Page 8 of Wild Flower

“And you say you’re not into protests …” I toss her a hitched eyebrow.

“I organically grow plants,” she replies, “in a healthy, ecosystem-rich environment.”

“So you grow these crypto crusts?”

“No.” She picks up the blue drink and sips it. “Those aren’t in Hawaii. It’s too humid.”

“And what grows in Hawaii’s humid, damp environments, Becca?” I point to her tattoos lazily, but I let the smile on my face imply there’s another wet, silky flower I’d be happy to harvest.

Pink blushes across those yellow flowers below her neck.

“You don’t have any interest inactualflowers, do you?” she grinds out.

I reach across the table and take her wrist in my hand, flipping it over to expose the soft underbelly. To my surprise, there are twin fuchsia blooms tattooed to look like they’re growing out of her veins. I trace the inked lines with my finger tip, wondering what other tattoos are hidden on her skin.

“You are a beautiful garden,” I say, noting her shiver as my fingers follow the delicate petals. “And flirty as I am, hearing you talk about soil crusts is hotter than you might imagine.”

“Are you making fun of me now?”

I grip her wrist tightly. “Passion isn’t only about sex,” I say blatantly. “You’re gorgeous, obviously,” I nod to her incredible body. “But I’d be happy to hear you wax poetic about soil samples and blooming seasons all night long, because there’s nothing sexier than a woman who loves what she does.”

Becca gawks at me, not expecting that—at least not from me.

“Well,” she says tentatively. “What doyoudo? What are you passionate about?”

I smile deviously. The things I’m passionate about aren’t PG.

“I work at Flambé,” I say, gesturing to the candlelit booths with their pockets of darkness. “What do you think?”

Becca’s eyes flit across the room, remembering how I asked if she likedwatching.

“I work in a restaurant designed to turn you on,” I continue in a low voice. “It’s meant to assault your senses with smell, taste, touch.” I continue to outline those inked flowers with my delicate thumb. “Couples sit in Flambé’s velvet booths looking for romance and heat. They decide to be daring, so they order the lamb covered in raspberry sauce and their palate comes alive. They treat themselves to a side of poached apples glistening with caramel, and revel in the sticky toffee that gets caught between them when they kiss. Their drinks have sugar sculptures inside the glasses, delicate creations that soak and dissolve inside a bath of sparkling alcohol. Or they order something set on fire—a puff of cotton candy, a sugar cube on an absinthe spoon. The drinks and dishes look exotic, taste exotic, and are meant to remind you of the wild, luscious paradise of Hawaii that awaits beyond those doors. And if you dare to be alive, you can indulge in all manner of beauty if you’re willing to give it a try.”

Becca stares at me, softly biting her purple lip.

Breathing heavily.

That’sexactly what Flambé does. It makes you ravenous.

“You—you should—” Becca wets her lips trying to find her words. “You should make the ads for this restaurant, not be a waiter.”

My cheeks warm. “But then I’d sit in a corporate office behind a computer. I wouldn’t be here with you.”

As if on cue, Finn walks up with our dessert. He slides a large bell jar onto the table between us. Under the jar is a bath of smoke, hiding the delicious contents.

“This is called The Devil’s Garden,” Finn explains, his eyes tracing over Becca’s botanical tattoos and realizing how perfect the dessert is for this particular patron. “I hope you’re feeling indulgent, Becca.”

He lifts the bell jar carefully, like a magician doing a trick, and Becca’s eyes are glued on what he is revealing. The smoke hangs for a moment in the shape of the dome, before feathering outward. Beneath it is a sculpted rose, created in chocolate by our boss, Arie. The smoke hangs on the impressive flower like a Halloween fog, softly dissipating as the broad petals come into view. At the base, surrounding the bloom is a bed of chocolate decadence: cocoa powder, truffles, fudge, a chocolate syrup for dipping the ripe poached cherries at the center of the flower. The naughty part of my brain wants to dip Becca’s fingers into that bath of dark and suck off the delicious syrup, making her feel how talented my tongue can be.

“That’s too beautiful to eat,” Becca whispers in awe. I knew this would be the dessert for a girl who loves flowers.

“It’s the beautiful things that taste the best,” Finn says smoothly, leaning in and plucking one of the outer petals from the rose. He dips it in the cocoa glaze, then offers it to Becca’s luscious mouth. “May I?”

Becca eyes the fragile curl of chocolate, then the golden man offering to feed her.

She’s hesitant, that pinch of uncertainty knotting in her chest. Is it too risqué to let one of Flambé’s waiters feed her?

“Indulge,” I whisper, tracing my fingers up her inner arm, caressing the soft skin as my fingertips dance toward her elbow.

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