Page 3 of Whiskey Splash

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 miss-match of pheromones and chemicals. It’s basic math. You take the unfortunate fact that I haven’t been laid in months and waive a hot centerfold-worthy man in front of me andof coursemy body is going to turn into a pool of horn-dog jelly. I mean it’s biologicallyimpossibleto not react to the beautiful fantasy of a man in front of me.

And worse, a little piece of me is actually wondering whatwouldslutty 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-wellknowsI am!

“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’dstop gapingat 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 even said a 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 exacerbated. 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 he was imagining licking champagne sauce (or whatever the heck it is she makes) off of.Thatmakes all the sense in the world!

“No-no-no!” I continue. “I most definitely donotown 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—sheowns the restaurant. She’s the one you probably recognize from the cover of Bon Appetite 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, and 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. What he really wants is to see my sister, and that uber 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.

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