The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  “Seriously, who is this guy?” he asked.

  “He’s a new client.”

  “Ah, got it,” he said, looking pleased.

  “And an old boyfriend,” I added, watching for his reaction.

  “I see. New client but old boyfriend—wait, the lawyer?” he asked, trying to keep his expression neutral but failing.

  “Yep. Haven’t seen him in a few years.”

  “How’s that gonna work?”

  “Don’t know yet. We’ll see.”

  I really didn’t know how things were going to go with James. I was glad to see him, but it was going to be tough to keep things professional if he wanted more. And every instinct I had told me he wanted more. In the past he’d had more control over me than I was comfortable relinquishing. I’d found myself sucked into the gravitational pull that was James Brown—lawyer, not Godfather of Soul.

  “Anyway, we’re just going to be working together. It’ll be a great job for me. He wants his entire place redone.” I sighed, already planning the palette. I rolled onto my back and stretched. I’d really abused my stomach tonight and was starting to get sleepy.

  “I don’t like him,” Simon said suddenly, after a long pause.

  I turned and saw him scowling.

  “You don’t even know him! How could you possibly not like him?” I laughed.

  “I just don’t,” he said, now turning his gaze to mine and unleashing the power of the baby blues.

  “Oh, please, you’re just a stinky boy.” I laughed, ruffling his hair. Wrong move. It sure was soft. . . .

  “I don’t stink. You said yourself I was April fresh,” he protested, lifting his arm and sniffing.

  “Yes, Simon, you smell delicious,” I deadpanned, sniffing the air around me.

  He left his arm up higher on the pillow, and I knew if I rolled just a little I could slide right on into the nook. He looked at me, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly. Was he thinking what I was thinking?

  Did he want to nook me?

  Did I want to nook him?

  Oh, the hell with it. . . .

  “I’m coming into the nook,” I announced, and went full snuggle: head nestled in, left arm over chest, right arm tucked under his pillow. Legs I kept to myself—I wasn’t a total fool.

  “Well, hello there,” he said, sounding surprised. Then he curled himself around me immediately. I sighed again, wrapped in boy and voodoo.

  “What brought this on, friend?” he whispered into my hair, and I shivered.

  “Delayed reaction to Linda Blair. I need some nook time. Friends can nook, can’t they?”

  “Sure, but are we friends who can nook?” he asked, tracing circles on my back. Him and his demon finger circles. . . .

  “I can handle it. You?” I held my breath.

  “I can handle just about anything, but . . .” he started, and then stopped.

  “What? What were you going to say?” I asked, leaning up to look at him. One piece of hair uncurled from my ponytail and fell down between us. Slowly, and with great care, he pushed it back behind my ear.

  “Let’s just say that if you were wearing that pink nightie? You’d be in a heap of trouble.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing we’re just friends then, right?” I forced myself to say.

  “Friends, yes.”

  He stared into my eyes.

  I breathed in, he breathed out. We traded actual air.

  “Just nook me, Simon,” I said quietly, and he grinned.

  “Come on back down here,” he said, and coaxed me onto to his chest. I slid down, resting where I could hear his heartbeat. He folded the afghan over us, and I noticed again how soft it was. It had served me well tonight, this afghan.

  “I love this afghan, but I have to say it doesn’t really fit your apartment—the cool-dude motif you have going on,” I mused. It was orange and pea green and very retro. He was silent, and I thought maybe he had fallen asleep.

  “It was my mom’s,” he said quietly, and his grip on me became infinitesimally tighter.

  There was nothing to say after that.

  Simon and I slept together that night, with every light in the entire place on.

  Clive and his hangnail stayed away.

  chapter eleven

  I woke up a few hours later, startled by the warmth of the body next to me, which was decidedly bigger than the cat usually nestled against my side. I rolled carefully onto my back and away from Simon so I could see him. I could see him just fine as the lamps, along with all my other lights, continued to blaze away into the night, fighting back the evils of that awful movie.

