The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  “The finest,” she agreed.

  We sipped and rocked some more.

  “So this plan of yours. You think that Clark—”

  “Jessica? I’m going to need you to drop it, ’kay?”

  “ ’Kay.”

  She did. For exactly seven seconds.

  “Can I just say one thing?”

  I had to laugh. “One thing. Better make it count.”

  When it came, it was not what I was expecting.

  “Okay. Here’s my one thing. You think you’re living in a romance novel, right?”

  “Well, shit, when you put it that way it sounds ridiculous.”

  “Answer please,” she said, looking at me carefully.

  “Okay, yes. I admit it. I think I’m living in a romance novel. Go ahead and laugh,” I said, rocking a little faster.

  “I’m not going to laugh. Because I totally believe you,” she said, drinking nonchalantly.

  I waited for her to finish, and then grimaced when she didn’t. “Okay, ha-ha. What’s your actual point?”

  “Already made it.”

  “But wait wait wait—you believe me?”

  “Sure do,” she said, clinking my beer again.

  “Elaborate please,” I said, feeling a bit uneasy.

  “Don’t need to. I agree with you.”

  “Oh come on, you do not!” I protested.

  “Are you this aggressive with all people who agree with you?” She laughed, staring off into the sunset. “We’re supposed to get rain later this week, but it sure doesn’t look like it right now. Smooth sailing today,” she said, changing the subject.

  She looked relaxed as she rocked away. I finished my beer, decidedly unrelaxed.

  That night when I went up to bed, I looked at my calendar. Tomorrow was Friday. Caroline was coming. The contractor was coming. And the librarian was coming. I shivered under the covers. It must be really cold tonight . . .

  But I couldn’t fool myself anymore. And I’d always been able to do that.

  I woke with a start, covered in sweat, so completely turned on that I could barely stand even the touch of the sheets on my skin. I kicked them toward the bottom.

  I’d had such a vivid dream, which started the same way it always did. Standing in the doorway, a man approaching me from behind, not sure he was there until I could hear his footsteps on the wood floor. My skin buzzed, feeling how very near this man, this dark lover was, standing now just behind me.

  He pressed his nose just below my ear, making me arch into what I hoped was him, but was only empty air. But he was still there, his lips now grazing the same skin, whispering into my ear my name. “Vivian. Sweet, sweet Vivian,” he said, a voice so very deep. Deep, like I was longing for him to be inside of me, filling me up with hot, frantic love.

  “How long have you been waiting for me? Mmm, your skin is intoxicating. I wonder if your taste will be as sweet as your scent? he murmured, now letting me feel the entirety of his body, molding me to him. Hard, so very hard, and not just the planes of his chest and the iron of his thighs. He was hard for me. Against me, and hopefully soon, finally inside me. I struggled to turn, to see, to touch, but as always he held me facing away.

  Yet tonight he went further than he had before, his strong hands tearing the silken gown from my heated skin and letting his palms roam freely across my bare body. Still held hostage against his body, caged in by his powerful arms, I soon found myself pressed against the wall, his hands placing mine above my head, pulling my hips out, making me ready for him.

  But not for his impressive erection. No, not yet. My dark lover teased and taunted my breasts, lightly pulling at my tender flesh, letting his fingertips bring my nipples to a hardened peak, swirling and dancing across the sensitive tips.

  “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, then dragged his tongue across my nape. I could feel his soft hair as it followed the path his mouth was taking, down down down. Across my shoulder blades, dipping into the hollow between each vertebrae, then finally coming to rest in the small of my back, his teeth gently nipping at the dimple just above my bottom.

  His hands? They’d left my breasts, which were full and infinitely heavy as I arched my back, seeking his attention once more. But his hands were on a southern trajectory, and as they began to explore my innermost secrets, my moans and groans begged him to take me, to push me past this threshold that began to border on pain, the need to be inhabited by him was so great.

  “Not so fast, Vivian. You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, parting me. And then suddenly his heated breath was no longer at my back. The insides of my thighs were tickled by his silky hair, and my knees threatened to give way. I looked down as his hands gently but insistently urged my legs farther apart . . . and then, his kisses. Oh, his kisses!

  Starting on the backs of my knees, they began to ascend the backs of my thighs, moving steadily inward. His face was still concealed, still hidden. And then?

  He put his mouth on me. Glorious. Rapturous. Erotic. Inescapably wanton.

  My world stopped—and then started up again, as though anew. As I kept my hands on the wall for support, my cries of passion tumbled toward him. Only a shock of hair was visible in the low light as he buried his mouth between my thighs. I shook and shivered, and as my eyes began to close, I forced them open. I had to see him.

  “Vivian,” that dark voice rolled through me. “You taste as decadent as I dreamed you would.” And just as he began to lift his head and open his eyes—

  I awoke.

  “Dammit!” I screamed, punching the pillow.

  I didn’t sleep again that night.

  So when Friday dawn arrived? I was one cranky Viv.

  chapter fourteen

  Caroline was due to arrive at 10:30 a.m. Since Simon was on location in Mexico, she’d planned on spending the night before heading back into the city. I was glad to have my first houseguest; the quilts were clean and the pillows were plumped.

