Page 87 of Café Diablo

“Eight AM. Don’t be late.”

“I do work until two in the morning,” Connor complains. “You couldn’t push your little appointment back to noon or maybe even second breakfast, at say—three PM?”

“Screwing your girlfriend until sunrise is a choice,” I reply. “If you don’t want to sleep, that’s your decision.”

“First, I love that you will actually say something like that to me now. Olivia’s been—”

“Good for me,” I complete for him, frowning. “Yeah, you all keep saying that.”

“Put that frown away!” Connor teases, pointing at my mouth. “The new Ned is frown-free and getting laid on a regular basis!”

“Ha ha.” I keep the frown for emphasis.

“Which brings me to my second point,” Connor continues. “I’m pretty sure that sweet piece of handcuff-happy-hotness is going to keep you up all night too! So, don’t go lecturing me on one’s life choices.”

“So, eight it is,” I say dryly.

“I’m going to tell Olivia to ride you so hard you can’t even walk in the morning.”

“Then you’re just going to have to push me around in a wheelchair.”

“I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

“Don’t show up then,” I say, stepping back from the bar. “It’s not like I can’t make decisions without you present.”

He shakes his head at me again, wiping down the bar where I was sitting. “Eight thirty, you said?”

“Eight.”

“Right, nine. Got it. I’ll see you then.”

I shake my head, knowing I’ll be lucky if he shows up by ten. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“If you haven’t rethought this whole charade and gained your sanity back by then.”

“Oh yes,” I toss back. “Because Olivia banging me all night is going to make me change my mind?”

Connor shakes his head again. “See you at nine thirty.”

“Eight.”

“Got it, ten.”

He walks over to help a patron and I walk away smiling. He’s infuriating, it’s true. But I also love him, which is why I need him with me tomorrow morning. You’re supposed to bring your best friend and your brother along—for a second opinion—especially when you’re buying a diamond.

36

Olivia

Sunday Night

Steak sizzles on the grill as I sit on the balcony of Edwin’s condo and watch him play grill master. He’s currently leaning over the barbeque getting a premium smoke bath and wearing an apron that says:I’m a lawyer. To save time, let’s just assume I’m right. The sun is setting over the bay and he looks beautifully domestic. And now, I can’t wait to taste that neck that’s been flavored with hickory smoke and sun.

“You know,” I start, as he pulls two juicy steaks off the fire and puts them under some tinfoil torest—that’s fancy chef talk for the steak keeps cooking on the plate. “As someone who hates Flambé, you sure seem to be doing your own smoke and flame spectacle over there.”

“This is steak,” he replies, giving me his signature grumpy frown. “Meat. Flame. Eat. This isnotcovered in a replica of the Eiffel Tower made out of rosemary.”

“But it would be delicious if it was,” I tease.

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