  I rubbed my eyes and inspected my bedmate. He lay on his back, arms curled as though I was still in them, and I thought of how good it felt to nook with Simon.

  But I shouldn’t be nooking with Simon. Brain knew better. Nerves were in agreement. That was definitely a very, very slippery slope. And though the images of climbing a slippery Simon that immediately came to mind were far from innocent, I pushed them aside. I looked away and noticed the terribly wonderful afghan tangled between his legs—and mine, for that matter.

  It had been his mom’s. Heart broke each time I thought of his sweet, timid voice sharing that little nugget with me. He didn’t know I’d talked to Jillian about his past, that I knew his parents were no longer alive. The idea that he still clung to his mother’s afghan was inexorably sweet, and once again my heart broke open.

  I was close with my parents. They still lived in the same house where I’d grown up, in a small town in Southern California. They were great parents, and I saw them as often as I could, which is to say holidays and an occasional weekend. A typical twentysomething, I enjoyed my independence. But my parents were there when I needed them, always there. The idea that I would someday have to walk this earth without their anchor and misguided guidance made me wince, to say nothing of losing both of them at only eighteen.

  I was glad Simon seemed to have good friends and such a powerful advocate as Benjamin watching out for him. But as close as friends and lovers could be, there was something about belonging to someone completely that gave you roots—roots you sometimes needed when the world battled against you.

  Simon stirred slightly in his sleep, and I watched him again. He murmured something that I couldn’t quite pick out, but it sounded a little like meatballs. I smiled and allowed my fingers to slip into his hair, feeling the soft silk tousled on my pillow.

  God, he gave good meatball.

  As I stroked his hair, my mind wandered to a place where meatballs flowed endlessly and there was pie for days. I giggled to myself as sleepiness began to return, and I nestled back down into the nook. As I felt the comfort that only warm man arms could provide, a little alarm went off in my head, warning me not to get too close. I had to be careful.

  Clearly we were both divinely attracted to each other, and in another space and time, the sex would have been ringing out across the land and around the clock. But he had his harem, and I had my hiatus, not to mention that I did not have my O. So friends we would remain.

  Friends who meatball. Friends who nook. Friends who were headed to Tahoe very soon.

  I pictured Simon soaking in a hot tub with Lake Tahoe spread out in all its glory behind him. Which sight was actually more glorious remained to be seen. I settled back to sleep, rousing only slightly when Simon snuggled me a little closer.

  And even though it was barely above a whisper, I heard it. He sighed my name.

  I smiled as I slipped back to sleep.

  The next morning I felt a persistent poking at my left shoulder. I brushed it away, but it continued.

  “Clive, stop it, you asshole,” I moaned, hiding my head under the covers. I knew he wouldn’t stop until I fed him. Ruled by his stomach, that one. Then I heard a distinctly human laugh—quiet and definitely not Clive.

  My eyes sprang open, and the night before came back to me in a rush: the horror, the pie, the nook. I reached backward with my right foot, slid
ing it along the bed until I felt it stop against something warm and hairy. Although I was now more sure than ever it wasn’t Clive, I poked with my toe, inching my way higher until I heard another chuckle.

  “Wallbanger?” I whispered, not wanting to flip over. True to form, I was spread-eagled diagonally across the entire bed, head on one side, feet practically on the other.

  “The one and only,” a delicious voice whispered in my ear.

  My toes and Lower Caroline curled. “Shit.” I rolled onto my back to take in the damage. He was huddled in the one corner my body had allowed him. My bed-sharing habits had not improved at all. “You sure can fill a bed,” he noted, smiling at me from under the little bit of afghan I’d left him. “If we’re going to do this again there’ll have to be some ground rules.”

  “This won’t be happening again. This was in response to a terrible movie you inflicted on both of us. No more nooking,” I stated firmly, wondering how dreadful my morning breath was. I cupped my hand in front of my face, breathed, and gave a quick sniff.

  “Roses?” he asked.

  “Obviously.” I smirked.

