

  “Welcome to Flambé,” I choke out, reciting my opening lines and not daring to look down at the flush of skin that’s probably the color of ripe papaya. “May we delight your every desire.”

  His eyes flick to mine. That line is intentionally supposed to make the patrons look at the wait staff with incendiary desire, but when Desmond Pike does it—Good lord!—the surge of heat that licks through my pussy almost knocks me over. He stares at me from behind his glass of flaming champagne and goosebumps ripple across my shoulders. I squeeze my thighs together and look away, sure this is some mismatch of pheromones and chemicals. It’s basic math. You take the unfortunate fact that I haven’t been laid in months then wave a hot centerfold-worthy man in front of me, and of course my body is going to turn into a pool of horn-dog jelly. I mean, it’s biologically impossible to not react to the beautiful fantasy of a man in front of me.

  And worse, a little piece of me is actually wondering what would slutty Arie do? If Connor was not in Arie’s life and she were single, pent up, and needing to give her Egyptian’s tomb of a vagina a spin on the hottest tilt-a-whirl this side of the Pacific—would she take Desmond Pike for a scuba dive? Oh hell yes, she would!

  Desmond coughs softly, breaking my train of thought. A knowing smile creeps up the side of his face, dousing my horn-dog of a body in ice-water, because I’m literally daydreaming about what it would be like to straddle him and he damn well knows it.

  “Sorry!” I squeak out, running a nervous hand through my lavender hair. “Let me explain how things work at Flambé.”

  What would Arie do?

  She’d stop gaping at him like a freaking lunatic and be a damn professional, that’s what! I go into my spiel about how everything at Flambé is fresh, cooked to order, and can be set on fire. He watches me closely as I point out the mini fire extinguisher that’s at every table and give him my best pass at the daily specials. Only, his eyes have me heating again, my temperature whiplashing from embarrassed chill to skin set to broil. He hasn’t said a single word and I’m already so feverish I’m freaking overheating, and the truth is I couldn’t possibly be wearing any less!

  He watches me for a long moment after I’m done with my explanation of the fire show, before his deeply sexy voice says in a low tone, “You’re not what I expected.”

  Not what he—? I shake my head, completely exasperated. What the hell could he possibly expect?

  “You don’t know me,” I blurt out in my infinite awkwardness. “How could you have any expectations?”

  “You’re very easily flustered,” he says, his eyes narrowing as his fingers play with the flames dancing on the end of the champagne glass. “And the hair’s different.”

  I pull my hair forward and twirl it in my fingertips, frowning at him. “No, it isn’t. My hair is exactly the same as—”

  But then it hits me what’s going on. The sultry stares, the secluded table, the feeling that he’s assessing my every curve and sentence.

  “Oh!” I say, putting a hand to my breastbone and laughing nervously. “You think I’m Arie!”

  His eyebrows lift slightly. “Don’t you own the restaurant?”

  “No!” I laugh—way too loud, mind you—the relief in my skin freaking palpable. Of course, this makes sense now. He was expecting the seductress! It was Arie’s delicious body off of which he was imagining licking champagne sauce (or whatever the heck it is she makes). That makes all the sense in the world! “No no no,” I continue. “I most definitely do not own the restaurant.” He frowns at me, confused. “I’m not the owner. You’re looking for Arie. I’m so sorry to disappoint you!”

  “I didn’t say I was disappointed,” Desmond says in a low tone that squeezes all the air of my lungs.

  “Oh, well, uh…” I lick my way-too-dry lips and waver in my sister’s golden heels, completely lightheaded. “I’m still not Arie,” I mumble. “I’m her, her um, uh …”

  “Her twin,” Desmond completes for me and my neck flushes.

  “Yes! Exactly,” I say, tripping over my own tongue, that tsunami of heat crashing over my skin again. “She, uh—she owns the restaurant. She’s the one you probably recognize from the cover of Bon Appétit Magazine. She’s the creative genius, seductress, entrepreneur with all the sinful recipes. You know, different hair color, but same face,” I point awkwardly to myself. “Same smile, same—” I motion to my body only to realize I’ve invited him to ogle my tits. If I wasn’t pomegranate-red already, my skin is now one-hundred-percent the color of a maraschino cherry. “You, uh …” I drop my hands. “You get the idea.”

  He smiles politely and I realize I’m a bumbling fool. Who he really wants is to see my sister, and that über-tight smile is my cue to get the hell out of here … and fast!

