Page 8 of Café Diablo

“That’s not how the world works. Trust me, I’m a lawyer.”

She shakes her head at me, then does an elaborate twirling move like a professional dancer, lifting up our cuffed hands and swirling inward so my arm is now wrapped around her front and her back is against my chest. She does it so fast, I can’t object before Arie is addressing the room and pointing at me next to the flaming champagne fountain.

Both Arie and Connor speak, and to my surprise it isn’t the public roasting I expect it to be. They’re both rather complimentary, causing Olivia to tilt her head back against my shoulder and gloat that she told me so. Suddenly, everyone is holding up sparklers and lifting up flaming champagne flutes that are stuffed with blood oranges and mint decorations (did I mention Arie’s need for frau-frau extravagance?). Everyone yells out my name and praises the not-impressive fact that I’ve survived thirty-two years on this planet.Hear, hear!Olivia pinches my side and hisses at me to smile, and even though I don’t want to, I let the half-semblance of amusement feather my frown.

She rolls her eyes at me likethat will have to do, and quite frankly, that’s all I’m giving her. Oliva may be hot as hell, but if this woman wants a real smile from me, then she’s going to have to work for it, because smiling is not something I do.

5

Olivia

Several hours later, Edwin and I are both drunk. He’s a good four, maybe five glasses of whiskey in, and I get the distinct impression he drinks for the taste of it, not the way it rages hot inside your body and helps to let your guard down.

Goodwhiskey, by the way.

That’sall he drinks.

Whiskey on the rocks, nothing fancy. No twist of lemon, no splash of soda, and by fear of legal action and imprisonment, don’t go near him with any of what Flambéis actually known for—igniting cocktails or smoke baths. Oh no, those are the work of the devil.He won’t let Arie or Connor near him with one of their elaborate concoctions. He keeps saying things like “It’s my birthday!” and “Keep your devil’s work away from me,” and “Let’s discuss the proper meaning of consent.”

At one point, they send over Simon, Arie’s business partner and co-owner of Flambé,to see if Edwin will respond to his more sensible demeanor. After all, Simon’s the business head and accountant half of the operation, and with his horn-rimmed glasses and button up shirts, he seems like a shoo-in to befriend Edwin. But even after talking Edwin’s ear off about whiskey palates and business practices, even Simon can’t convince Edwin that flaming drinks aren’t a Trojan Horse designed to bring down his empire.

Ultimately, I think Connor and Arie are glad Edwin’s actually drinking and hanging out, so they abandon every cocktail they mix on the table for the rest of us flame-happy vultures to snag.

Aaaaand, I’ve definitely had a few too many of them.

I mean, for the petite woman I am, I can drink like a sailor. Lemon drop, jolly rancher, buttery nipple—all down the hatch! But for having the liver of an ox, evenI’mstarting to feel like the room’s gotten a bit blurry and hot. Case in point, I’m certain that if I leaned over and started nibbling on Edwin’s ear, it would taste like butterscotch. Yum. Yum.

To distract myself, I start downing water and go all-in on annoying the frown-besotted gentle-grump sitting next to me. I exercise every adorably charming Edwin insult I can think of with each new friend or colleague that sits down at our booth to wish him a happy birthday. Let’s be clear, all of his friends and acquaintances think I’m funny and charming as hell. Especially, his wiry friend Mason with the weird phallic Hawaiian shirt who tells even dirtier jokes than Arie and Connor on a good day.

“What’s the difference between hungry and horny?” Mason asks, and Edwin puts his free hand over his face like he’s already embarrassed even though his friend hasn’t even said the punch line yet. “Where you put the cucumber!”

Mason cracks up at his own joke, but I’m more amused by how red it makes Edwin’s neck. “Good friend of yours?” I ask Edwin under my breath as I shoulder him playfully. He gives me a frustrated glare before admitting they’ve been best friends since they were children. I guess that explains Mason’s comfort level with going straight for the dirty jokes without much introduction. Or maybe those are his go-to openers with women, which I wouldn’t be surprised. Particularly considering the narrow-eyed leer on Mason’s face that gives me the impression that if I wasn’t handcuffed to Edwin, the dude might follow me around like a stalker if I’m not careful.

“Mason,” Edwin interrupts his friend as he starts in on another joke, noticing my discomfort. “Go get me a Mai-Tai and piss off.”

“For real?” Mason perks up, like that’s code for something.

“No!” Edwin growls out. “Just fuck off and go bother someone else.”

“Mai-Tai’s it is!” Mason laughs, like he’s about to go buy us all a round. “Happy birthday time!”

Mason skulks away to the bar and I turn to look at Edwin, eyeing his glass of whiskey that he’s been refilling all night. “You drink Mai-Tai’s?”

“NO!” he says too forcefully. “Hell fucking no!Thatis a long story that only my asshole of a best friend understands. Mai-Tai’s are the work of the devil.”

“Hmmmm,” I say, teasing my own drink. “Glitter and Mai-Tai’s and birthdays and unicorns—all on your list of pure evil. Got it.” I say dryly, to which he gives me a gloriously sexy frown.

Edwin continues to be a prickly, fuming cactus that I’m becoming addicted to pissing off as several more of his friends and acquaintances do their rounds and come chat with us at our table. It’s way too much fun to make him hot under the collar! It’s subtle of course, more of a clever dance between us than a roasting, and it gives me a chance to learn all his tells, like the neck flush and the side-eye, or his “I’m going to end you” lawyer stare (ok, that one’s not so veiled).

Ironically, for someone who talks for a living, Edwin is shit at small talk. Despite Connor’s reviews that his brother is a “wizard with words,” Edwin doesn’t actually know how to make even one of his employees laugh at his jokes. They all fall flat like a drunk seagull.

Now, if you want an oration on justice theory and politics—Edwin is clearly well endowed in the language department, so endowed I think he actually put one of the judges from the local courthouse to sleep. But when I change the subject to why the last season ofGame of Thronessucked, or the never-ending local debate on whether Hawaii should have its own major league baseball team, he flames out like a match thrown in a pond—silence, awkward quips, and drinking a lot more from his glass of whiskey than he probably normally would.

None the less, he keeps sneaking glances at me like he doesn’t actually mind that I’ve taken the reins in the small-talk department. Maybe I’m reading too much into things, but it’s possible being handcuffed at my side has actually made the whole night a lot more tolerable for him.

My mind buzzes, cloudy and filled with the same light-hearted rush I get from driving my scooter too fast. Call me reckless, but sometimes you’ve just got to trust your instincts on some things and hope no one will be blocking the street on the next turn that you make.

Edwin squeezes my leg, because even though my mind is potato mush, I’ve also been caught several times with my gaze lingering on him. Staring—let’s just call it what it is. Drinking makes me drool and gawk like a horny teenager with her libido unchecked. Beer-goggles be-damned; this man was sexybeforeI started drinking, and now that I’m several sheets to the wind, all the disgruntled, stick-in-the-mud glares he throws at me—they just strike me as flirtatious.

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