Page 7 of Wild Flower

Both Archer and Finn’s eyes light on me, and I don’t think they mean they’re going to take care of mefor just the time I’m at this restaurant.

Oh no,Flambé has a reputation … and dessert hasn’t even been served.

4

ARCHER

Becca swallows hard like she’s afraid we might bite.

Only as hard as you want us to, sweetheart.

My eyes flick to the tattooed branch of flowers that bloom across her breast bone, then to the briar of wild roses that tangle over her left shoulder in a knot of vines. When she came in earlier and moved her mermaid hair to the side, I caught a glimpse of the ferns and butterflies that ink down her spine. She’s a goth princess illustrated with a hundred poisonous flowers. I might’ve thought she was a tattoo artist if her friend hadn’t told me what she actually does: that inked body comes with a green thumb.

And damn, do I want to pluck the flowers.

Finn goes to get dessert, and I reach across the table to steal her drink. The sparkling blue liquid is crisp, the alcohol’s bite coming with a floral aftertaste. I don’t know how Connor can encapsulate a person’s essence into a cocktail, but this drink is spot on. I hope she tastes as floral and delicious as this creation.

“They let you drink while you’re at work?” Becca asks, her eyes watching my lips and throat as I swallow the mermaid elixir.

“Finn is working,” I correct, returning her heated gaze, happy to consider how lick-able her lips might be. “I’m keeping you company. Then we’ll switch.”

“And then drunk, you’ll serve flaming cocktails to his tables?” she tosses back. “Isn’t that a fire hazard?”

“Are you afraid I’ll set you on fire?” I tease.

Her eyes pool with desire, and she tries to play it off by pulling her silver hair to the side of her neck, revealing a ghost orchid tattooed under her ear. It’s almost invisible, drawn in white ink on her light skin, a surprise for those who are really looking.

I push the drink back to her so she has something to occupy her hands. She’s definitely nervous. Her friend left her with the sharks.

“So you grow exotic flowers?” I ask, nodding to her tattoos. “Or do you have a mild obsession with Victorian illustrations?”

She licks her purple mouth again and lifts her chin. “I have a healthy obsession with cryptobiotic soil crusts,” she says defiantly. “Would you like me to bore you with the details?”

“Ooooh, talk dirty to me,” I joke, and those purple lips curl into a wicked smile.

“I was,” she says hotly. “Soil crustsaredirt.”

Her eyes flash with a naughty fire, and oh, do I love a challenge.

“The soil crusts also happen to be alive,” she continues. “They’re filled with cyanobacteria and algae, creating at dense matrix of symbiosis. This allows them to absorb water more quickly than regular soil, which then dries and creates the crust-like surface. Of course, most people just walk all over them not realizing they’re destroying a delicate ecosystem that can take years to recover.”

“I didn’t know talking about dirt could be so sexy,” I tease.

“Mother Nature is poisonous, and gorgeous, and delicate, and we just strut all over this planet like she belongs to us.”

The conviction in her voice makes my cock twitch. Poisonous and delicate are words that don’t even begin to describe what this woman is. Her confidence is a drug, demanding I sit up and pay attention. I can’t help myself; a fierce, passionate woman is my weakness.

“Ah. So you’re the type of woman who will chain herself to a tree in protest?” I characterize with a flirty smile. “Defy the big corporations as they threaten to cut down the rainforest, or walk on the crypto—what was it called?”

“Cryptobiotic soil crusts.”

“Right.” I nod. “This is the dirtiest conversation I’ve had in a while, Becca. Tell me, what kind of chains do you use for these protests?” I wink, implying it’s not protests that I’d like to restrain her for.

“I never said I protest,” she replies, a sparkle glittering in her eyes. “You obviously have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Because I’m into chains?” Her eyes flick to me in flustered surprise. She’s trying to hide how interested she is in that idea. “I’m happy to use the soft leather ties if that’s your preference.”

“Ipreferhikers to look where they step,” she says, trying to return this conversation to the crusts. “I’dpreferthem to stay on the trails instead of crunching on decades of delicate growth for some soon-to-be-forgotten Instagram photo.”

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