The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  “Only fair. So how do I rate?”

  “Good. Very good, actually. Downy?”

  “Bounce. I lost my Downy Ball,” he confessed.

  I laughed, and we continued to roll and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rolled-out pie crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.

  “Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and generally tidying.

  “Now we spice things up and add a little citrus,” I answered, lining up cinnamon and nutmeg, my sugar bowl, and a lemon.

  “Okay, where do you want me?” he asked, taking care to show me his hands, now covered in flour.

  Visions ran through my head, and I had to bite back an invitation to show him exactly where I wanted him. “First dust yourself off, and then we’ll get started. You can be my assistant.”

  He looked around for a dish towel, and I turned to look for the one I knew I’d left out. I’d already started for it on the counter when I felt two very strong and very specifically placed hands on my ass.

  “Um, hi?” I said, freezing in place.

  “Hi,” he answered cheerfully, not releasing his hands.

  “Explain yourself, please,” I ordered, trying not to notice how my heart was trying to leave my body by way of my mouth.

  “You told me to find something to clean my hands with,” he stuttered, trying hard not to laugh as he gave each cheek a little squeeze.

  “And you took that to mean my ass?” I laughed back and turned to face him, removing his hands with my own.

  “What can I say? I take liberties with my neighbors,” he replied, his eyes darting back and forth now between my lips and my eyes.

  “We have a pie to make, mister. I’ll thank you to remember your manners. No one touches my ass without an invitation.” I giggled, still holding his hands. I felt his thumb trace little circles on the inside of my palm, and my head got swimmy. This guy was going to be the death of me. “Get over there, handsy, and behave,” I instructed.

  He smirked and turned away, which gave me the opportunity to mutter, “Oh my Jesus Lord,” to no one in particular before meeting him back at the apple bowl.

  “Okay, you do what I tell you, got it?” I said, sprinkling sugar into the bowl.

  “Got it.”

  I started tossing the apples with my hands and Simon followed my instructions to the letter. When I asked for more sugar, he sugared. When I asked for more cinnamon, he complied. When I asked him to squeeze the lemon, he lemoned so well I had trouble keeping my tongue in my mouth and off his throat.

  I tossed and tasted, and when they were finally right, I lifted a wedge to his mouth. “Open up,” I said, and he leaned in.

  I placed an apple on his tongue, and he snapped his mouth shut before I had a chance to remove my fingers. He let his lips close around two, and I slowly withdrew them, feeling his tongue wrap around them delicately and deliberately.

  “Delicious,” he said softly.

  “Gah,” I answered, eyes crossing a little at the sex on two legs displayed in front of me.

  He chewed. “Sweet. Sweet, Caroline.”

  “Gah,” I managed again. Brain knew this was bad; Heart was beating out of my chest.

  “Good for you?” he asked, that knowing smile treading dangerously close to smirk territory.

  “Good for me,” I answered, on fire after the fingerlatio. Truce schmuce, harem schmarem. Who cared if there was no actual O? I needed to be in contact with this man in the very worst way.

  My sexual wall had been hit, and as I prepared to rip the clothes from his body, throw him to the ground, and ride him amid a pile of apples and cinnamon with only a rolling pin to guide us, my phone rang.

  Thank you, Jesus.

  I looked at the blue-eyed devil and launched myself across the room, away from the brain-scrambling voodoo. I saw his face as I ran, and he looked a little disappointed.

  “Girl, what are you up to tonight?” Mimi screeched into the phone. I held it away from my ear before the bleeding started. Mimi had three sound levels: normal loud, excited loud, and drunky loud. She was leaving excited and on her way to drunky.

  “I’m getting ready to have dinner. Where are you?” I asked, nodding at Simon, who had started pouring the apples into the pie dish.

  “I’m out for drinks with Sophia. What are you doing?” she screamed.

  “I just told you, getting ready to have dinner!” I laughed.

  Simon came out into the living room with the pie in his hands. “Should I put this in the oven?” he asked.

