Page 38 of Café Diablo

“Well, no, actually,” she says softly, her eyes flicking up to me with a darkness that makes my cock under the table twitch. “But I’ll be honest, Edwin. If painting this flower gets you as hot as I was on your desk, then trust me, you are going to be getting a very personal private lesson later.”

My fingers grip the paintbrush in my hand. I can’t tell if she’s messing with me on purpose, or if she’s serious, but my cock wants the latter.

“But first,” she says hotly, “I want to see you paint.” She taps the printout of the neon pink flower, the smile on her face well aware that there’s only one thing I’m going to be thinking about for the next hour and it’snotorchids.

Damn her! How the hell did she just make painting sexy? And embarrassing? And infuriating all at once? I’m not superstitious, but I’m starting to think Olivia’s a bloody witch.

15

Olivia

Edwin doesn’t have to stay and help me clean up after my event, but he does. His arms are full of easels and paint jars and brushes as he looks at me over his overflowing elbows, acrylic paint actually smeared on some of his fancy suit.

“I hesitate to point out that I may owe you a new suit,” I say, touching his cuff where the pink and orange splatters are. He nearly drops all the equipment he’s holding to get a look, swearing when he sees the damage. “But I fear that will cost me my second kidney,” I say, making him look at me with that sexy smolder that’s pissed and totally thrown off at the same time. “We’re going to have to come up with some sort of payment plan, unless this is one of those cheap suits from Sears or Target.”

“Neither of those establishments sell suits,” he tosses back, and I smile, because obviously that was the point.

“They don’t?” I mock. “Huh. So, you’re saying this is one of those fancy suits hand stitched by garden gnomes and imported from Scandinavia? You know, the ones where the fabric is woven from Viking hair and the cuff links are forged from dragon stone?”

“You watch too muchGame of Thrones.”

“Noneof that is fromGame of Thrones.”

“Yes, it’s an expensive suit,” he confirms, adjusting the materials in his arms as a passive aggressive suggestion that I should show him where the art supplies go.

“Well, the good news is it’s only paint,” I say, ignoring the fact that I’m making him hold my things. “If this had been one of those ten-year-old birthday party events I sometimes book, you’d be covered in glitter right now. And, I know how you feel about glitter.”

“It’s the work of the devil.”

“Yeah again,” I shake my head at him and wag a ridiculing finger in his face. “That’s probably going to be the deal breaker for us. If you can’t access your inner ten-year-old and see the pure joy of showering yourself in tiny specs of plastic stardust, then I’d harbor that your soul is probably rotten.”

“To the core.”

“See, here’s the rub though—” I twist his cuffs and angle the paint blotches in his direction. “Acrylic paint is really just a gateway craft to a full-on glitter addiction. Be careful, Edwin. Before you know it, you’ll be smuggling glitter into your pockets as you head to court, running it through your fingers because you think it brings you good luck, and saying creepy things likemy preciousssss.”

He tilts his head at me at that reference and I beat him to the punch.

“That is fromLord of The Rings, notGame of Thrones,” I say. “Get your fantasy worlds straight and make sure you know the difference between Westeros and Middle Earth before you start correcting me.”

“You. Are.” He draws out each word. “Insane.”

“Yes,” I agree. “So, prepare yourself—mentally, emotionally, whatever you need—because the glitter test is coming. I won’t tell you when, but if you don’t pass it…”

I shake my head like that will be the end of the line.

“Let me ask you a question. When you’re pitching parents this whole birthday-party glitter and paint act for their children,” Edwin asks, putting his frustrated lawyer face on, “do you tell them rule number one? Or is ‘drink more alcohol’ a fun surprise for kids and parents alike?”

I reach out and touch his chin, making him flinch as I run my fingers up the side of his face where I doubt even a hair of stubble has ever been. After all, that would be less than perfect.

“Edwin, I’m not a monster,” I say calmly. “Obviously, I say drink more chocolate milk and then make a very clear gesture to all the housewives in the back to spike their cups with their favorite flavored vodka. All of my contracts state clearly that my painting philosophies are based on years of scientific research that cannot be disputed. Now—” I point to him holding my supplies. “Why are you standing there like a bump on a log, when the car could have been loaded ten minutes ago?”

“You have a car?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes at him and load up my arms with the remaining supplies and motion for him to follow. I yell a thank you to the employees and manager, before propping the heavy metal door open for Edwin to walk out of.

“Left or right?” I ask, once we’re fully on the sidewalk. Edwin looks at me like I’ve grown seven horns out of my head. “Common man!” I press. “You’re really going to look at me like that? Put two and seven together and get ten, my gorgeous lawyer man.”

“That’s nine.”

“Exactly,” I confirm. “You can connect the dots.” I wait for a second, but he glares at me with that exacerbated frown, that—if I had any free hands—I’d bop, just to watch him growl. “Do I have to spell it out? Yes? Okay, Mr. Voss with all the fancy degrees, for five hundred points, what do I drive?”

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