Page 4 of Whiskey Splash

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. This is the perfect example of how I amnotmy 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 delicatessen 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 definitelynotyou. So …”

“Desmond Pike?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “The most fuckable bachelor in the universe fromBillionaire 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—withthat 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 calculating 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’d 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’sseenyou 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 me 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?’”

“You’re a heathen, Arie!”

“Nope,” she shakes her head. “He’s the heathen. The heathen that wants to give you a long bliss-filled night of multiple O’s.”

I look away from her, heat tickling up my neck. “He’s not—”

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