Page 19 of Café Diablo

“Yes, Connor, I know that. Hence the whole charade of me having to pick him up at his office.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Connor’s face loses its playfulness and his voice takes on a serious tone. “My brother works non-stop, weekends, holidays, birthdays. I can’t remember the last woman he flirted with, much less took out to dinner. I mean, the man is practically celibate.”

“Your brother isnotcelibate!” I shoot back at him, my face heating with that traitorous pink crawling up my cheeks.

Connor’s eyebrows raise like that was an admission, and I glare at him, refusing to let the pink in my face be anything more than my normal complexion.

“Okay, except—” Connor leans in like he’s telling me a secret. “That’s kind of my point. Normally…My brother is a work-a-holic. He loves two things—”

“Whiskey and winning,” I say dryly. We’re going in circles.

“Yes, winning.” Connor nods. “He worksall the time,so he is always, always, winning. No women. No dates. No fun. Work.That’swho Ned is. Except for at the party. So, whatever you did—” Connor’s cheek feathers, like he knows it was more than a chaste kiss on the cheek. “It was just really nice to see my brother having fun. That’s all I wanted to say. Because yes, I bust his balls all the time, and I knew he’d hate that party, and I threw it for him anyway. But what I didn’t expect was—you. Andhemost definitely didn’t either.”

I stare at him, frowning, not sure what I’m supposed to do with all of that. It was a fun night, but—what? Is Connor playing matchmaker now?

“The catch is, he likes you but he won’t call you,” Connor says, letting go of my hand. “Because he’s a hard-nosed douche who doesn’t know what’s good for him. So, the ball’s in your court.”

“And if I’m not interested?” I ask, throwing a hand on my hip for emphasis.

“Then that’s your choice,” Connor says honestly. “But it also sucks, cause I can’t even remember the last time my brother was interested in anyone. And I can tell you for sure, none of them were as good for him as you are.”

Connor nods abruptly, before heading back to the dining room and leaving me alone in the hallway.

No pressure or anything—thanks Connor! I give your brother one blow job and suddenly, I’m his personal work-a-holic’s-anonymous 12 step program?

Sure, I wouldn’t mind seeing Edwin again. In fact, I would more than ‘not mind.’ But I’m also not ready to get in the middle of some sort of power struggle with the man. If he doesn’t want to see me, then … that’s his loss.

Except, I also can’t get the image of him out of my mind—the one where he’s on the patio, bent over the railing and looking down at me like I’m the most surprising and exotic thing he’s ever seen in his life. It’s as if that one night jumped to the top of his unforgettable list, andI’mthe one who made that happen.

And a piece of me wouldn’t mind seeing if I can top it.

10

Olivia

Three days later, I’m walking into Flambé at mid-day even though my shift doesn’t start till the evening. Arie called me this morning to see if I could come in at noon for a special delivery, which means extra cash for doing next to nothing, so I agreed.

I walk into the shimmering dining room of Flambé and I’m always struck by how different it looks in the daylight. The cloak and sin of the evening is lost in the daylight hours. Instead of a bordello of tasty delights, it just looks like an everyday classy restaurant with a giant overhead chandelier of shimmering globes. It reminds me that there’s something about the night and its velvet of low light that ignites the imagination. Perhaps we dream more in the darkness of evenings because it’s less scary to look at your desires through shadows, rather than the bright light of morning.

“Arie?” I call out, the entire place quiet and abandoned. “Hellooooo? You said you had a special delivery for me this afternoon?”

I’m about to go into the kitchen when Simon walks out of the swinging double doors carrying a pastry box in his fingers.

“Olivia, fantastic,” Simon chirps, smiling wide at me from under his horn-rimmed glasses—accountant couture—reminding me that he’s the one who signs the checks. Arie and Simon are the perfect mix of creative and strategic, money and mayhem—Simon, of course, being the sturdy keel of logic that reins Arie in. I really have to remember to talk to Simon when I’m getting closer to opening up my own art business, so I know how to make things work out financially.

“We appreciate you coming in off-hours to deliver this,” Simon continues, placing the box on top of the nearest table. His glasses and Clark Kent-combed hair make him look particularly bookish as he picks up the label. “I don’t know the details, except that Arie got up early to make these special. It looks like the address is on the ticket and these need to be delivered before three this afternoon. That gives you plenty of time.”

“What are they?” I ask, and Simon opens the lid to reveal four individual-sized custom-made tarts.

Simon points at the different flavors and starts listing them off. “Blueberry earl gray, lemon curd and raspberry, honey mascarpone, and cherry espresso.”

“They’re beautiful,” I coo, which is an understatement. Arie’s desserts aren’t pretty, they’re damn works of art with colors and sprigs of garnish all perfectly placed like an abstract painting. Each round tart is its own color—purple, red, yellow, and chocolate brown—which is then covered in thinly sliced fresh fruit and a perfectly sculpted dollop of frosting. Each is dusted with powdered sugar or coconut flakes or espresso powder—whatever compliments the flavor—making them look like sweet-glitter heaven.

“Wow!” I compliment. “I could do a whole series of paintings using Arie’s desserts.”

“You know,” Simon says, looking at me seriously. “If they’re any good, we could put them up in the restaurant if they complement the current look and decorations.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Arie is so particular about what she likes. I just dabble in painting these days. I have a degree, but I’m not a professional.”

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