Page 1 of Whiskey Splash

Chapter One

Athousand candles flicker from the goblet chandelier at the center of the dining room and black velvet booths line the picture window as the gold flames set the tone. A little darkness for mystery and excitement… A whole lot of fire to tease and turn up the heat!

Flambé—my twin sister Arie’s restaurant—is packed! Patrons have been lining up to get a taste of the late-night destination ever since it opened six months ago and the craze hasn’t let up. It’s become one of the hottest restaurants in all of Oahu and it’s not hard to see why. Everyone in the restaurant is dressed to the nines in sexy late-night dresses and cocktail attire, button-up shirts left open at the collar to show off the perfect amount of skin. Sensual elegance, that’s the whole vibe of Flambé. Come in for a drink but leave thinking about sin, maybe even be ready to commit a little with dessert.

Fire dances in all the corners of the restaurant which overlooks the Waikiki bay, and part of the appeal of the restaurant is the fact that all the waiters and waitresses are your guide to all things delicious and ignitable. It’s not a circus, but the culinary fire dancers are armed with tiny crème brûlée torches tucked in their belts, which they whooosh out like Charlie’s Angels, lighting up the rims of martini glasses and the garnishes of desserts. Order steak and it will sizzle in the kitchen but be seared at your table. Ask for a Spanish coffee and get ready for a juggling act that includes rivers of brandy and tequila lit on fire and poured from glass to glass in a stream of silver-blue flames. Banana’s Fosters, Baked Alaska, Cherries Jubilee—if it can be set on fire tableside, trust me, it will be. This restaurant is the living embodiment of my sister Arie—sexy, sinful, unexpected—all set on fire and turned up to a heat level that will give you heart palpitations.

Speaking of Arie, the dazzling enchantress waves at me through the kitchen window and motions for me to come talk to her. I step in from the back hallway and the smell of the kitchen bowls me over—saffron butter, red-pepper spice—reminding me that the food is just as sinful as the elaborate pyrotechnics. Flambéisn’t glitter and no substance, the food is down-right phenomenal. Arie takes off her gloves and heads straight for me, her ruby-red hair a wild mane of ringlets. My sister is fire embodied, coupled with a devilish smile that warns me I’m in for a fun night.

“Esme!” Arie wraps me in a hug, the black beads that cover her cocktail dress gleaming like the scales of a dragon. Yup, my sister cooks in her finest—satin, silk, sequins—unpractical by any normal human’s standards, but I’m not the one wowing crowds and lighting sparklers in their gin shots. “Thank you so much for coming in to cover Lana’s shift!” Arie starts walking us toward the back hall and her office, nodding to her sous-chef that she’s stepping out. “I really appreciate you covering for Lana. She never calls in sick, so she must be practically dying for her to bail on me.”

“You bet, I’m happy to help!” I say, as my twin walks us into her tiny office and opens a small armoire in the corner. How that gaudy piece of vintage furniture fits in Arie’s six-by-six clutter she calls an office is a miracle of Victorian hoardery. I often imagine Arie’s interior design style to be a bit like living inside Mary Poppins’ purse: anything you’re looking for just magically appears and you’re also bound to find a Tiffany lamp and an umbrella with a bird for a handle on it for good measure. As expected, the armoire is full of dresses, but not just dresses—fancy, glittering, ridiculously sexy dresses—which are all Arie thinks is appropriate for waitstaff attire. Remember, my sister cooks in these things. Yes, it’s all part of the woman, the myth, the legend that is my twin.

“Please don’t forget that I haven’t mastered any of your fancy drinks yet,” I remind her as she wades through scarves and rhinestones. Serving tables and occasionally lighting something on fire is one thing, elaborate juggling acts like the rest of her fire-breathing waitstaff … not really my specialty. Plus, I need my hands for my actualjob at the Mandara Spa on level two of this resort. Burnt hands covered in boils will put me out of commission. “And please don’t ask me to make any of the table-side drinks, Spanish coffee or that other one with the green liqueur and the fancy spoon-fairy contraption.”

“The Flaming Fairy,” my sister corrects. “And it’s absinthe.”

“Yes, that one. Please, have Connor, or someone else, take over if one of your customers orders that.”

“It’s not a problem,” Arie says, not missing a beat. “Not that you aren’t entirely capable.” That’s a dig, of course, and her tone catches a bit of mocker as she says, “Anything you’re not sure about, tell Olivia at the hostess desk. She’ll make sure someone is by your side helping.”

