The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  “I like the sound of that,” I whispered in his ear as he lay me on the bed.

  Hovering over me, placing kisses across my chest, he kept saying the word over and over again. Girlfriend, then kiss. Girlfriend, girlfriend, then kiss.

  “Did you know Mimi and Neil are thinking about moving in together? Isn’t that a little soon? I hope they know what they’re getting in to,” I reported, arching up to meet his kisses.

  “I know what I’m getting in to.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, silly,” he said, and I heard the blessed sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor. “I’m only concerned with our happy ending. Or two, or three even. Drank that ginseng tea you left me this morning—watch out.” He chuckled, lifting one of my legs onto his shoulder and kissing a path down the inside of my calf.

  “Happy ending, huh?”

  “Don’t you think we’ve earned it?” he asked, kneeling now, lips trailing along the top of my thigh as I panted.

  “Oh, hell yes,” I laughed, throwing my arms over my head and arching up to meet him. Hello, O! Nice to see you again. With his lips, he brought me one. With his tongue, he brought me another. And when he slid into me and pushed me high up onto the bed, I almost had another on contact.

  Clothes now discarded, skin on sweaty skin, my legs wrapped solidly around his hips, which pushed against mine. His eyes burned as I felt every inch of him. Inside. Outside. All around the town.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned. And then I heard it.

  Thump.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned again.

  Thump thump.

  I giggled at the sound. We were banging.

  He looked down at me, raising one eyebrow. “Something funny?” he asked, pausing his movements. He pushed back into me slowly, very, very slowly.

  “We’re banging the walls.” I giggled again, watching his eyes change as he registered my giggling.

  “We sure are,” he admitted, chuckling a little as well. “You okay?”

  I wrapped my legs even tighter around his waist, making sure I was as close to him as I could be. “Bring it on home, Wallbanger.” I winked, and he complied.

  I was being driven up the bed with the strength of his thrusts. He drove into me with unflinching force, giving me exactly what I could take, then pushing me just past that edge. He stared down at me, hard, flashing that knowing smirk. I closed my eyes, letting myself feel how deeply I was being affected. And by deep, I mean deep. . . .

  He grasped my hands and brought them above my head to the headboard.

  “You’re gonna wanna hold on for this,” he whispered and threw one of my legs up over his shoulder as he altered his hips.

  “Simon!” I shrieked, feeling my body begin to spasm. His eyes, those damnable blue eyes, bore into mine as I shook around him.

  He called out my name, and no one else’s.

  A little while later, almost asleep, I felt the mattress dip as Simon left the bed. Hearing him flip over the record, I snuggled deeper into the pillow. My body was deliciously tired, having been worked to within an inch of total exhaustion. We banged that wall, yes indeed. I owned both sides of that wall now.

  I heard him bumble down the hall and half wondered what he was up to. Thinking in that tired, half-awake way that he must be getting some water, I slipped back down to sleep.

  A few moments later I was awoken by his arms sliding around me, pulling me against his warm body. He kissed me on my neck, then cheek, then forehead as he got settled. Then I heard . . . purring?

  “What’s that?” I asked, looking around.

  “I thought he might be lonely,” Simon admitted sheepishly. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Simon and then Clive. Simon had gone over to get him. Clive was purring very loudly, quite pleased with all the attention he’d been receiving lately. He poked his nose into me and settled into the nook between us.

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at the two of them.

  “Are you that surprised? You know how much I love pussy,” Simon deadpanned. Then his silent laughter shook the bed.

  “You’re very lucky I love you,” I added, letting his arms hold me tight.

  “I’ll say.”

  And then, as the laughter faded and sleep took hold, I pondered what the future might hold for me and my Wallbanger.

  I knew it wouldn’t always be this easy. But it sure as hell would be a good time.

  All was quiet as I set out on patrol, making sure the perimeter was secure. I padded through my new territory, taking notice of any loose Q-tips. They would need to be dealt with if unruly. If allowed to run unchecked, they would multiply. I’d seen it happen.

