Page 6 of Wild Flower

Archer walks up with a wicked smile on his mouth, and my eyes jet to Miranda accusingly:What did you do?

“I love you,” Miranda chirps, leaning down to kiss me on the cheek and releasing her iron grip. “Have a great night.”

Miranda and Kyle slip away, and simultaneously, Archer sits down in the booth opposite of me. It’s like a bad magic trick without a rabbit or a dove, and I’m stuck staring awkwardly at my future spank-bank Fae god.

“Uh—?” I look at Archer confused. “What is happening?”

His full lips curl deviously. “I’m your date for the rest of the night.”

“I’m sorry, you’re my what?” I say blindsided, trying to ignore the mischievous glimmer in Archer’s way-too-pretty eyes. He nods to my friend, who left as if she’s the mastermind behind this little scheme, and knowing Miranda, it’s a half-baked disaster in the making. “Uh …” I stare at him, and he keeps beaming at me with those sultry eyes and kissable lips. God-damn you, Miranda! This is not awkward at all!

“Becca, is it?” he purrs—my name sounding way too dirty in his mouth. It’s the kind of purr that has me thinking about satin sheets and spankings. Miranda, the traitor, should’ve known better than to give it to him. She knows I love the scenes in romance novels when the Alpha-hole whispers the heroine’s name in her ear like it’s a prayer, especially when he’s gripping her hair—a dirty detail from a scene I foolishly read to her. And Archer … well, he has the kind of hands that are very fist-able.

“You realize that before my friend left,” I start, “she said—and I quote—‘The rest of my night is paid for!’ Do you moonlight as a male escort?”

Archer laughs, putting his elbows on the table and leaning in, causing his sheen of long hair to swing forward. “I can,” he says with that same purr. “Not that I’d charge you.”

A wick of heat blooms across my chest as if the yellow flowers tattooed there could spontaneously blossom.

That lean is delicious. And flustered as I am, I want to lean right back. I’m pretty sure when Sheryl Sandberg wrote her bookLean In, she didn’t mean lean into the waiter that’s devouring you with his eyes. She meant: lead, be bold, don’t be afraid of your feminine power! However, Archer is interested in a completelydifferentkind of feminine power … one Miranda wants to serve to him on a silver platter.

“Don’t you have to work?” I ask, gesturing to the other tables.

“Yes,” he says, not moving. He just leans and looks, making me feel like that black-on-black suit is its own black hole, pulling me in with its gravity.

“You’re going to sit there—on the clock—and mentally undress me like we’re on a date?” I ask boldly.

His cheek feathers with an amused smile, trying to decide if he’ll admit to the mentally undressing me part.

“There’s drinks and dessert,” he says finally, “which you have to stay and eat.”

“Alone?” I toss back.

I don’t know what he and Miranda cooked up, but in the five minutes they had to plan it, it’s bound to blow up spectacularly. In fact, it will probably go up in literal flames, considering half the food at this restaurant comes with a fire-juggling act.

“Not exactly,” he says cryptically.

Archer raises a hand, getting the attention of another waiter in the restaurant. A moment later, another Flambé supermodel walks over sporting a chiseled jaw and golden hair. Is there a modeling catalogue they hire the men in this restaurant from? And can I please have a subscription!

“Finn,” Archer says, motioning to the second waiter. “This is Becca. She’s the one I was telling you about.”

My eyes narrow.Whendid Archer have time to tell another employee about me?

Finn’s handsome face lights up. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Becca.” He beams like a statue that should be standing atop a Greek pedestal with his tawny hair spun like the sun illuminates it. A pleasantness spreads across his whole demeanor, making him disarmingly beautiful. In that dark suit, all Finn would need to do is frown, and he’d be the perfect, chiseled, I’m-a-supermodel-in-a-perfume-ad centerfold. We’re talking the kind of ad that screams cover yourself in this ridiculous scent before I fuck you like an alpha billionaire in my expensive limo … overlooking a dramatic cliff … after which I’ll convince you to be my fake wife so my fortune isn’t stolen by my greedy ex … (or at least that’s what the latest erotic novel I read implies billionaires do with their women).

Except, Finnissmiling, which means toss that alpha-billionaire in a Rom-Com and Finn and I will be montaging our way through the Hawaiian highlights: splashing in the surf, scuba diving, swimming with the dolphins (all of which will be done in ridiculously hot swimwear, of course).

I’m clearly gawking, because both Archer and Finn are smiling at me like they want to put me in the middle of a Flambé waiter sandwich—which turns everything downtown up to broil. Okay, where’s the water? I need to douse myself in at least three gallons of ice.

“It’s nice to meet you, Finn,” I croak out, because I’m flanked on both sides by porno-level human hotness. I cross my legs and sit up straighter.

“Do you prefer Rebecca?” Archer asks politely, a sneaky smile hooking his lip. Yeah, Miranda is a traitorous bitch. She absolutely told this guy my weaknesses, before leaving me to fend for myself in a pool of sexy sharks.

I glance between the men suspiciously. “Becca is fine,” I say tersely, not sure what they’re up to.

“Well, Becca,” Archer says with that masculine drawl. “We’rebothhere to take care of you. And alone is thelast thingyou’re going to be tonight.”

Curse you, Miranda!Did you know these two would wake up the frisky kitten?

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