Page 49 of Café Diablo

I don’t want to agree with my father and give into his narrow view of the world, but he has a point. When I’m thinking about Olivia, this warm hum seems to take me over and I just want to let down all my armaments—work less, forget the fourth pass on reexamining the evidence, have a drink, then have another drink that hopefully leads to—

Distracting.

Yup. It’s undeniable.

She also makes me feel out of control. Out of control in this new and exhilarating way that I don’t fully understand. And being out of control is alsonotwhat I do.

It takes control and discipline to win, and it only takesonedistraction for a fatal blow to take you down. And Olivia is not just one distraction, she’s so many levels of distraction I can’t even count them.

20

Olivia

Iignore Connor and Arie at work. My station at the hostess desk is nowhere near the bar or the kitchen, but somehow the two of them keep finding reasons to drop by the front entrance, armed with questions and innuendos.

“How’d the date go?”

“Do you need another special delivery assignment?”

“Is my brother being an asshole or a gentleman?”

“Let me tell you how to get under Ned’s skin.”

I keep waving them off, keeping my cards close to my chest, and not wanting their over-zealous need to meddle ruin whatever is happening between me and Edwin. Not that I could really define whatishappening between us. It was one hot night. Okay, two and a half. But I shouldn’t blow it out of proportion. I mean, we’ve hardly had a date. We’ve had lots of naked-sexy-time and plenty of verbal sparring—which has been fun, and it’s supposed to be fun—so, why the hell am I confused?

I look at the walls of Flambé’sentryway. Large photos of flowers cover the walls. They’re exotic blooms of orchids, and hibiscus, and hell flowers, surrounding me with their oversized stamens and petals blossoming. I had Edwin paint a flower similar to these, and these giant buds mock me, while at the same time feel symbolic: blooming with possibility and growth.

I shake myself, annoyed at my excessive over-romantic liberal-arts-educated need to find metaphors and symbolism in everything. Some things are just flowers and not secret keys to life’s deeper meaning.

But somethingisdifferent.

Since meeting Edwin, I haven’t been able to stop painting. Inspiration just seems to be zipping through the air like locusts from the plague. Ilovethat my work is on fire. I painted after our night in the hammock. I painted all week. My canvasses and paintbrushes are lit with color and inspiration—and it scares me. Because I’m either lust-drunk for my muse and I’m using Edwin as a creative defibrillator to jumpstart my heart; or, my heart is acting all on its own and I’m turning into a gushy sentimental equivalent of a Hallmark card.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with being excited and enjoying the honeymoon phase of something that’s new and exciting. The problem is what happens after, when the shine and inspiration wear off, especially if my heart is trying to get involved. He’s a hotshot lawyer with a life that’s so different than my own. Fancy office. Fancy life. Fancy car. There are rules in this world about crossing the tracks and playing with those above your status. You can visit for a little while and have fun, but don’t fool yourself and forget to quit while you’re ahead.

But that’s the thing, I don’t want to quit him.

Fool that I am.

In fact, all I want is to curl up next to him and look at the night sky, feeling his arms around me as I stare up at the glitter and diamonds. That isn’t even the hot sex part, it’s the being around each other part, and feeling … like you belong. Yup, there it is again—the schmaltzy Hallmark card, telling me stories and trying to read more into this than it really is.

He’s my muse.

A hot sexy muse that makes my canvas explode with color and my lower regions bow at his awesome power. And when it’s over, the paintings will be even more intense. My work will probably leap to a whole other level, like Picasso’s blue period, or Van Gogh cutting of his ear over a woman.

If this is good for my art, then I should fall for my muse all I want.

What’s the worst that could happen?

21

Ned

I’m walking through the courthouse on a break after our morning of jury selection when my cell phone buzzes. I’m about to ignore it because we only have ten minutes, when I see it’s from Olivia, and—distraction that she is—I can’t seem to help myself from clicking the view button.

Olivia:Are you at the office? Or down at the courthouse being a big bad naughtylawyer?

God. This woman can’t just say hello, can she?

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