Page 28 of Wild Flower

“Let’s go say hi,” Archer says, nudging me toward the glowing lights of the bar, where a hundred bottles of booze glow behind Connor’s alcohol alter.

“I’ve got an order up.” I motion toward the kitchen.

“Suit yourself,” Archer says, heading toward the bar without me.

“Whatever happened topatience,” I snap, annoyed that he can’t wait five minutes. Archer turns back to me with a wink, walking backwards as he hooks his finger and motions for me to follow him.

“She came to us,” he reminds me. “The waiting is done. And frankly, I’m not about to let any other asshole but you ogle my Wild Flower when I’m around, much less let him hang around Flambé long enough to get horny and handsy.”

“You wouldn’t even know they were here if I hadn’t told you.”

“But you did, Finn.” He steps back and hooks a hand around my neck, pulling me towards him. “And if it was up to you, you’d sit back and sulk. So be thankful I’m the kind of asshole who won’t let you. Not when she’s come to our house.”

“Arie’s house,” I remind him. “Please be discreet.”

“Connor’s got our back,” Archer says, leading me toward the steps that take us to the raised bar that overlooks the dining room.

“Connor’s allegiances are with the Dragon.”

“Man up and take a risk, Finn. You know she’s worth it.”

In that regard, I’m not going to argue, following Archer up the steps as he takes them two at a time.

18

BECCA

Flambé’s bar is smoky and dark, and the lights of Waikiki are glittering like a thousand gems out the window. Carl’s eyes widen as our waitress delivers our drinks and immediately sets the orange slice in the center of his martini on fire.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says, as his eyes glow with the flame’s reflections. “And that’s”—Carl points at my coupe—“a piece of art.”

The caramel martini I ordered comes without a pyrotechnic display. Instead, the glass rim has been dipped in caramel and sculpted in a swirl that splashes off the side in a dramatic swoop; the tawny sugar hardened and fragile and too pretty. Thank goodness there’s a tiny metal straw for me to take sips between the dramatic sugar arches.

“I told you this place would put the Silver Fin to shame.” I wrap my lips around the straw and flutter my eyelashes.

Carl clears his throat and looks around like he needs to be rescued from this brothel of food and sin. He doesn’t touch his drink, probably afraid he’ll be kidnapped by the waitress the second he’s even remotely intoxicated.

It’s not an irrational fear. Finn and Archer didn’t kidnap me last week, but they definitely cornered me in a booth and fed me sinfully.

“She returns.”

My nipples harden at the sound of that voice—a deep, low timbre that shoots prickles across my chest. Archer’s gorgeous blue eyes flash at me with a wicked smile as he and Finn flank our table, positioning themselves on opposites sides of the high-boy I’m sitting at.

Carl tenses, his nightmare is coming true. But all I can do is smile at my sinfully good-looking batboys who only need to unfurl their hidden wings, remove their glamours, and send Carl running. Not that those black-on-black suits don’t make Finn and Archer look like mafia men threatening danger (or pleasure, if you’re willing to take the gamble).

“Good evening, Archer,” I say, crossing my legs and squeezing my thighs together, wickedly aware of how the air runs across my exposed skin. The slit in this dress has opened, showing off the red poppies that bloom beneath the green velvet.

“We missed you the other night,” Archer purrs, his eyes lighting on me like he’d be happy to rip my clothes off in front of everyone. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge Carl, and to his credit, he doesn’t have to. My legs are already trying to squeeze back the delicious ache that’s pooling between them.

“Did you miss me?” I tease, risking a glance at Finn who’s stoic and beautiful, with that golden hair begging my hands to tangle in it. Finn’s more rigid than Archer’s practiced calm, aware that I’ve brought a date to this bar.

“You know these … uh, men?” Carl manages, flanked on both sides by beauty he can’t live up to.

“Yes,” I assert, reaching out and putting a hand on Finn’s muscled arm. That suit fits him too well, and I want those iron muscles smothering me under their power. “This is my best friend’s cousin, Finn,” I explain. “And this—” I motion to Archer, who’s taken the opportunity to step in and crowd me, dropping his hand conspicuously under the table onto my exposed thigh.

Who doesn’t want a gorgeous red poppy when given a field of them to pluck?

Archer’s palm is hot, making me bite my lip as he wraps my tattooed poppies with his claim. I doubt I look innocent, flinching at the heat of his palm, incriminating me with a shiver.

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