  “Hang on, Mimi. Not yet, I still need to brush it with a little cream,” I told him, and he ducked back into the kitchen.

  “Caroline, that was a man! Who was that? Who are you having dinner with? And what are you brushing with cream?” she fired at me, her voice growing even louder.

  “Settle down. My goodness, you’re loud! I’m having dinner with Simon, and we’re making an apple pie,” I explained, which she immediately screamed out to Sophia.

  “Shit,” I muttered as I heard the phone yanked away from Mimi.

  “Reynolds, what are you doing? Are you baking pies with your neighbor? Are you naked?” Sophia yelled, taking her turn to grill me.

  “Okay, no, and you all need to seriously settle down. Hanging up now,” I yelled over her yelling at me. I could hear Mimi squealing nasty things about pies and cream. Sophia was in the middle of threatening me not to hang up on her, when I did just that.

  I sighed and went to find Simon, with his hands full of pie. I snorted in spite of myself.

  “Oh my God, that’s so good,” I whimpered, closing my eyes and losing myself to the sensations.

  “I knew you’d like it, but I had no idea you’d enjoy it this much,” he whispered, staring at me with rapt attention.

  “Stop talking, you’re going to ruin it for me,” I moaned, stretching and feeling myself respond to everything he was giving me.

  “Did you want another one?” he offered, raising up on his elbows.

  “If I have another, I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

  “Go ahead, be a bad girl—you deserve it. I know you want it, Caroline,” he teased, leaning closer.

  “Okay,” I managed, opening up to him once again. I closed my eyes and heard him fumbling about before putting it in. Sighing as I felt it, I closed my lips around what he offered.

  “I’ve never seen a woman who could take so much in one sitting,” he marveled, watching me come undone once more.

  “Yes, well, you’ve never met a woman who likes meatballs as much as me,” I moaned around another mouthful, feeling stuffed beyond belief but not wanting the meal to end.

  Simon had just cooked me quite possibly the most perfect meal ever, hitting every single taste bud that needed to be hit. He’d learned how to make the most amazing meatballs from a woman in Naples, and he’d sworn they’d be the best I’d ever had. After no less than seven jokes about balls and mouths, I had to agree they were the best balls I had ever had in my mouth.

  God, he gave great meatball.

  I then proceeded to eat almost a pound of pasta myself, as well as all of my meatballs, plus half of his. I insisted he eat the last one, but he refused and brought the perfection that was his meatball to my willing mouth.

  Simon was a great host, insisting that I sit, drink wine, and watch rather than help. He entertained me with stories about his travels as he got everything ready, and while the food was simple, it was good. “Nonni made me promise if she showed me how to make her polpette I would only serve them with her special sauce. If I dared serve these with a jar of Prego, she would cross the ocean to break her wooden spoon against my backside.”

  “She made you call her Nonni?” I laughed, leaning back in my chair and unbuttoning the top button on my jeans. I had no shame. I’d eaten an obscene amount.

  “You know what Nonni means?” he asked, surprised.

  “I had an Italian great
-grandmother. She insisted everyone call her Nonni.” I laughed again when his eyes went to my hands massaging my stomach.

  “You gonna be okay there?” He raised his eyebrows as he got up to clear.

  “Yep, just need to breathe a little.” I groaned, pulling myself up from the table.

  “No, no, you don’t have to help,” he said, rushing to my side and grabbing my plate.

  “Oh no, I wasn’t. I was gonna drop this off and pass out on that couch right there,” I said, nodding toward the living room.

  “You go relax. Anyone who just had that many balls in her mouth deserves a rest,” he teased, and I flicked his ear.

  “I said no more ball jokes! You’ve had your fun, now let me go die in peace.” I shuffled into the living room. I really had made quite a little piggy of myself, but it was seriously good. I reclined and popped open another button on my jeans, relaxing into the cushions and replaying some of the finer points of the evening.