  I came upon a curious shelf with nothing but glass bottles on it. I batted at one, watching as it fell to the floor. I would have to come back to this location, but for now I had rounds.

  Checking the view from the front window I saw that I could retain control of my neighborhood from this vantage point. I scouted a possible napping station in another window with southern exposure, then stopped for a stare-off with an owl outside. Neither of us gave in willingly, and it was another fifteen minutes before I continued on to check on my people. They had finally quieted down after several rounds of caterwauling. Honestly.

  The Feeder was, predictably, taking up most of the sleeping quarters. The Tall One, aptly named because he was taller than the Feeder, was making that noise again—the noise I simply could not tolerate. The Feeder was beginning to toss and turn. She was not sleeping soundly. Without enough sleep, she would be unlikely to play with me the following evening, so this situation would have to be remedied. She did seem to enjoy our games, so I would once more take matters into my own paws.

  Jumping from the floor to the bed with a natural grace—a grace that was not fully appreciated by my people, I felt—I navigated my way through knees and legs, arms and elbows, until I reached the pinnacle and came to rest just beneath his chin. Stretching out one paw, I placed it over his breathing holes, stopping the noise momentarily. The Tall One brushed away my effort, although once he rolled onto his side, the noise stopped. He curled in to himself, in the one corner the Feeder had allowed him. As he had done so, I remained standing, doing my best log-rolling impression and maintaining perfect balance. Again, my people just didn’t get it.

  Settling into the nook between them, I rested. Our home was secure, and I now watched over the Feeder and the Tall One, so I allowed myself to dream. Of her. The one who got away. . . .

  To Peter

  For being there before, during, and always ever after.

  Thanks for keeping me sane. Which is a relative term.

  XOXO

  acknowledgments

  This book is 100 percent the result of wanting Banger Nation to have a little more time with their Simon and Caroline. It is because of you, you perfect reader you, that this book is even on the page. Thank you for being patient as you waited for it, for being mouthy when you told all your girlfriends to read it, for being steadfast in your devotion that sexy and silly can exist in the same space. Banger Nation, you get me. So this is for you. Thank you from the bottom of my tiny Grinch heart.

  Thank you to my editor, Micki Nuding, and the entire team at Gallery Books for taking such an enormous chance on a new author. Most days I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

  Thank you to my San Francisco/Sausalito detail police, the one and only Staci Reilly. And yes, the Hillevator is real and she could tell you some stories . . .

  Thank you to my family, who is incredibly patient with me when I have to say no to things because I’m on a deadline, and for remembering that even though I work in my pajamas some days, it’s still work.

  Thank you to the bloggers who bang this drum day in and day out, promoting all of us authors and putting our books into the hands of your readers. At the end of the day, I am a reader first and a writer second. I appreciate your love of storytelling and your eagerness to share your new favorite book mo
re than you know.

  Thank you to some of my favorite authors on the planet, whose words I not only love but who I can now call friends: Kristen Proby, Tiffany Reisz, Jennifer Probst, Ruthie Knox, Kresley Cole, Samantha Young, Sylvia Day, Helena Hunting, Debra Anastasia, Mina Vaughn, Leisa Rayven, EL James, Katy Evans, Jasinda Wilder. Thanks, ladies.

  Thank you to Christina Hogrebe, my agent and friend and guide to this crazy world of Get Alice on the Shelves. You’re a brave woman, and I appreciate you a thousand ways. Looking forward to the next meal at Mohonk when we are celebrating something big!

  Thank you to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jessica Royer-Ocken, who has literally gone through the fires of hell to help get this book ready. The fires of hell being my lack of punctuation skillz and my shitty formatting capabilities. Not to mention, she’s a helluva sounding board. And not a bad baker . . .

  Thank you to the Captain Hookers, my partners in crime, PQ and Lo (you’d know them as Christina Lauren). For the podcasting, for the texting, for the Tower of Terror. For the love of the mouse.

