Page 50 of Champagne Fizz

“Thank you, Simon, I just—”

I get it. I’m the middle man.

“Of course.” I nod. “You do your thing. I’ll call Olivia and see what her ETA is with Ned. I’ll be in my office in the back.”

“Thank you,” Kendall says, pulling all those wild curls into a messy bun. It puts the column of her neck on display and I don’t fully catch what she says next. Something about wow-factor and making sure no one comes in till she’s ready.

“Not a problem,” I say, disappearing out of the room. If I’m not going to help, I’m going to end up gawking. In my office, I try to occupy my mind: organize files, work on a spreadsheet, punch in numbers, delete them.

I can’t focus.

It’s stupid. Kendall’s in the next room doing her job. It’s not like she’s robbing the place. There’s no legitimate reason for so much anxiety to be coursing through me.

I text Olivia and Ned, and tell them what time to arrive for the unveiling. But, after another twenty minutes of digital solitaire I can’t help myself from sneaking back into the dining room to spy on Kendall. It’s almost been an hour anyway.

The main room is dark when I tiptoe in. Kendall’s turned all the overhead lights off and the glow that burns through the space comes from the candles placed on the decorated tables.

One table is covered in narrow, black candles of wax, sitting atop thin candlesticks. The flames are perfect for Flambé; fire is our signature. The second table has tree-like centerpieces with luminaries dangling from the branches. And the third is lit with classic lanterns. All of the tables are covered in a sea of flowers—different ones on each—black orchids and blooming peonies, and a dozen other violent and crimson blooms I could never identify. The differences between the three table styles are subtle. For example, the color of the table cloth, or the shape of the silverware, or if the seating card is inked on ribbon or antler bone. But each table is breathtaking—moody and decadent.

They’re everything Arie would be jealous of, and everything that would make Olivia cry. Frankly, it doesn’t matter which table design they pick. They’re all perfect. Any one of them is going to look spectacular inHollywood Bride Magazineand make Flambé look incredible. And the woman hovering over those final candles, lighting them, she’s perfect too. Kendall’s vibrant and talented and standing in her power. Sue Blade would be proud.

My instinct is to close the distance between us, stride over to Kendall, clutch her hip and—

But the warning in my gut yells at me to be professional.

Only, I’m tired of that familiar nagging. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss her, or tangle my fingers in the thick mane of her hair, or tilt her head back so I can drag my mouth across her neck. Iwantto feel her gasp against my lips. I want all of it.

Candleflames tremble wickedly as I stride up to the table where Kendall’s lighting the final candles of her display.

“Beautiful,” I say, only Kendall startles at the sound of my voice, twisting around to find me right behind her.

“Simon!” Her hands hit my chest just like when I ran after her the other day, and she almost passed out. Only, this is different.

Darker.

More romantic.

Charged.

The long match in her hand extinguishes, smoldering in her grip and releasing a ribbon of smoke between us.

“I didn’t hear you—” My hand slides over her hip and her brown eyes flare. Nervousness? Excitement? I want to taste both of those on her.

“All three of these tables are incredible,” I say quietly, digging my hands into the soft of her waist. “Sue Blade would be proud.”

“No, she … she—”

“You should be proud.”

Her eyes flick to my mouth.

“You really like it?” she asks, a pink glow creeping across her neck.

“Beautiful.”

My head tilts down, and Kendall inhales sharply before my mouth brushes against hers.

She shudders with a tentativeness that causes my hand to fist against her lower back.

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