Page 26 of Wild Flower

Carl is friendly and polite, but his eyes keep raking over me like I’m a black widow that might bite. He blushes every time I catch his eyes flitting over my cleavage, and because I can’t help myself when it comes to awkward conversations that my mother’s put me in, I decide to lean in and tease him.

I run a finger along the yellow flower tattooed above my tits. “It’s a mamane blossom,” I say, forcing him to look directly at them. Pink burns his cheeks, his eyes ping-ponging to and from the flower and my eyes. “It’s native to Hawaii and most prevalent on the big island. They provide food for the l’iwi birds, which locals call scarlet honeycreepers—”

“Honeycreeper?” Carl swallows, afraid I’m commenting on him creeping on my ample honey.

“They’re bright red birds,” I continue (that red color similar to his face). “Gorgeous birds that feed on honeysuckles and bell-shaped blossoms. The mamane are also fire tolerant. The plant burns, but afterwards you’ll find seedlings sprouting out of the ash like tiny, leafy phoenixes rising from the soil. It’s magical.”

“Magical,” Carl echoes again, nodding like a bobble-head doll. “Your, uh, mother mentioned you were interested in plants.”

He may as well have saidYour mother mentioned you were born with leprosy and it’s very contagious.I manage a tight smile, using my fork to poke the white, tasteless fish on my plate that’s drowned in—you guessed it—a white cream sauce!

Flambé has ruined me: on food and men.

I pick up my glass of pinot gris (a dry wine that’s been aged in stainless steel in an attempt to make it taste like antiseptic) and swirl the liquid in the glass. Carl’s eyes dilate, afraid I might magically turn grape juice into a grenade.

“Have you ever been to Flambé?” I ask. “The restaurant that’s on top of the Atlantis Resort.”

Carl pales; those rosy cheeks sending his blood somewhere else. Flambé has a reputation.

“Do you want to have some fun?” I ask, tilting the wine glass carelessly. “And actually drink something that tastes good?”

“What? Uh?” Carl stammers. “Is there something wrong with your wine?”

There’s something wrong with my whole night. Primarily the fact that I’m not surrounded by Archer and Finn and being hand-fed chocolate.

What’s wrong with me? There’s no way I’m taking Carl to Flambé! Plus, it takes weeks to get a reservation.

“I was there last weekend,” I admit. “And once you’ve had Flambé’s food and drinks,”— and men—“you find other things … unsatisfying.”

I put the glass down. Carl looks like I just asked him to fuck. Which maybe I did. Flambé’s reputation is scandalous.

“Um … your, uh, mother suggested this place.” He motions to the Silver Fin.

“Do I look like I do what my mother wants?” I ask, and Carl bites his lip like he isn’t sure where he took a wrong turn on this evening.

“Well, uh …” Carl mumbles. “You look different than your mother suggested.” He eyes my tits again as a new bloom of pink ripens his face.

“My mother wishes I was my sister,” I tell him, feeling reckless. “And if you want the girl my mother suggested, you can see if my mom will set you up with Helena. But fair warning, she’s married and no fun.”

“No fun?” Carl echoes.

“Let’s have some fun, yeah?” I toss my napkin onto my plate. “Get a fancy drink that’s lit on fire.”

“They do that?”

“Haven’t you heard of Flambé?”

“No, I have …” Carl nods, swallowing hard. “It’s just …”

“Not approved by my mommy?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“If you want to impress my mother, find a magic spell that turns me into Helena.” I stand up. “If you’re actually interested inme…” I motion to the door. “Let’s go drinking!”

17

FINN

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