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  To my mom, for letting me have coconut on my birthday cake even though no one else likes it.

  To my dad, for reading me Garfield comics until we laughed so hard we were both crying. Thank you.

  acknowledgments

  There are so many people I have to thank for helping me bring this story back out there. To Lauren, who edited this from the very beginning and always told me when I was getting it right. To Sarah M. Glover for her San Francisco insight and her insistence that I do have a voice and I should be encouraged to use it. To Elizabeth for allowing me to be crazy. To Brittany and Angie for recognizing that I was one of them and allowing me to play with the curvy girls. To Deb for being the best dirty cheerleader on the planet. To my real life mentors, Staci and Janet, upon whom the character of Jillian is entirely based. To the fantastic Banger Nation, those wonderful ladies who were there from the very first chapter and enjoyed the ridiculous with me. To the Filets for their support in the wee hours and their constant gut checks. To all of the wonderful readers and friends on Twitter who make it a pleasure to communicate in 140 characters. To authors like Laura Kaye, Ruthie Knox, Jennifer Probst, Michelle Leighton, Tiffany Reisz, Karen Marie Moning, and Jennifer Crusie for writing some of my favorite stories of all time. I have always been a reader first and a writer second, and nothing makes me happier than telling a friend about a great book I just finished and can’t stop thinking about.

  To the online writing community that allowed me the space and the grace to create something I could be truly proud of.

  To Keili and Ashley for making me funny again and playing with me on Not Your Mother’s Podcast.

  To my new editor Micki Nuding, for having the willingness to not only take me on as a new author but being crazy enough to want to help me bring Wallbanger and the Redhead Series to the world.

  To my agent Jennifer Schober, who I clicked with from the second I got on the phone with her that first time and she told me it was perfectly normal for a writer to need constant validation.

  Special thanks to my editor and very good friend Jessica, who is the perfect blend of smart and sassy. You are a perfectionist, you are a sounding board in a padded room, you are the colon to my semi.

  Very special thanks to my publicist and partner in crime Enn, not only for being my immoral barometer but also for bringing me back into the fold. Thank you for listening to my rants, putting up with my commas, and working your ass off. For always having my back. There is a taco in heaven with your name on it.

  And of course a big fat thanks to Peter for always taking such good care of me. I adore your giant thumbs.

  Thank you to all the readers, to all the Nuts Girls, to all the Bangers, to all the chickens. Thank you.

  Alice

  xoxo

  chapter one

  “Oh, God.”

  Thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Thump thump.

  What the . . .

  “Oh, God, that’s so good!”

  I scrambled up out of sleep, confused as I looked around the strange room. Boxes on the floor. Pictures propped against the wall.

  My new bedroom, in my new apartment, I reminded myself, placing both hands on the duvet, grounding myself with the luxurious thread count. Even half asleep, I was aware of my thread count.

  “Mmmm. . . . Yeah, baby. Right there. Just like that. . . . Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

  Oh boy . . .

  I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and turned to look at the wall behind me, beginning to understand what had woken me up. My hands still stroked the duvet absently, catching the attention of Clive, my wonder cat. Butting his head under my hand, Clive demanded to be soothed. I stroked him as I looked around and oriented myself in my new space.

  I’d moved in earlier that day. It was a gorgeous apartment: spacious rooms, wood floors, arched doorways—it even had a fireplace! I had no clue how to actually build a fire, but that was neither here nor there. I was aching to put things on the mantel. As an interior designer, I had a habit of mentally placing things in almost every space, whether it belonged to me or not. It drove my friends a wee bit mad at times, as I was constantly restaging their knickknacks.

  I’d spent the day moving in, and after soaking in the incredibly deep, claw-foot tub until well past prune, I settled myself into bed and enjoyed the creaks and squeaks of a new home: light traffic outside, some quiet music, and the comforting click-click of Clive exploring. The click-click came from his hangnail, you see . . .