  “Sorry!” I apologize for the hundredth time. “This was an absolutely disastrous introduction to my sister’s truly phenomenal restaurant. I swear. Let’s just do this over. Let me go get Arie for you!”

  “No, you don’t have to do that,” he says kindly, but I zip away as fast as my wobbly legs can move in five-inch heels and beeline it for the kitchen. The last thing I want to see is his pity-filled eyes as I walk away. Sure, he was being nice, which was gracious of him, but obviously, he was hoping to meet my sister and instead he got little Miss Awkward America over here. What a perfect example of how I am not my sister! I’m the bumbling fool who acts like she’s never seen an attractive man before in her life, whereas Arie would shrug off his heated stares like he’s chopped liver. Liver that she’d inevitably make some moan-able delicacy with later and feed back to him.

  I swing into the kitchen with the fringe on my dress whipping back and forth, stomping straight up to my sister. “I screwed up!” I say, as she swirls a cherry glaze in a large pot. “You can put the girl in a cute dress, but you can’t take the awkward out of the girl!”

  “It’s all about confidence, Esme,” Arie says, not even looking at me. “You’ve got the tits and the ass to make any man hard in that getup. Trust me, I know.” She looks at me finally, smiling devilishly, before she ladles the purple glaze over a plate of rare meat next to her.

  “Yeah, that’s the problem. Desmond Pike is here,” I explain, pointing toward the dining room. “Only he thought I was you, and I’m most definitely not you. So …”

  “Desmond Pike?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “The most fuck-able bachelor in the universe from Billionaire Heat? That Desmond Pike?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Holy shit! That’s going to be amazing publicity!” She wipes her hands on a cloth and takes the prepared plates to a heating station and rings a bell. Then she looks out through the window toward the restaurant. “Where is he?”

  “The hidden booth by the back entrance.”

  “Oh, heck no!” Arie shakes her head. “Did Olivia seat him there?”

  “She didn’t know who he was,” I explain.

  “Of course, she didn’t,” Arie rolls her eyes before grabbing my hand and pulling me out into the dining room. “Mr. Pike needs to be on display where everyone can see him. I need him next to the window so that his eight billion fans can take pictures and selfies with him and post them all over social media—with that incredible view behind them.”

  “I’m sure if he wanted that kind of attention, he wouldn’t have asked for the hidden booth. Olivia was just doing what the customer asked.”

  Arie shakes her head, holding me by the hand and dragging me toward where he is hiding. “Men have no clue what they want,” Arie instructs. “Especially famous men.” But then she stops in her tracks and turns to me, her eyes narrowing and calculating. “Hold on a second. You said you screwed up. What happened? Did he proposition you?”

  “No! Of course not!” I shake my head fervently, before looking away from her calc
ulating eyes. Heat creeps up my neck. “I mean, he thought I was you. And you exude a certain …”

  “Fuck-me vibe.”

  I glare at Arie incredulously, but she shrugs like that’s exactly what it is. “Okay, sure, if that’s what you call it,” I concede. “Soooo, yes, there was definitely some sultry looks and wandering eyes and—”

  “Aaaand he gave you the ‘please crawl under this table and suck my cock’ look?” Arie says crassly and I almost trip in the heels.

  “Oh, my God!” I slap my sister in the shoulder, but she throws her head back and laughs. “Seriously, do men give you that look all the time?”

  “Yes!” She nods like it’s as normal as waving to someone in a grocery store. “Except, Desmond Pike didn’t give that look to me.” She smiles wickedly, her suspicions confirmed. “He gave it to—” She points to my tiny gold dress get-up, eyeing me to thank her for choosing it.

  “He thought I was you!” I deflect.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Arie says, beaming. “He’s seen you and trust me—” she straightens out some of the gold fringe on my hips “—he’s not going to want anything else.”

  “I acted like a star-struck idiot!”

  “That’s part of your charm!”

  “Right,” I shrug dramatically. “Good tits and complete awkwardness. I’m sure he’s already fled out the side entrance and is slandering your restaurant all over social media.”

  Arie laughs again. “Esme,” she stops me and puts her hands on my shoulders, squaring off like she’s about to give a pep talk. “I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this. Every hot fuck-me look that men give me, they would also give you, because you’ve got the body of a goddess. It’s pure biology. They see a hot female and their hormones scream: spread seed, spread seed!”

  “That’s not romantic.”

  “Exactly! It’s not. It’s primal heat. So, it doesn’t really matter if you acted like a star-struck idiot, because he’s thinking, ‘I wonder if she’s into wall banging or doggie style?’”