Page 48 of Café Diablo

It’s my father on the other end of the phone, micromanaging from Arizona.

Bluster.

Lecture.

Belittle.

He has a pattern.

“Don’t make me fly out there to take over this case!” he snarls, making me imagine his pepper-grey hair bursting into flames with his anger.

“You really think I am that incompetent?” I say smoothly, trying to ignore the knot of tension that’s been twisting in the side of my neck for the last twenty minutes. I blame it on psychology. Obviously, it’s a Pavlov’s Dog reaction at work in me, rooted in my childhood when I first understood my father’s tone was angry and dangerous.

He makes me tense. Always.

Hence the poker face, created by years of trying to hide that he doesn’t get to me.

It’s not a conscious take-me-to-therapy-so-I-can-talk-about-my-daddy-issues kind of problem. It’s more subtle. It’s more like a chronic pain that I just have to weather through.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Connor,” my father snips. This has become his go-to insult since Connor cut ties with him a year ago. “He’s obviously brainwashing you to be lazy. Him and that—”

“Her name is Arie,” I cut him off before he says something insulting. Something I myself might have said a year ago and now regret.

It’s not common for me to come to Arie’s defense, particularly when it comes to my father, but I’ve learned she isn’t the devil spawn I once thought she was. In fact, spending some time with Olivia has me thinking I was wrong about a lot of things when it comes to Arie and Flambé.

“She’s a chef and owns one of the most successful new restaurants in Oahu,” I explain to my father. “A business that’s been written up in several national magazines. If you want to call me lazy, the last thing you should do is suggest one of Hawaii’s hottest entrepreneurs is a poor influence. It reveals your implicit bias.”

“I wasn’t talking about her business acumen,” my father retorts crisply.

He means her whole business model of turning food into sin. He means her ability to lure Connor to a life he doesn’t approve of, using her body and her mouth. My throat gets tight. He means being distracted by a woman and letting your other obligations slip because that woman’s got you squeezed under her finger tip.

“I have to call the clerk’s office,” I say, making something up so I can get off the phone. “I’ll update you after we start jury selection tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he says to my obvious lie. “Your mother says hello, by the way. Make sure you find someone who will have your back, not like that chef with—”

“Thanks, Dad,” I cut him off again. “Tell mom I love her too.”

I hang up before he can say any more.

Bringing up Mom is just another one of his tactics. She’s his version of the perfect woman—smart, cunning, she’s a lawyer too—but most importantly, she’s obedient and loyal. She understands who the king is and her place as a supporting character in his rein.

When Connor got arrested several years ago, mom took dad’s side, no questions asked. She was the model of her husband’s subject, bound by duty and following the company (and family) line.

Am I angry at her for that? Yes. But I’m also not sure I can blame her.

Navigating my father’s love is complicated if you fight against him. The simple thing is to buy in to his philosophies and find value in standing next to him. I’m not sure how anyone could be married to my father, especially not happily, and avoid it. It’s what makes her precious and perfect in my father’s eyes. It’s how she gains his respect. It’s how we all learned to gain my father’s love—obedience, loyalty, falling in line.

The tightness in my throat is because I know my father wouldn’t approve of Olivia. He doesn’t even know she exists, but her association with Arie and Flambé—not to mention all the naughty, incredible things she’s done to turn my world upside down—yeah, she’d be his poster child for danger, distraction, and personal ruin.

And what am I doing? I’m playing with fire.

I admit, I’m often in over my head when Olivia’s around. She isn’t one of the pretty, socialized, country-club girls I’ve dated in the past. She isn’t tame and polite and happy to hang on her man’s arm like a mindless Stepford Wife. Not that the other women are mindless, but there is a certain air of obedience and staying within the lines that keeps them within a specific mold. I can’t even imagine Olivia attending one of the club’s charity events, much less sitting still for half an hour to listen to those women speak. She’d turn every upstanding social event into a game of under-the-table footsie.

Or worse.

I almost laugh at how amusing it would be. Embarrassing and awkward and probably completely humiliating, but still amusing. And afterward, she’d still throw her hair over her shoulder hotly and give me that mischievous mock-innocent smile, telling me there’s a lot more excitement to come. And she isn’t the tease that won’t deliver on such a wicked promise. Oh no, my cock can attest, he’s never disappointed when Olivia’s around.

Damn! Sheisdistracting.

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