  At 2:37 I suddenly found myself gazing stupidly at the ceiling, trying to figure out what had awakened me, and I was startled as my headboard moved—banged into the wall was more like it.

  Are you kidding me? Then I heard, very distinctly:

  “Oh, Simon, that’s so good! Mmm. . . .”

  Aw, jeez.

  Blinking, I felt more awake now and a little fascinated by what was clearly going on next door. I looked at Clive, he looked at me, and if I wasn’t so tired I’d have been pretty sure he winked. I guess someone should be getting some.

  I’d been in a bit of a dry spell for a while. A very long while. Bad, rapid-fire sex and an ill-timed one-night stand had robbed me of my orgasm. She’d been on vacation for six months now. Six long months.

  The beginnings of carpal tunnel were threatening to set in as I tried desperately to get myself off. But O was on seemingly permanent hiatus. And I don’t mean Oprah.

  I pushed the thoughts of my missing O away and curled up on my side. All seemed quiet now, and I began to drift back to sleep, Clive purring contentedly beside me. Then all hell broke loose.

  “Yes! Yes! Oh, God. . . . Oh, God!”

  A painting I’d propped on the shelf above my bed fell off and rapped me soundly on the head. That’ll teach me to live in San Francisco and not make sure everything is securely mounted. Speaking of mounted . . .

  Rubbing my head and cursing enough to make Clive blush—if cats could blush—I looked back at the wall behind me again. My headboard was literally banging against it as the ruckus continued next door.

  “Mmm . . . yes, baby, yes, yes, yes!” the loudmouth chanted . . . and concluded with a contented sigh.

  Then I heard, for the love of all that’s holy, spanking. You can’t misinterpret the sound of a good spanking, and someone was receiving one next door.

  “Oh, God, Simon. Yes. I’ve been a bad girl. Yes, yes!”

  Unreal. . . . More spanking and then the unmistakable sound of a male voice, groaning and sighing.

  I got up, moved the entire bed a few inches away from the wall, and huffed back under the duvet, glaring at the wall the whole time.

  I fell asleep that night after swearing I would bang back if I heard one more peep. Or groan. Or spank.

  Welcome to the neighborhood, Caroline.

  chapter two

  The next morning, my first official morning in my new place, found me sipping a cup of coffee and munching a leftover doughnut from yesterday’s moving-in party.

  I wasn’t quite as awake as I’d hoped to be during unpackingpalooza, and I silently cursed last night’s antics next door. The girl was plowed; she was spanked; she came; she slept. The same for Simon. I assumed his name was Simon, as that was what the girl who liked to be spanked kept calling him. And really, if she was making up a name, there were hotter ones than Simon to be screaming out in the
throes.

  The throes . . . God, I missed the throes.

  “Still nothing, huh, O?” I sighed, looking down. During month four of the Missing O, I’d started to talk to my O as though she were an actual entity. She felt real enough when she was rocking my world back in the day, but sadly, now that O had abandoned me, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her. ’Tis a sad, sad day when a girl doesn’t even know her own orgasm, I thought, looking wistfully out the window at the San Francisco skyline.

  I unfolded my legs and padded to the sink to rinse out my coffee mug. Placing it on the rack to dry, I pushed my light blond hair back into a sloppy ponytail and surveyed the chaos that surrounded me. No matter how well I planned, no matter how well I labeled those boxes, no matter how often I told that idiot moving guy that if it said KITCHEN it did not belong in the BATHROOM, it still was a mess. Luckily I had the foresight to set aside my favorite coffee mug the night before.

  “What do you think, Clive? Should we start in here or the living room?” He was curled up on one of the deep windowsills. Admittedly, when I was scouting new places to live, I always looked at the windowsills. Clive was fond of looking out on the world, and it was nice seeing him waiting for me when I came home.

  Right now he looked at me and then seemed to nod toward the living room.

