Page 3 of Flambé with Finn


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I stride into the restaurant and a sugary, caramel scent hits my nostrils as the door closes behind me. My eyes widen at the sight of Delilah bent at the waist at the table nearest the door. Her long, blonde hair is pulled into a low ponytail at the base of her neck and her ass sways enticingly in a pair of form-fitting black pants.

Struggling, I pull my eyes away from her curves and watch as she sets an unlit butane torch on the table, rolls up the sleeves to her white button-up shirt, and picks the torch back up, lighting it before going in on a crème brûlée sitting at the edge of the table. The group of old women twitter excitedly as she steps back and extinguishes the flame on the torch.

“That looks…delectable,” I mutter, leaning over her shoulder. With a start, Delilah turns in my direction, and I’m rewarded with a sneer that does things to my gut that it absolutely should not.

“Didn’t I tell you,” she starts as she brushes past me, the scent of sugar clinging to her in a way that makes my mouth water, “that we’re not buying whatever you’re selling?”

I let my eyes dip to the curve of her waist as she pushes toward the end of the bar, darting behind the counter and leaving me on the other side to peel my hands out of my gloves. “Yes,” I start as I begin unbuttoning my coat, “but I amveryinterested in buying whatever it is thatyou’reselling.”

Her plush, pink lips curl into a devious smile as she crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her tits up in a way that’s impossible not to stare at. She clears her throat, so I stare a moment longer for good measure before meeting her eyes with a smirk.

“Fine. The corner booth’s open. I’ll be right there.” She turns away, and I swear I hear her murmuring something about aself-important assholeunder her breath. A thrill of excitement rushes down my spine, but I try to ignore it. I’m sure there’s something to be said about liking the fact that she’s bratty, but that’s not a book I’m willing to read right now.

I settle into the booth, glancing at my watch as Delilah moves unhurriedly behind the counter, stopping every few feet to talk with one of the other few employees I spot or laugh with a customer who sits on a stool pressed against the aged, wooden counter. She takes her time, and I try not to let it ruffle me as I pull my phone out, tapping into my email app and opening the proposal I’d sent to Mayor Hayes. The asshole hadn’t even bothered to open it before our meeting.

Gritting my teeth, I glance back up, stomach clenching when I don’t spot Delilah behind the counter. I’m pushing to my feet when she breezes through the door from the kitchen, another ramekin and butane torch balanced on a tray. Her eyes narrow in my direction, and I drop down, leg bouncing as she approaches. Something about the way she moves with the tray propped over her shoulder seems almost…familiar, but I brush it off. Opening restaurants is what I do for a living. Hand any person a tray with something balanced on it and it would probably seem familiar to me.

I jolt when she drops the tray on the table, the ramekin rattling with the force.

“Sorry,” she says, though her tone suggests that she’s not at all sorry. Not even close. My eyes catch on her hands as she reaches for the torch, and the tremor I see running through them gives me pause. Glancing up, I’m surprised to see her steadfastly looking anywhere but in my direction.

“Are you okay?” I ask, a note of genuine concern in my voice as her posture stiffens and her shoulders tense. Her brows furrow and I can make out the indent in her cheek that suggests she’s chewing the inside of it. She lights the torch and I lean back, the heat sudden and intense as she leans toward the desert.

“Is there something I can—”

“No.”It’s direct. It’s assertive. It’s not what I want to hear when she’s obviously so rattled.

“Look, if there’s something I’ve done to offend you…” I trail off as I turn more fully toward her, leg half out of the booth.

She scoffs and shakes her head.

“There isn’t paper long enough for that list,” she mutters. I cock my head as she turns the torch on the dessert with badly shaking hands. “This is a hot honey caramel brûlée, it’s a little experimental, but it’s been a town favorite so far.”

I hum in the back of my throat, swallowing nervously as her hands continue to shake. I glance at her posture, taking in the heavy rise and fall of her shoulders. “Listen, if you need to maybe take a step back, or…”

“Shit!” She exclaims, and my stomach tightens as she loses her grip on the torch, fumbling with it as it sails toward the floor. Stupidly, we reach for it at the same time, and I’m only faintly aware of the smell of burning cloth before heat tickles my thigh.

“Fuck!” My head spins as she deftly turns the torch off, whips a bar towel out of the waistband of her apron and beats out the small flame from the inner thigh of my pants. She presses the towel against my leg with shaking hands, and my brain short circuits. “Are you okay? I’m so, so sorry!”

“I—” I pause, unsure of what to say as she peels her hand away, giving us both a chance to glance at the quarter-sized hole singed in my pants. “I’m fine?”

But I’m not. Because the feel of her hands on my body? Divine. And I know I’m in so much fucking trouble. Because I’ve heard of hot honey crème brûlée before, and I’m pretty goddamn sure I know why Delilah Cooper seemed so familiar to me with that tray in her hand. A lead weight sinks in my stomach.

“You should leave.” She says softly, eyes lowered. I nod along numbly, pushing to my feet and gathering my belongings. Her hands shake as she gathers her things back up, and I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay, but I don’t, knowing without a doubt that she won’t want to hear it. I take a few steps away from her before she calls out in a small voice, “And don’t come back.”

Fat fucking chance. Delilah Cooper just set my world on fire, and I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

Chapter3

Delilah

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I murmur before dropping down on my haunches, crossing my fingers and hoping for a Christmas miracle that Finn fucking Vittatoe didn’t see me behind the counter as he reached for the door to the restaurant.

My heart beats a war song in my chest as the bells above the door tinkle their merry sound into the empty dining room, and I screw my eyes shut. Why couldn’t he have waited five more measly minutes? I wasthis closeto locking the doors, counting the money, and heading home for the night.

It’s the week before Christmas—the square is filled to the brim, and we’ve been slower than usual here at Sunny Side. I sent Mark, the evening’s cook, home half an hour ago and I’ve twiddled my thumbs ever since.

“Are you okay down there?”

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