Page 27 of Wild Flower

“She’s here,” I say, snagging Archer’s elbow before he heads into the main dining room to one of his tables. He stops in his tracks.

“Wild Flower,” he asks for confirmation, and I nod, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “It’s only been a week, Finny-Boy. I told you to wait.”

“She’s not alone,” I clarify, and Archer’s eyes narrow.

“She brought a lady friend for us to play with?” He smiles like that could be fun, up the ante from three to a foursome, but I shake my head.

“Her friend is male.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, Oh. What was that bullshit about waiting?”

“Hold your cock, Romeo,” Archer slaps a hand on my shoulder. I grunt, because holding my cock isallI’ve done for the last week, per this long-haired chump’s suggestion. I should’ve surprised Becca at the flower shop and asked if she wanted to model for a shoot. At least then I could see if she truly was my muse.

“Maybe she wants to ditch the stiff,” Archer says, trying to peer around the booths to see which one she’s at. “She knows we work here. She knows the invitation’s open. Why would she bring a date here when she knows we’re primed and waiting?”

“Because she’s moved on and that was a one-time-thing that’s never happening again,” I grind out. “Maybe she wants to replay our little tryst with the new stooge she’s with.”

Archer frowns, not liking my logic. But the fact is, if Becca wanted to hook up with us, she would’ve shown up in the lobby last weekend. Instead, she’s moved on to her next conquest and is rubbing it in our faces.

“Don’t do that.” Archer points a finger in my face. “I told you before not to bet against what you want. And now you’re doomsday-thinking this. I can tell from the crease between your eyebrows. Stop. Right now. I, of all people, should have a damn chip on my shoulder about life dealing me a shit hand. But I refuse to wallow in anything. You’re healthy as an ox and in your prime. If you don’t want Becca, walk away, but I’m not taking defeat that easily.”

I frown, surely making that crease permanent. “What are you talking about—life dealing you a shit hand?” I ask, and Archer grins like I just walked into a trap he was setting.

“Which booth is she at?” Archer asks, turning me with him to get a better view of the dining room. “I haven’t found her yet. Is she in Jade’s section? Or Sandry’s?”

“They’re at the bar,” I say dryly.

“Oh!” Archer’s face lights up. “Why didn’t you lead with that, ya sad-sack? That changes everything.”

“Everything?”

“She’s absolutely here for us.”

“Because she’s sitting at the bar?”

“Yes!”

“With her date!” I remind him.

“How long is the waitlist for a table reservation at Flambé?” Archer asks.

“At least two weeks. Maybe a month.”

“But the bar is …” Archer pauses, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“First come, first serve,” I reply dryly. “Make your point, asshole.”

“This wasn’t premeditated,” Archer answers.

“What? Coming to Flambé? Or are you talking about murder now?”

Archer scrunches up his face and gives me a glare. “You watch too many cop shows with a comment like that. It means, this wasn’t planned. She’s shown up with her date on a whim.”

“And that somehow means she’s here for us?”

Archer nods like it’s obvious, which it’s not. But a grin is on his face, and I can see his eyes scanning the bar and calculating.

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