  As I waited, I was still shaken by my dream. Part of me was so angry that I’d almost gotten to see his face, yet another part of me was terrified to see it. Not seeing it meant it was still just a fantasy. A fantasy with the fastest tongue in the West, but a fantasy nonetheless.

  Both the librarian and the cowboy had been scarce this week. I hadn’t seen Hank once, but I’d seen evidence that he’d been around. Paula was out in the pasture with Paul, the chickens were fed. His tire tracks in the mud after a rainstorm. And of course we know why Clark hadn’t been around.

  “This project has already taken up enough of my time,” he’d said, then left me with a secured tarp and a frown. I’d thought that he’d cave, and Nighttime Clark would call. But both Nighttime Clark and more persnickety Daytime Clark had steered clear all week. He’d finally be here today.

  Nervous? Nah. The pacing is my usual cool, calm, and collected self.

  The smartest little Mercedes convertible I’d ever seen came up the drive, and Caroline stopped next to the house. “Hey, girl,” she called out with a grin. “This house just gets better and better each time I see it.”

  “Yes, and today’s the day we decide how we’re making it better,” I answered, grabbing her bag out of the backseat and swinging it up onto my shoulder before she had a chance to get it herself.

  “You sound like a motivational speaker!” She laughed, stepping from the car and stretching her arms over her head after the long drive. She was dressed for work, long legs encased in trim black pants, a raspberry-colored sweater with a soft pink scarf accenting her long neck. She had the kind of easy good looks I’d always envied—that, and her ability to navigate a gravel driveway in three-inch heels.

  “You make that look so easy,” I told her, looking down at her shoes as she followed me onto the back porch.

  “I learned from the best—you
should see my boss walk around a job site. Add sawhorses, electrical cables, and another two inches, and you’ve got Jillian.” She looked around the kitchen. “It looks good in here. I like what you’ve done.”

  She examined the open shelves over the stove that I’d cleared off, and then filled with an old set of heavy orange pots and double boilers I’d found in the basement. I’d arranged them by size. “Fuck me, these are all Le Creuset. You brought these with you, or they were here?”

  “I found them in the basement behind a bunch of old canning jars.”

  “Watch them carefully, please, and you might want to go through my bag tomorrow before I leave. If I’m listing to one side, you’re for sure going to want to check my duffel,” she warned, turning to take in the expanse of cleared counter space. “And you’re very lucky that’s not a KitchenAid,” she finished, pointing to an ­ancient-looking mixer. I’d left it on the counter, even though I had no idea if I’d ever use it. It looked homey. It felt homey. So it stayed.

  I led her upstairs, and she exclaimed in delight over how much progress had been made. I let her pick which guest room she wanted, and she marveled in the view of the ocean. She bounced on the bed, pronounced it good, and then watched me raise and lower the blinds three times until I had them the exact height I wanted. She watched as I made sure the windows were open to the same level, and then she watched as I adjusted the books on top of the dressers, fanned with exactly two inches of space between them.

  “You nervous about something?” she asked.

  “Nervous? No, why?” I asked, just as the doorbell rang. The books were now all on the floor, the result of my involuntary muscle spasm at the dingdong. I sighed as I bent down to pick up the books.

  Jesus, Viv, get a grip.

  Caroline watched with raised eyebrows as I said, “Pretty sure Clark’s here. I’ll go get the door.”

  I hurried down the stairs, spying the familiar outline on the other side of the lace. It had been a long week. Stomach in knots, I practically jumped the last two steps, flew across the floor, and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. Once there, I finally paused to breathe. What would I find on the other side? Familiar and Funny Friend Clark? Or Distant and Detached Clark?

  I opened the door. He filled it. Tall, dark, and tweedy. I smiled without even thinking about it. His brown eyes warmed instantly, taking me in and then, as usual, dropped down to scan me head to toe. Per usual, I let him look. I leaned against the doorframe as he took in my legs, clad in the shortest cutoffs I owned. I didn’t really plan out my outfit this morning at all. Not at all . . .

  When he got to my stomach and its jewelry, his eyes widened. I wore a T-shirt casually knotted in the back to bare my navel. He stopped somewhere around my chest and I puffed up a bit, letting my fingers play with my cameo. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. The brief perusal felt like hours. And when his eyes finally made it back up to mine, they were warm and kind and happy to see me. But then they became all business.

  “I trust you have everything in order before the contractor arrives?”

  My stomach rolled over. He was still pissed.

  “Good to see you too, Clark. Come on in.” I sighed, holding the door open wide and ushering him in. His arm brushed mine and my fingers touched my skin absently as I watched him walk into the room, turning in a circle and examining the work I’d done this week. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the Post-it I’d stuck on the loose newel.

  “Don’t start. I’m only asking if they can restore it, not replace it. Happy?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly the word I’d use to describe myself,” he muttered, loud enough for me to hear.

  I stifled a snappy remark, watching him from the door. “So, how was your week?” I asked.

  “Busy,” he said, now examining the wood-framed mirror in the entryway. “Did you scratch this?”

  “No,” I huffed, crossing to stand next to him, looking where he was rubbing his finger along the bottom frame.