  Watching Simon cook was, in a word, hot. He was really at home in a kitchen, his earlier fussing about with the pie aside. Even his salad—simple greens dressed lightly with lemon and olive oil, salt, pepper, and good Parmesan—was easy and perfect.

  “Pink Himalayan salt, thank you very much,” he’d said proudly, producing a bag from his pantry. He’d brought it back from one of his many trips and had me taste a little before sprinkling it on the salad. Could have been pretentious, but it fit Simon. The many facets of this guy were astounding. My earliest assumptions about him were proving to be completely wrong. As assumptions tend to be. . . .

  I could hear him tending to the dishes, and as much as I probably should have gone to help him, I simply couldn’t remove myself from the couch. I snuggled on my side and looked around his living room again, my eyes drawn back to the tiny bottles of sand from all over the world. I marveled at how traveled he was, and how he seemed to enjoy it still. I gazed at the pictures of the woman in Bora-Bora—her dark, beautiful skin and the smooth planes of her body—and thought about how different the three of the women in his harem were. Oops, make that two now that Katie/Spanks was with her new man.

  Suddenly I could smell the apple pie and heard the oven door clank shut. I’d put it in his oven as soon as we came over so it would be ready after dinner.

  “Don’t you dare try to serve me pie now. I am stuffed, I tell you, stuffed!” I yelled.

  “Quiet, it’s just cooling,” he scolded, coming around the corner from the kitchen. “You’re gonna have to scooch over, sister. It’s movie time,” he instructed, pushing me with his big toe as I struggled to sit up straight.

  “What is it that we’re watching?”

  “The Exorcist,” he whispered, turning off the light on the end table and leaving the room quite dark.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” I screeched, leaning over him to turn it back on.

  “Don’t be a wuss. You’re watching it,” he hissed, turning it back off.

  “I’m not a wuss, but there is stupid and not stupid, and stupid is watching a movie like The Exorcist with the lights off! That’s just asking for trouble!” I hissed back, turning it back on.

  It was starting to look like a disco in here. . . .

  “Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. Lights off, but—” He shushed me with is finger as he saw me begin to interrupt. “If you get too scared, lights go back on. Deal?”

  I was still leaning across him on my way to turn the light back on again when I noticed how close I was to his face. And how I was angled across him like a girl waiting to get a spanking. And I knew he was capable of delivering one. . . .

  “Fine,” I huffed as the opening credits came on. I returned to a normal, seated position.

  He smiled triumphantly and gave me a thumbs-up.

  “If you show me that thumb one more time I’ll bite it off,” I growled, pulling an afghan off the back of the couch and curling it protectively around me. One minute into the movie, and I was already spooked.

  I was tense from that moment on, and any idea I might have had about girls being ridiculous around guys when they watched scary movies went by the wayside when Regan peed herself at the dinner party.

  By the time the priest came for a little visit, I was practically sitting on Simon’s lap, my right hand had a death grip on his thigh, and I was viewing the movie through the holes in the afghan, which I had draped entirely over my head.

  “I actually, literally, hate you for making me watch this movie,” I whispered in his ear, which was right in my face as I refused to leave any space between us. I’d even accompanied him to the bathroom earlier when we took a break. He insisted I stay out in the hallway, but I stood just outside the door, eyes glancing around furtively, still with the afghan over my head.

  “Do you want me to stop? I don’t want you to have nightmares,” he whispered back, his eyes on the screen.

  “Just no banging on the walls for a few nights, please. I won’t be able to take it,” I said, looking at him through one of my eyeholes.

  “Have you heard any banging lately?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he did every time he looked at me with the ridiculous afghan on my head.

  “No, I haven’t actually. Why is that?” I asked.

  He took a breath. “Well, I—” he started, and then the most maniacal scary noises started coming from the TV, and we both jumped.

  “Okay, maybe this movie is a little scary. You wanna sit closer?” he asked, pressing PAUSE on the remote.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” I cried, launching myself fully into his lap and settling between his thighs. “Do you want some afghan?” I offered, and he laughed.