  Thank you to Nina, the best taco a girl could ever ask for. Thank you for the endless motivation, the RPatz pics, and the Gummi Bears when I get fussy. Which, let’s face it, is almost always. Can’t wait for your book!

  And a big fat thank you, thank you, and thank you again to you Fantastically Loyal Readers. To those of you who’ve been here from the beginning, to those of you who are just jumping on the Crazy train, thank you. It’s been the ride of a lifetime, and it’s just the beginning. So hold on tight, chickens; here we go!

  Alice

  XOXO

  prologue

  It was the best of times, it was the nakedest of times . . .

  December

  I’d never spent a Christmas away from my family. Christmas to me is family: immediate, extended, and later, created. My family and friends gather, trees are trimmed, presents are wrapped, nog is made and most certainly consumed. It’s Norman Rockwell, with a drunk uncle. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

  Except this year. This Christmas was entirely different. This was Rockwellian with a Wallbanger twist.

  As a freelance photographer, Simon had a seriously cool job. He traveled the world on assignment for National Geographic and Discovery Channel, or whoever needed a photographer to go to the farthest-flung places on earth. This Christmas he was photographing European cities in their holiday best, and he’d be gone nearly the entire month of December.

  Since officially becoming a we, we’d settled into our own normal. He’d continued to travel for work, booking trips all over the world: Peru, Chile, England, even a long weekend in LA to do a study at the Playboy Mansion . . . Hardship.

  But when my globe-trotting Wallbanger’s home, he’s home. Home with me, either in my apartment or in his. Home with me for the dinners out with Jillian and Benjamin, or playing poker with the other two couples that make up our best friends. Home with me, in my bed or his, my kitchen or his, on my counter or his—home.

  Yet apparently Simon was always away on Christmas. He’d taken jobs in Rome, covering the mass in St. Peter’s Square. The Vanuatu Islands in the South Pacific, the first time zone to celebrate the holiday. He’d even traveled to the North Pole one year and made a snow angel at midnight.

  Strange, you say? Not really. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was a senior in high school. Eighteen years old, and his entire world was turned upside down. With no other family, he left Philadelphia a few months later when he enrolled at Stanford, and never looked back.

  So yeah, Christmas was hard on him. I was beginning to understand my Wallbanger, beyond the man, the myth, the legend. Holidays were sticky in general. And as such a new couple, Christmas with my parents would be a Very Big Deal. He hadn’t even met them yet, and a Reynolds Family Christmas was perhaps not the best time to take that major we step.

  So I wasn’t surprised when he started planning to be away for the entire month. The surprise was all on him when I brazenly invited myself along.

  “From Prague I’m heading to Vienna, then Salzburg, and I’ll probably be there on Christmas. They have this festival where they—”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Still? Damn, I’m good. We finished an hour ago . . .” He covered the area between my legs with one of his beautiful hands. We were lying in bed, well into the late-November night. He was home for a few days between trips, and we were nooking after nookie.

  “No, sir, I mean I’m coming with you to Europe. I’d like to spend our first Christmas together actually together. It’ll be fun!”

  “But what about your parents? Won’t they be disappointed?”

  “Sure, but they’ll get over it. Will there be snow?”

  “Snow? Yes, of course there’ll be snow! Are you sure about this? I’ve been alone most Christmases the last few years. It’s not a big deal. I don’t mind being alone,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

  I smiled and lifted his chin. “I mind it, okay? Besides, I have the week off between Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m coming. It’s settled.”

  “You’re bossy, Ms. Reynolds,” he noted, moving his hand decidedly south of my hip.

  “Yes, I am, Mr. Parker. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing there . . . mmm . . .”