  I looked at him, exquisitely rumpled and in my bed. He smiled that smile, and I sighed. I allowed myself a moment to indulge in a fantasy where I was then quickly flipped and ravaged to within an inch of my life, but I wisely got control of my inner whore.

  “What if you get scared tonight?” he asked as I sat up and stretched.

  “I won’t,” I threw back over my shoulder.

  “What if I get scared?”

  “Grow up, pretty boy. Let’s make coffee, and then I have to get to work.” I whacked him with my pillow.

  He slid out from under the afghan, taking care to fold it, and carried it with him into the kitchen where he set it gently on the table. I smiled, thinking of him saying my name in the night. What I wouldn’t give to know what was running through his mind.

  We moved about the kitchen with quiet economy, grinding beans, measuring coffee, pouring water. I put the sugar and cream on the counter, while he peeled and sliced a banana. I poured granola, he milked and banana-ed the bowls for us. Within a few minutes we were seated next to each other on barstools, eating breakfast as though we’d been doing so for years. Our simple ease intrigued me. And worried me.

  “Plans for the day?” I asked, digging into my bowl.

  “I need to stop by the Chronicle office.”

  “Are you working on something for the paper?” I asked, surprised at the level of interest even I could hear in my voice. Would he be in town for a while? Why did I care? Oh boy.

  “I’m spending a few days on a piece about quick getaways in the Bay Area—weekend drives kind of thing,” he answered through a mouthful of banana.

  “When are you going to do that?” I asked, examining the raisins in my bowl and trying not to look too interested in his answer.

  “Next week. I leave on Tuesday,” he replied and my stomach was instantly queasy. Next week we were supposed to go to Tahoe. Why the hell did my stomach care so much that he wouldn’t be going?

  “I see,” I added, again fascinated by the raisins.

  “But I’ll be back before Tahoe. I was planning on just driving straight there when I finish my shoot,” he said, looking at me over the rim of his coffee mug.

  “Oh, well, that’s good,” I answered quietly, my stomach now bouncing all around.

  “When are you headed up, anyway?” he asked, seeming to now be studying his own bowl.

  “The girls are driving up with Neil and Ryan on Thursday, but I have to stay in the city to work until at least noon on Friday. I’m gonna rent a car and drive up that afternoon.”

  “Don’t rent a car. I’ll swing through to pick you up,” he offered, and I nodded without a word.

  That settled, we finished our breakfast and watched Clive chase a stray piece of fluff around the table over and over again. We didn’t talk much, but whenever we met each other’s eyes, we both grinned.

  Text between Mimi and Sophia:

  Did you know Caroline is working with James?

  James who?

  James Brown, obviously. Who else?

  NO! What the hell?

  Remember she mentioned she had a new client? She neglected to mention who he was.

  I’m gonna kick her ass when I see her next. She better not cancel on Tahoe. Did Ryan tell you he was bringing his guitar?

  Yep, he told me you wanted to have some kind of fucked-up sing-along.

  He did? Ha-ha. I just thought it would be fun.

  Text between Neil and Mimi:

  Hey, Tiny, are we still bowling with Sophia and Ryan tonight?

  Yep, and you better bring your A game. Sophia and I are pretty severe.

  Sophia knows how to bowl? Wow.

  Why is that wow?

  I just wouldn’t have expected her to bowl is all. See you tonight.

  Text between Neil and Simon:

  You still planning on heading up with us this weekend?

  Yep, but I’m coming a little late, have a shoot.

  When are you coming up?

  Fri night sometime, stopping thru the city on my way.

  Why the hell are you going back into the city? You’re doing that shoot in Carmel, right?

  I just need to pick up some shit for the weekend.

  Dude, pack your shit and get your ass to Tahoe.

  I will, but I’m picking up Caroline.

  I see.

  You see nothing.

  I see everything.

  You sure about that, Big Boy? What about Sophia?

  Sophia? Why is everyone asking me about Sophia?

  See you in Tahoe.