  “Okay, living room it is,” I said, realizing I’d spoken only three times since waking up this morning, and every word uttered had been directed at a pussy. Ahem. . . .

  About twenty minutes later Clive had started a stare-off with a pigeon and I was sorting DVDs when I heard voices in the hallway. My noisy neighbors! I ran to the door, almost tripping over a box, and pressed an eye to the peephole only to see the doorway across the hall. What a pervert I am, honestly. But I made no attempt to stop peeping.

  I couldn’t see very clearly, but I could hear their conversation: the man’s voice low and soothing, followed by unmistakable sighing from his companion.

  “Mmm, Simon, last night was fantastic.”

  “I thought this morning was fantastic too,” he said, planting what sounded like one helluva kiss on her.

  Huh. They must have been in another room this morning. I hadn’t heard a thing. I pressed my eye back to the peephole. Dirty pervert.

  “Yes, it was. Call me soon?” she asked, leaning in for another kiss.

  “Of course. I’ll call you when I’m back in town,” he promised, swatting her on her bottom as she giggled again and turned away.

  It seemed she was on the short side. Bye-bye, Spanks. The angle was wrong for me to see this Simon, and he was back in his apartment before I could get any sort of sense of him. Interesting. So this girl does not live with him.

  I hadn’t heard any “I love you”s when she left, but they did seem very comfortable. I chewed absently on my ponytail. They’d have to be, what with the spanking and all.

  Pushing thoughts of spanking and Simon from my mind, I went back to my DVDs. Spanking Simon. What a great name for a band. . . . I moved on to the Hs.

  An hour later I was just placing The Wizard of Oz after Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory when I heard a knock. There was scuffling in the hallway as I approached the door, and I stifled a grin.

  “Don’t drop it, you idiot,” a sultry voice chided.

  “Oh, shut up. Don’t be so damn bossy,” a second voice snapped back.

  Rolling my eyes, I opened the door to find my two best friends, Sophia and Mimi, holding a large box. “No fighting, ladies. You’re both pretty.” I laughed, raising an eyebrow at them.

  “Ha-ha. Funny,” Mimi answered, staggering inside.

  “What the hell is that? I can’t believe you guys carried it up four flights of stairs!” My girls did not do manual labor when they could get someone else to do it.

  “Believe me, we waited outside in the cab for someone to walk by, but no luck. So we schlepped it ourselves. Happy housewarming!” Sophia said. They set it down, and she fell into the easy chair by the fireplace.

  “Yeah, quit moving so much. We’re tired of buying you stuff.” Mimi laughed, lying down on the couch and placing her arms over her face dramatically.

  I poked at the box with my toe and asked, “So what is it? And I never said you had to buy me anything. The Jack LaLanne juicer was not necessary last year, truly.”

  “Don’t be ungrateful. Just open it,” Sophia instructed, pointing at the box with her middle finger, which she then turned upright and displayed in my general direction.

  I sighed and sat on the floor in front of the box. I knew it was from Williams-Sonoma, as it had the telltale ribbon with the tiny pineapple tied to it. The box was heavy, whatever it was.

  “Oh no. What did you two do?” I asked, catching a wink from Mimi to Sophia. Pulling at the ribbon and opening the box, I was pleased as punch with what I found. “You guys, this is too much!”

  “We know how much you miss your old one.” Mimi laughed, smiling at me.

  Years before, I’d been given a great-aunt’s old KitchenAid mixer after she passed away. It was more than forty years old but still worked great. Those things were built to last, by God, and it had lasted until just a few months ago, when it finally bit it in a big way. It smoked and went wonky one afternoon while mixing a batch of zucchini bread, and as much as I hated to do it, I tossed it out.

  Now, as I stared into the box, a shiny, new, stainless-steel KitchenAid stand mixer staring back at me, visions of cookies and pies began dancing in my head.

  “You guys, it’s beautiful,” I breathed, gazing with delight at my new baby. I lifted it out to admire. Running my hands over it, splaying my fingers to feel the smooth lines, I delighted in the cold metal against my skin. I sighed gently and actually hugged it.