  And that’s how I found myself in a holiday fairy tale. I flew into Salzburg, Austria, where we stayed in a wonderful little inn in the old city center—snow falling, trees lit with thousands of little white lights, and Simon looking ridiculously adorable in a ski cap with a pouf at the end. Being supremely touristy, he’d arranged for a horse-drawn sleigh with actual jingle bells. On Christmas Eve, underneath a warm blanket and wrapped entirely in Simon, I gazed out at the city and the moonlight on the river.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered, followed by a light nip to my ear.

  “I knew you would be.” I chuckled as he snuck a hand underneath my sweater.

  “Love you,” he murmured, his voice laced with honey.

  “Love you more,” I answered, my eyes sparkling with tears.

  New tradition? We’ll see . . .

  • • •

  February 14

  Text from Simon to Caroline:

  Just pulled up, you ready to go?

  Almost. Still need to get dressed. Just come on in.

  I’m on my way up the stairs. We’re going to be late.

  No, we won’t. Just keep your pants on.

  Never heard that before.

  Quit kicking my door and get in here!

  I pressed send, then settled back against the kitchen counter. I could hear his key in the lock, and I muffled a grin. We were due to meet the gang for a romantic dinner in twenty minutes. With traffic, we’d be very lucky to make it in forty. If I was even luckier, we wouldn’t make it at all.

  “Babe! What’re you doing? We gotta go!” he called. I could hear him dump his bag in the entryway.

  As he came down the hall, I sighed dramatically and called back, “I decided against going out tonight. I’m not feeling so good.” I heard him stop dead in his tracks, and I would’ve bet my Le Creuset double boiler he was running his hands through his hair and swallowing a sigh.

  I’d been pestering him for weeks to take me out for Valentine’s Day, and I’d insisted we make it a night out with our friends. But he was only home for a week, and I knew that he wanted nothing more than to stay in, veg out on the couch, and sleep with his girlfriend.

  Girlfriend.

  I still get goose bumps when I ponder this. I’m Simon’s girlfriend. He was once the Harem Master, and now I’m his girlfriend.

  So, after dropping hints to him since mid-January about making sure he’d be home for Valentine’s Day, and then spending hours on the phone with Sophia and Mimi planning the perfect romantic evening out, my deciding at the last minute to stay in had to be making him question exactly why he’d decided a girlfriend was something he wanted.

  “You sure about
that? I thought you had your heart set on—”

  He stopped as he rounded the corner to the kitchen. Perched on the counter, wearing an apron, a grin, and six-inch heels, was moi. Holding an apple pie on my lap.

  “I have my heart set on something,” I told him. “But it isn’t a crowded restaurant. How could I get away with wearing only this?” I hopped down from the counter and turned around. Oh yeah, I was wearing the apron, and only the apron. And the shoes—don’t forget the shoes.

  “Caroline. Wow,” he managed.

  I grinned bigger. “I have pie.”

  “You sure do.”

  “Silly boy, I baked for you. Your very own hot apple pie. All you have to do is come over here and get it.” I broke off a piece of the crust and dragged it through the cinnamon sugar goo dripping down the side. Would he want pie or me first?

  Turns out, he wanted both.

  April

  “See, now, I thought we were making progress. We watch baseball together, I sneak you peanut butter every now and again, and you go and do this? Why? Why do you continue to do this? And furthermore, why do I continue to allow this to happen?”

  As I reached the top of the stairs, I overheard the conversation inside my apartment. Simon was home alone—maybe he was on the phone. Once inside, however, I peeked around the corner and found him sitting across the table from my cat, Clive, his Stanford sweatshirt between them. Clive had “marked his territory” on this very sweatshirt several times early on in our relationship, but it had been a while since he’d deemed it necessary to remind Simon who was the actual man of the house. We both thought Clive was over this particular peccadillo. Apparently not . . .

  I stifled a laugh at how seriously Simon was staring at Clive, and how unseriously Clive seemed to be taking all this, batting at his tail as though it were unattached from his body. I backed down the hall silently, and then made a big show of rattling the doorknob to let them know I was home.