Page 6 of Champagne Fizz

Secretly, I might be rooting for the wedding planner. She’s cute as hell, and I haven’t been this excited about a meeting since I was talking to Arie a few months ago about the possibility of franchising.

Sunlight dances through the giant picture window as I enter the main dining room. The dark tables and velvet booths look less sexy in the daylight, perhaps toning down the raunchy quality our incoming wedding planner fears will ruin her clients’ special day. Not that the pastel yellow, floral monstrosity she’s bound to plan won’t.

The daylight will definitely temper her expectations. Because at nighttime, Flambé’s something Ms. Yellow Sunshine probably doesn’t have the stomach for. I’m betting she’s never actually been to Flambé before, or she came here once and her date didn’t show her a good time afterwards.That’sthe carnal sin of Flambé. You don’t come to Flambé, then go home and leave your date unsatisfied. Oh no, you leave this restaurant wanting to taste your date in the same way you ate the cherries jubilee. At least, that’s the business model we’ve been selling (and for ninety-nine percent of our customers, it works beautifully).

Maybe Ms. Sunshine is a little uptight and needs arealFlambé experience to loosen her up. My lower regions perk up at that thought, loving the idea of showing her what my restaurant is like after dark. But I don’t mix business and pleasure.

Arie, on the other hand, has a completely different philosophy on life. She’ll blur all the lines of what’s appropriate at work. For example, her relationship with our bartender Connor. The two of them were a mess when we first opened this restaurant. They couldn’t decide if they wanted to screw each other or commit murder. Unfortunately, that turned into anger fucking all over the restaurant and forcing me to triple-bleach everything. Sure, things worked out in the end for them, but how often does that happen? Less than one percent? Arie’s just the kind of woman who defies logic.

For me, sex and business are messy, and I don’t like messy. I don’t like messy when it comes to employees, and patrons, and vendors,andcontracted wedding planners. If I’m going to see a woman in any professional capacity then sex is off the table.

Of course, that doesn’t stop mymindfrom being unprofessional, because I’m already imagining the color of that yellow spitfire’s blush when she learns the true power of Flambé’s naughty dessert menu.

I could invite her to stay after hours …

Sit her on the sleek marble bar …

Inch my fingers under that pencil skirt ...

The idea of getting her hot has my cock twitching—which is a problem—because I need all my blood to be pumping to my brain so I can best her in this meeting.

Verbal sparring now.

Cock sparring later—ifI were to let my cock make the decisions, which I do not.

I stride into the main dining room to find Ned and Olivia sitting at a table by the picture window. The soon-to-be bride and groom are the cliché image of happy. Ned wears a suit and Olivia is snuggled under his arm with her long hair shining like a sheet of black silk. Ned can’t stop looking at her with a love-drunk smile (which trust me, is a lot for Ned). Who knew curmudgeon assholes could find love? I guess thereissomeone out there for everyone.

Ned is Connor’s brother (Connor, the previously mentioned master bartender and Arie’s personal anger-management program). Of course, Ned made one hell of a mess when we first opened Flambé, and I almost banned him from the restaurant. Connor had to beg me to give his brother a second chance, despite the fact that Ned said some really shitty things to Arie when we first opened. The silver lining is Olivia, who magically turned the grumpy ol’ frog into a blushing groom.

As I walk toward the couple, I notice Connor’s behind the bar pouring something green and alcoholic into champagne glasses. Those are bound to be lit on fire the second the wedding planner arrives, which will definitely reinforce her bias that Flambé is nothing but cheap pyrotechnics.

“Your wedding planner is right behind me,” I announce to the couple as I pull up a chair. “We shared an elevator.”

“Oh, you met Kendall!” Olivia gushes like the two of them might be old friends from college. “Don’t you just love her?”

Kendall. Cute name.

In fact, hearing it reminds me that I did get an email from her yesterday about this meeting. What was her full name? Kendall Love? Kendall Heart? It was something pun-happy and cliché that would fit the world’s cheesiest wedding planner.

“Uh, you could say she’s … colorful,” I offer, trying not to sound too judgmental.

“Oh my gosh! I just adore her style,” Olivia says, squeezing Ned’s arm. “She’s like a candy lollipop of fun.”

“Does that mean I can lick her from end to end?” Connor asks from behind the bar.

“No,” Ned grumbles, his mouth turning down. “Please refrain from offering to tongue-bathe our wedding planner, thank you.”

“But I want her to feel comfortable,” Connor quips, “and help her to … get to know the family.” Connor makes the universal tongue gesture for licking pussy and Ned’s shoulders tense.

“He’s saying that to piss you off,” Olivia explains to her fiancé, snagging his chin so he’s gazing at her again. “If you need me to cut out Connor’s tongue for you, I can.”

“Don’t you dare!”

That’s Arie.

Ned would probably endorse Olivia to go ninja on his younger brother, but I swear Arie has radar when it comes to anyone talking about Connor—especially any part of Connor that she’s particularly fond of.

Arie struts out of the kitchen in a whirlwind of sass and confidence. Her red hair is styled in pin-up curls, and the skin-tight black dress she’s wearing has two red cherries printed on the fabric that hugs her ass.

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