Page 9 of Whiskey Splash

In fact, I close my eyes and try to evaporate—turn into dust, water particles, self-obliteration—basically vanish to some unknown realm where I’ll never have to see Desmond Pike again.

The following silence makes every inch of my body prickle. Yup, I just made the biggest ass out of myself. And frankly, the last thing I want to do is open my eyes and see the look on his face.

“Okay,” I hear Desmond say. “I think we’ve had enough of these.” He takes Connor’s drink from my hand and a zip of electricity shoots through my fingers.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, not opening my eyes. “I’m a complete—”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a problem, people say crazy shit to me all the time.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“They don’t say that kind of shit to you.”

“Okay, maybe not,” he admits, but then suddenly his hand is on mine, warm and comforting. “But let’s just pretend that they do, okay. Forget it.”

I slowly open my eyes and he is actually smiling at me. “Seriously? You’re not ready to file for a restraining order?”

“Oh, I’ll get it later,” he says playfully. “I still have to make it out of the restaurant alive.”

I shake my head, knowing he’s throwing me a bone and being far too kind than I deserve. “I can’t make any guarantees,” I say softly. “I’ve no clue what I’ll say next.”

“Makes living on the edge that much more exciting.”

“I’m glad you like living dangerously.”

“Only since about thirty minutes ago, but there’s a first for everything.”

“You can say that again.”

I notice his hand is still on mine, his manicured fingers well-groomed and trim. His gentleness and warmth are actually so unexpected it starts to make me feel like this might not be such an epic disaster.

“Let’s talk about something safe,” he says, and I nod, exacerbated.

“Yes, please!”

“Your sister says you don’t work at the restaurant. So, what do you do?”

I look at him for along beat, and for a quiet moment it feels like we’re actually on a date and we’re in that awkward phase of asking about each other’s lives, because pure sexual attraction needs some sort of narrative behind it. I avoid making the quip that my life isn’t interesting, especially in comparison to a movie star’s. Instead, I thank him for his grace and decide to walk through this open door and share a small piece of myself.

“I work at the spa here at the resort,” I say. “The Mandara down on the second floor. We do massages, clay baths, hot stones, steam rooms, you know, all the normal spa things. When Arie decided to move to Oahu to openFlambé, I came with her.”

“From where?”

“Southern California, born and raised. But, who can say no to paradise?”

“And you two work in the same resort?”

“Yeah, it’s amazing it worked out that way. When Arie and Simon—that’s her business

partner—when they scored this location it turned out the Mandara was also hiring. It seemed like kismet, you know. Meant to be.” I slip my hand out from under his and he pulls his arm back like he’s just realizing he’d left it there. I smile softly and run my fingers through my hair. “I know my sister sounds like a crazy person, and heck—” I gesture to myself. “It might just run in the family.”

“It might,” Desmond agrees kindly.

I smile, allowing him the jab. “But she’s also an amazing person, my best friend, and my twin, you know. All that cliché twin stuff—it’s real.”

“So, you can feel what she’s feeling?” Desmond quips. “If I pinch you right now, she’ll feel it in the kitchen?”

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