  “Do you two want to be alone?” Sophia asked.

  “No, it’s okay. I want you to be here to witness our love. Besides, this is the only mechanical instrument that will likely bring me any pleasure in the near future. Thanks, guys. It’s too expensive, but I really appreciate it,” I said.

  Clive came over, sniffed the mixer, and promptly jumped into the empty box.

  “Just promise to bring us yummy treats, and it’s all worth it, dear.” Mimi sat up, looking at me expectantly.

  “What?” I asked warily.

  “Caroline, can I please start on your drawers now?” she asked, stutter-stepping her way toward the bedroom.

  “Can you start doing what to my drawers?” I answered, pulling my drawstring a little tighter around my waist.

  “Your kitchen! I’m dying to start placing everything!” she exclaimed, running in place now.

  “Oh, hell yes. Have at it! Merry Christmas, freak show,” I called as Mimi ran triumphantly into the other room.

  Mimi was a professional organizer. She’d driven us crazy when we were all at Berkeley together—with her OCD tendencies and her insane attention to detail. One day Sophia suggested Mimi become a professional organizer, and after graduation, she did just that. She now worked all over the Bay Area, helping families get their shit together. The design firm I worked for sometimes had her consult, and she’d even appeared on a few HGTV shows filming in the city. The job suited her to perfection.

  So I just let Mimi do her thing, knowing my stuff would be so perfectly arranged, I’d be astounded. Sophia and I continued to putz around the living room while Sophia admired my DVD collection, laughing over DVDs we’d watched throughout the years. We paused over each and every Brat Pack movie from the eighties, debating whether Bender ended up with Claire once they all went back to school on Monday. I voted no, and I further bet she never got that earring back. . . .

  Later that night, after my friends left, I settled on the couch in the living room with Clive to watch reruns of Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network. While dreaming of the creations I’d be whipping up with my new mixer—and how one day I wanted a kitchen like Ina Garten’s—I heard footsteps on the landing outside my door, and two voices. I narrowed my eyes at Clive. Spanks must
be back.

  Springing from the couch, I pressed my eye against the peephole once more, trying to get a look at my neighbor. I missed him again, only seeing his back as he entered his apartment behind a very tall woman with long brown hair.

  Interesting. Two different women in as many days. Manwhore.

  I saw the door swing shut and felt Clive curl around my legs, purring.

  “No, you can’t go out there, silly boy,” I cooed, bending down and scooping him up. I rubbed his silky fur against my cheek, smiling as he lay back in my arms. Clive was the manwhore around here. He would lie down for anyone who rubbed his belly.

  Returning to the couch, I watched as Barefoot Contessa taught us all how to host a dinner party in the Hamptons with simple elegance—and a Hamptons-size bank account.

  A few hours later, with the imprint of the couch cushion pressed firmly into my cheek, I made my way back to my bedroom to go to sleep. Mimi had organized my closet so efficiently that all I had left to do was to hang pictures and arrange a few odds and ends. I quite deliberately removed the rest of the pictures from the shelf above my bed. I was taking no chances tonight. I stood in the center of the room, listening for sounds from next door. All quiet on the western front. So far, so good. Maybe last night was a one-time thing.

  As I got ready for bed, I looked at the framed pictures of my family and friends: My parents and me skiing in Tahoe. My girls and me at Coit Tower. Sophia loved to take pictures next to anything phallic. She played the cello with the San Francisco Symphony, and even though she’d been around musical instruments all her life, she could never pass up a joke when she saw a flute. She was twisted.

  All three of us were unattached at the moment, something rare. Usually at least one of us was dating someone, but since Sophia had broken up with her last boyfriend a few months ago, we’d all been in a dry spell. Luckily for my friends, their spells weren’t quite as dry as mine. As far as I knew, they were still on speaking terms with their Os.