  “This scratch wasn’t here before,” he insisted, and I pushed into his side.

  “If you’ll move your hand, maybe I can see what you’re talking about,” I answered, squinting to see what he was worrying. The old frame was riddled with cracks and scratches; what was he seeing? I tried leaning over his arm, but it was in my way, so I ducked underneath and raised up on my tippy toes. I brushed his hand aside and examined where his finger had just been.

  The half-inch scratch looked as old as the wood. I started to tell Clark exactly where he could go scratch when I felt the warmth of his body against mine. Pressed along the length of me, the long, lean lines of his body fit against mine, and he slid his finger back into place. On the wall.

  “See this? This wasn’t there before,” he breathed, just behind my ear. My neck bloomed with heat.

  What was happening here?

  I slowly dropped from my toes to my heels, pressing my spine further against him. Then I raised up once more, arching to lean closer to the wall, pushing another part of me more firmly against a specific part of him. He let out a hiss, and I grinned into the wall. “You mean this here?” I asked, dragging my thumb across the gouge in the wood.

  I repeat. What was happening here?

  I chanced a look over my shoulder and saw Clark. Eyes closed, jaw clenched. Inhaling deeply.

  And further over my shoulder was Caroline. Arms crossed, with a knowing grin.

  I turned back to the wall, tapped the scratch, and slipped out from under his arm. “I guess we’ll just add it to the list of things to do,” I announced.

  His eyes popped open. Clearing his throat, he turned, then saw Caroline. “Oh, hello there. Good to see you again,” he said, walking away and putting the entire room between us. “I trust this contractor you’ve hired is familiar with this kind of restoration work?”

  I leaned against the wall, flustered and confused and not at all sure what had just happened. It was hot in here; I needed to open some windows. I pulled at the neck on my T-shirt, fanning myself, and Caroline smothered a laugh.

  “Yes, he works with a local guy I’ve worked with before. They’re very careful with projects like this,” she answered.

  Clark nodded briskly. “Good, very good. While we’re waiting for him, let me show you some of the designs I came across in the archives of some of the original homes here in town. You mentioned you were going to be consulting on your friends’ vacation home, and I’m familiar with that house. It’s a beauty,” he said, setting his briefcase on the dining room table, having a perfectly normal conversation with Caroline—while I was still trying to bring my heartbeat back to its normal rate.

  He didn’t seem to be affected in the slightest. Humph.

  Most uncomfortable day ever. I mean it. Once the contractor arrived we went from room to room, with Caroline leading the charge. Thank goodness she was there, because the tension that was simmering between Clark and me was like a thin coating of insanity covering every word uttered. And every heated glance. And every not-so-heated glance.

  When I asked if the cedar closet off the upstairs hallway could be removed to expand the bathroom? A lecture from Clark on why it would be a crime against humanity to destroy something as important as this very closet. I listened for the first two minutes, then got caught rolling my eyes and was promptly scolded. To which I stuck out my tongue. Which resulted in a gaze so smoldering from Clark it’s a wonder the cedar didn’t burst into flames.

  And when Caroline and Contractor Joe needed to discuss recaulking the windows on the second floor, going on and on about how for the best seal you needed a really thick caulk? Clark turned three shades of purple and I damn near bit through my lower lip.

  But as the day stretched on, progress was made. At the end we had a clear plan for making the changes I felt were needed but also made Clark comfortable. Not only in terms of the historical register but meeting
his mental guidelines for the integrity of the house. Caroline had walked a tightrope between the two themes all day, mediating and balancing the tension that was no longer ignorable.

  The easy truce Clark and I had formed after the first few days, the friendship that had blossomed while I was back in Philadelphia, was gone. And in its place? Uncomfortable silence. Frustrated and stilted conversation. And worse? Caulk. Oh the caulk.

  Once we said good-bye to Contractor Joe, Caroline excused herself to make a phone call and I was alone with Clark in the entryway.

  Silence. More silence. Shuffle of shoe, puff of breath, and then again, silence.

  Finally, we both started:

  “So what do you think about—”

  “So if it’s all right with you—”

  Then we both backed off.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “No no, what were you going to say?”

  “No please. You first,” I insisted.

  “Ladies first, Vivian,” he insisted right back.

  This would go on all night if our mutual stubbornness had its way.

  “What I was going to say is, what do you think about Joe? He seemed to be the best of the bunch to me.”

  “I think he appears to be very capable, and seems to understand what you’re going for here. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job.”

  “Good. I mean, I thought so too, but I wondered what you thought,” I rambled, filling the space. Which had never been necessary before. “So—yeah.”

  More silence.

  “What were you going to say?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” He seemed distracted.

  “When we both started talking at the same time? What were you going to say?” I repeated.

  “Oh. Well, I was just going to say that it seems like Caroline and you have really worked things out, and this project is pretty well on track. I think everything’s going to work out just fine with the house.”

  “I think so too. It’ll be fun to see some of these things take shape.” I moved a little closer to him and pointed to a cornice piece that separated the entryway and the living room. “I really liked your idea of trying to replicate these upstairs. It’ll really tie things together.”