  Text between Mimi and Caroline:

  You have some splainin’ to do, Lucy. . . .

  Oh no, I hate it when you go Ricardo on me. What the hell did I do?

  Explain to me why you didn’t tell me about your new client.

  Caroline, don’t ignore my text! CAROLINE!!

  Oh, settle down. This is exactly why I did NOT tell you.

  Caroline Reynolds, this is news that obviously I should have known about!

  Look, I can handle it, okay?? He’s my client, nothing more. He’s going to spend an obscene amount of money on this project.

  I frankly don’t care how much he’s spending. I don’t want you working with him.

  Listen to yourself! I will take on whatever new client I damn well please!

  I have this under control.

  We’ll see. . . . Did I hear a rumor that you’re driving up to Tahoe with Wallbanger?

  Wow, subject change. Yes, I am.

  Good. Take the long way.

  What the hell is that supposed to mean?

  Mimi?? You there??

  Damn you, Mimi. . . . HELLO??

  Text between Caroline and Simon:

  Wallbanger . . . come in Wallbanger.

  Wallbanger isn’t here, only the exorcist.

  Not even a little bit funny.

  What’s up?

  What time are you picking me up tom?

  I should be back in the city by noon. If you can knock off work we can beat rush hour.

  Already told Jillian I’m taking a half day. Where are you right now?

  In Carmel, on a cliff overlooking the ocean.

  Boy, are you a closet romantic. . . .

  I’m a photographer. We go where the money shot is.

  Oh man, we’re not discussing money shots.

  Besides, I thought you were the romantic one.

  I told you, I’m a practical romantic.

  Well then practically speaking, even you would appreciate this sight—waves crashing, sun setting, it’s nice.

  Are you alone?

  Yep.

  Bet you wish you weren’t.

  You have no idea.

  Pffft . . . you old softie.

  There’s nothing soft about me, Caroline.

  And we’re back. . . .

  Caroline?

 
Yep?

  See you tomorrow.

  Yep.

  Text between Caroline and Sophia:

  Can you give me the address again to the house so I can plug it into the GPS tom?

  No.

  No?

  Not until you tell me WHY YOU’RE HIDING JAMES BROWN.

  Jesus, it’s like having 2 more mothers. . . .

  This isn’t about sitting up straight or eating more vegetables, but we do need to have a conversation about your posture.

  Unbelievable.

  Seriously, Caroline, we just worry.

  Seriously, Sophia, I know. Address please?

  Let me think about it.

  Not gonna ask you again. . . .

  Yes, you will. You want to see Simon in that hot tub. Don’t lie.

  I hate you. . . .

  Text between Simon and Caroline:

  You done with work?

  Yep, at home waiting for you.

  Now that’s a nice visual. . . .

  Prepare yourself, I’m taking bread out of the oven.

  Don’t tease me, woman . . . zucchini?

  Cranberry-orange. Mmmm. . . .

  No woman has ever done breakfast-bread foreplay the way you do.

  Ha! When are you coming?

  Can’t. Text. Straight.

  Can we have one conversation where you’re not twelve?

  Sorry, I’ll be there in 30.

  Perfect, that will give me time to frost my buns.

  Pardon me?

  Oh, I didn’t tell you? I also made cinnamon rolls.

  Be there in 25.

  “I’m not listening to this.”

  “Like hell. It’s my car. Driver picks music.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong about that. The passenger always picks music. It’s what you get when you give up driving privileges.”

  “Caroline, you don’t even own a car, so how could you ever have driving privileges?”

  “Exactly, so we listen to what I pick,” I chided. I hit the iPod and scrolled until I found something that I thought would please us both.

  “Good song,” he admitted, and we hummed along.

  The trip had been great so far. When I first met him—heard him—I never would have predicted it, but Simon was quickly turning in to one of my favorite people. I’d been wrong about him.

  I glanced at him: humming along to the song, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. As he was concentrating on the road, I took the opportunity to catalog some of his more swoon-worthy features.