She sifts through the sequins and lace, pulling out dresses and looking at me to assess if I can pull them off. She’s my twin so we both know they’ll fit, but fitting into a dress is not the same aswearingit. Half of Arie’s closet would wear me instead of the other way around.

In fact, looking at Arie is like looking into a surreal mirror where I get to see myself as someone in an alternate universe. We have the same face, the same bone structure, and the same fit, twenty-six-year-old body. But Arie, Arie is the wild seductress who won’t take no for an answer. I’m the lavender-haired nerd who’d rather curl up with a good book and an oversized sweater, delighted to drink tea all night, while Arie is out mastering the art of multiple orgasms. That was before Connor, of course—the wild nights with different guys part. However, I’m pretty sure that Connor and orgasms are two sides of the same coin, especially now that they’re together. My point being, I’m the yoga-loving wallflower, and she’s the spotlight grabbing late-night debutant.

Same face,verydifferent people.

Though sometimes, when I fill in at Flambé, it feels like I get to pretend to be Arie for a moment. I get to taste half-an-ounce of her grab-life-by-the-balls dragoness superpower: turning heads, demanding respect, flirting with guys and getting them hot with only the slightest of smiles. Being Arie means the word self-conscious doesn’t exist and her superpower is seduction.

“Oh, yessssss! This one!” Arie pulls out a gold dress, beaded and fringed with flapper-style chevrons. It looks like it will barely cover my ass, but welcome to Flambé,where imagining naughty things is the aperitif you get regardless of if you ordered it. I take the dress and slip out of my yoga gear, dropping my purse and belongings on a side chair before wriggling myself into the skin-tight fabric. “And also—” Arie’s face lights up, remembering something as I smooth the beads out over my hips. “We have a few celebrities coming in tonight. If any of them are seated in your section and you don’t want to serve—”

“What? You don’t think I can handle famous people?” I sass playfully, trying to pull the gold fringe that tickles the back of my thighs down a little further.

“Oh girl,” Arie says, looking me over and moving her head back in forth in full sass-action. “In that dress, I think you could invite every celebrity that walks in the door to a threesome, or a foursome, or a full-blown orgy and they’d be groveling at your feet just to daydream about the possibility.”

Ha! That’s life in Arie-world, not mine. I look at myself in the mirror next to the armoire, noting that the dress is far more revealing than anything I’d wear normally. The front shows off a devilish amount of cleavage, which is going to make bending over one heck of a tit-show. My legs have the illusion of being covered with the long strings of fringe that tickle all the way down to my knees, but when that fringe splits open—hello skin!—you can see all the way up to the edge of my bottom. So, no bending over in either direction—right. Good luck to me!

“You actually cook food in this thing?” I say, shaking my head at my sister, while still attempting to adjust the length, realizing I’m about to serve food in the equivalent of a gold bikini with fringe.

“Oh, I’ve doneeverythingin that dress,” Arie admits, turning me to face her as she slings a brûlée-torch harness around my hips and loads me with my own mini-flamethrower. “Remind me of the last time you got laid, sis?”

I roll my eyes. She does this every time I cover a shift for her. “The answer is the same as last time,” I say dryly, adjusting the torch harness. “Please remember that some of us don’t get to go home to Connor the Sex God.”

Arie pulls my lavender hair out of its ponytail and fluffs it up, letting it fall softly around my shoulders. The easiest way to tell the two of us apart is our hair. Arie’s is the redhead who’s mane is a wild crown of magic, whereas mine is purple and layered in a soft romantic style. Think sexy inferno-demon-of-hell meets Briar Rose sipping tea in the rose garden.

“You realize,” Arie says, giving me a serious look, “we have the same body and face. Sure, your hair is a different color, but if Connor had met you first he probably would’ve happily given you a multiple-orgasmic evening.”

“Nope,” I shake my head, batting her hand away from the locks she’s been preening. “Because I never would’ve gone home with him.”

“Well, that’s the problem, now isn’t it sweetie. You have to actually go home with them to give this—” She he reaches forward and grabs me in the crotch. “A little action.”

I yelp and back away as she laughs. I pull my brûlée torch out of its holster and hold it out like I might shoot it. “Hands off the goods!”

“Oh, I like this!” Arie’s eyes sparkle wickedly. “If you want to take the torch home with someone special and do a little role playing … I give you permission!”

“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.”

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