Page 2 of Wild Flower

“My flower farm is on my parents’ property,” I explain to Kyle. “You know that florist shop your girlfriend works at?” I motion to Miranda. “Iown that shop, and I grow those flowers myself. It’s easier to live close to the farm when you have to check watering schedules at three in the morning, or cover blooms that can’t handle temperatures under fifty degrees.”

Kyle’s eyes glaze over like I’m talking about how many lifetimes it would take to circle Uranus. In his eyes, I’m the pathetic bestie who’s single and still lives with her mom and dad. My mother may as well be sitting at this table giving him a high-five.

“Is that why you have so many flower tattoos?” Kyle asks, motioning to the plethora of botanicals inked across my arms and shoulders. “If you grow flowers, and you sell flowers, why do you need—?” He motions to the obnoxious redundancy that is the art on my body.

My eyes cut to Miranda with the sharpness of a diamond. She flushes pink, shrugging before making a quip about how my mother can’t help but play makeover with her ugly duckling. It’s a joke we’ve had for years. My sister, Helena, is the dream child, and I’m the goth princess with an obsession with exotic flowers who doesn’t fit into my parents’ country club lifestyle. My mom keeps trying to turn her tattooed quack into a pearl-wearing swan, only to get frustrated each time she discovers the ink and piercings are permanent and not a phase. If only a few make-up and hair curling tutorials could get me to grow up and act like alady.

“My mother—” I begin, only Kyle has inserted his tongue into Miranda’s mouth again and has Hungry Hungry Hippo-ed all of her attention—which is my cue to make like Tom and Cruise.

Only, a periwinkle blue cocktail slides onto the table in front of me.

I look up to find our waiter’s stunning blue eyes (which match my drink) staring down at me with the sparkling clarity of a glacial spring. And ugly ducklings be dammed, is that a tingle I feel downtown whereno oneknows how to make it jingle?

2

ARCHER

A FEW MINUTES AGO

“Coming through!”

I jet to my right as a flaming tray of baked Alaska swoops past me in the arms of my fellow waiter, Finn. The meringue is engulfed in a blue inferno as the ice cream beneath it glitters with decadence.

I move out of the way just in time to avoid toppling over my friend’s flaming tower, noting to him that he should wait until he’s at the table before lighting the dessert on fire. Of course, he never listens. He likes the way the whole room watches him stride through the restaurant like a fire dancer. Considering the guy’s golden hair and tan skin, one might think he moonlights as a fire maven.

“Come find me after you deliver that,” I call after Finn as he enters Flambé’s dining room. “Time to cash in on that bet.”

Finn’s head whips back to me in surprise, his eyes widening behind a swath of golden hair. It’s a miracle he doesn’t drop the flaming dessert all over his suit.

“Seriously?” he asks, a devilish smile curling his lip. The guy is way too eager, and it makes me shake my head at his overt grin. “Deliver that flaming ball of ice cream first, then we’ll discuss it.”

“Arie will fire you if she hears you call one of her desserts something so pedestrian,” Finn warns, before glancing through the patrons seated in the restaurant’s booths. Everyone dresses up to the nines at Flambé: cocktail dresses, sequins, suits, ties. He’s looking for the target of our bet, but this restaurant is full of secluded corners and velvet shadows, and he will see her soon enough.

“Don’t burn the restaurant down,” I scoff. “She’s in my section, but keep your cool. There’s a delicacy to how this is done.” That cocky smile grows wider on Finn’s pretty face. “I’ll be at the bar, picking up something special I have Connor making.”

“He’s the master,” Finn agrees, nodding to the bartender who happens to be our boss’s boyfriend.

“Your ice cream is melting,” I point out, and Finn rolls his eyes, strutting into the dining room with the pyrotechnic dessert held high. He’s welcomed by adoringooohsandahhhsas the patrons watch him strut by.

I head for the bar, pulling out my phone while I wait for Finn to deliver his dessert. I glance at the series of notifications on my phone and frown. There are three phone calls from the same number this afternoon, but I’m not going to listen to the messages. Not right now. Not tonight, when I’ve got Finn’s bet tee’d up just right. My sister and that doctor can go screw themselves for all I care. I’m not interested.

Plus, I’m at work. And I work at the best restaurant in all of Waikiki for a reason. I’m not going to ruin a potentially amazing night with my sister’s buzz kill. I’m going to have fun.

That’s it. Fun. That’s the name of the game. Nothing else. Ever.

Not anymore at least.

I turn my phone off completely and toss it in my suit pocket. We don’t wear aprons at Flambé; we wear suits. Suits that make the guests imagine us as high-rollin’ assholes who’d happily serve them flaming cake before inviting them for a spin in our expensive automobiles. I don’t know what it is, but when a woman sees a man in a suit, her brain short circuits and all she wants is to have her cake and to be eaten too.

It's why I took this job: it pays well, the food is phenomenal, and if you can avoid getting a third-degree burn, the after-hours perks are worth devouring.

I signal to Connor, and he slides an ice-blue cocktail onto a tray for me. He nods in the direction of the woman I pointed out to him earlier, before swinging a finger into my face.

“Don’t get me in trouble with the Dragon,” he warns, referring to his girlfriend Arie who’s the head chef and co-owner of Flambé. She has a reputation for going fire-and-brimstone when she’s pissed off, hence the nickname.

“This is completely innocent,” I reply, pushing his insinuating finger away. “Beautiful women deserve beautiful cock … tails.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Nothing about you is innocent, Archer.”

---