  “No, I can take it like a man. You stay under there, though,” he teased.

  I narrowed my eyes at him through the eyeholes and poked one finger through the weave. “Guess which finger this is,” I said, waving it at him.

  “Shhh, movie,” he answered, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me back against his chest.

  He was warm and strong and powerful, but absolutely no match for terror that was The Exorcist. What had we been talking about? Now I couldn’t think about any walls banging except the one Regan was currently banging the shit out of and spraying down with pea soup. We watched the rest of that damn movie wound around each other like pretzels, and he finally succumbed to the false security that an afghan eyehole can provide.

  Click. Click. Click.

  What the hell is that?

  Click. Click. Click.

  Oh no.

  I lay paralyzed in my bed, every light in my entire apartment blazing.

  Click. Click. Click.

  I pulled the covers up higher, covering my face up to my eyes, which kept a constant vigil around the bedroom. Brain knew we were safe and secure, but also kept replaying scenes from that terrible, terrible movie, making it impossible to shut off for the night and go to sleep. Nerves had everything on lockdown, blazing a trail of fiery adrenaline throughout my body. I hated Simon with every fiber of my being in that moment. I also wished he was here.

  Click. Click. Click.

  What is that?

  Click. Click.

  Nothing.

  Then Clive leaped on the bed, and I screamed bloody murder. Clive puffed out his tail and hissed at me, wondering why the hell Mommy was screaming at him, I’m sure. The click-click-click was his goddamned kitty hangnail.

  My phone vibrated an instant later, shaking the entire nightstand and eliciting another scream from me. It was Simon.

  “What the hell is wrong? Why are you screaming? Are you okay?” he yelled when I answered, and I could hear him through the phone and through the wall.

  “Get your ass over here right now, you motherfucking scary movie pusher,” I seethed and hung up. I pounded on the wall and ran out to unlock the door. In much the same way I’d run up the last few steps of the basement stairs when I was a kid, I hightailed it back into my room, jumping the last few feet and landing in the center of my bed. I wrapped
the covers around me and peered out, waiting. He knocked, and I heard the door push open.

  “Caroline?” he called.

  “Back here,” I yelled. Sad that I’d been reduced to this, but I was glad to see him.

  “I brought the pie,” he said with an embarrassed grin. “And this,” he added, producing the afghan from behind his back.

  “Thanks.” I smiled at him from behind my pillow shield.

  A few minutes later we were settled on my bed, each balancing a plate and a glass of milk. We’d been too full, then too terrified, to eat pie earlier. Clive and his phantom hangnail retired to the other room after rolling his eyes at Simon and swishing his tail.

  “How old are you?” I asked, cutting into my pie.

  “Twenty-eight. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six. We are twenty-eight and twenty-six years old and terrified of a movie,” I mused, poking in a bite. The pie was good.

  “I wouldn’t say I’m terrified,” he countered. “Spooked? Yes. But I only came over to stop you from screaming.”

  “And to taste my pie,” I added, winking.

  “Shut it, you,” he warned, and then he went ahead and tasted my pie.

  “Jesus, that’s good,” he breathed, eyes closed as he chewed.

  “I know. What is it about apples and homemade pie crust? Is there anything better?”

  “If we were eating this naked, then it would be better.” He grinned, opening one eye.

  “No one is getting naked here, buddy. Just eat your pie.” I pointed at his plate with my fork.

  We chewed.

  “I feel better,” I added a few minutes later, drinking my milk.

  “Me too. Not too spooked anymore.”

  He smiled as I took his plate and set it on the nightstand. I sighed contentedly and lay back against my pillows, sated and less scared.

  “So, I gotta ask . . . James Brown? I mean, James Brown?” He laughed, and I kicked him as he lay next to me. We turned on our sides to face each other, arms curling under the pillows.

  “I know, I know. I can’t believe you held it in as long as you did! I know you’ve been dying to make jokes since last night.”