The Cocktail Collection Read online

  And then we entered the master bedroom. I came around the corner and saw him standing at the end of the hallway, just outside the door.

  “What the hell did you find that has you so qui—Oh my. Would you look at that?” I stopped next to him, admiring from the doorway.

  If my life had a soundtrack, the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey would have been playing right now.

  There, in the middle of a corner room, with its own terrace overlooking the most beautiful sea in the world, was the biggest mother-loving bed I’d ever seen. Carved out of what looked to be teak, it was as big as football field. Thousands of silky soft white pillows stacked against the headboard, spilling down over a white duvet. It was folded down just so, the million-or-so thread count sheets shining, actually shining, as though they were lit from within. Sheer white curtains hung from rods suspended over the bed, creating a canopy, while even more curtains hung in the windows overlooking the sea below. The windows were open and all the curtains blew gently in the breeze, giving the entire room a billowy, flouncy, windblown effect.

  It was the bed to end all beds. It was the bed that all the little beds aspired to be when they grew up. It was bed heaven.

  “Wow,” I managed, still in the hallway next to Simon.

  It was hypnotic. It was like a bed siren, luring us in so we could crash.

  “You could say that again,” he stammered, his eyes never leaving the bed.

  “Wow,” I repeated, still staring.

  I couldn’t stop, and I was suddenly very, impossibly, excruciatingly nervous. I had a lovely case of performance anxiety, party of one.

  Simon chuckled at my weak joke, and it brought me back to him.

  “No pressure, huh?” he said, eyes shy.

  Huh? Nerves? Party of two? I had a choice. I could go with conventional wisdom, said wisdom being that two grown-ups on vacation together in a gorgeous house with a bed that was sex incarnate would immediately begin nonstop sexing . . . or, I could let us both off the hook and just enjoy. Enjoy being together and let things happen when they happen. Yeah, I liked this idea better.

  I winked and took a running leap onto the bed, bouncing pillows all over the room. I peeked over the remaining mound to see him leaning in the doorway, a sight I had seen so many times before. He looked a little nervous, but still beautiful.

  “So, where are you sleeping?” I called, and his face relaxed into a smile, my smile.

  “Wine?”

  “Am I breathing?”

  “Wine it is,” he snorted, selecting a bottle of rosé from the generously stocked wine fridge. Simon had arranged to have some basic groceries delivered to the house before our arrival, nothing fancy but enough to nosh on and make us comfortable. It was now fully dark, and any thoughts we’d had about going into town faded away as the jet lag loomed. Instead, we’d stay in tonight, get a good night’s sleep, and head into town in the morning. There was a roast chicken, olives, a wedge of Manchego, some gorgeous-looking serrano ham, and enough other little odds and ends to make a meal. I assembled plates while he poured the wine, and soon we were sitting on the terrace. The ocean crashed below, and the wooden walkway down to the beach was strung with tiny white lights.

  “We should go down to the beach before bed, at least take a little walk.”

  “Done. What do you want to do tomorrow?”

  “Depends. When do you need to start working?”

  “Well, I know some of the places I need to go, but I need to do a little scouting still. Want to come along?”

  “Of course. Start in town in the morning and see where that leads?” I asked, nibbling on an olive.

  He raised his glass and nodded. “To seeing where it leads,” he toasted.

  I raised my glass to his. “I’ll second that.” Our glasses clinked and our eyes locked. We both smiled, a secret smile. We were finally alone, all to ourselves, and there was no place else on the planet I wanted to be. We ate our dinner, stealing little glances at each other throughout, and sipped our wine. It made me drowsy, and a little touchy-feely.

  After that we’d picked our way carefully over the rocky shoreline to the beach. We’d grasped hands to navigate but never let go. Now we stood at the edge of the earth, the strong, salty wind whipping through our hair and clothes, buffeting us back a bit.

  “It’s nice, being with you,” I told him. “I, um, well, I like holding your hand,” I admitted, feeling brave from the wine. Witty banter had its place, but sometimes, all you need is the truth. He didn’t respond, simply smiled and brought my hand to his mouth, placing a small kiss.

  We watched the waves, and when he pulled me to his chest, snuggling me to him, I breathed out slowly. Had it really been so long since I’d felt—Oh, what was it I was feeling?—cared for?

  “Jillian told me you know what happened to my parents,” he said so softly I could barely hear him.

  “Yes. She told me.”

  “They used to hold hands all the time. Not for show, though, you know?”

  I nodded into his chest and breathed him in.

  “I always see these couples that hold hands and make such a show of it, calling each other Baby and Sweetie and Honey. It seems like, I don’t know, false somehow. Like, would they be doing it if they weren’t in front of anyone?”

  I nodded again.

  “My parents? I never thought much about it at the time, but when I think about it now, I realize their hands were practically sewn together, always with the hand-holding. Even when no one was looking, right? I’d come home after practice and find them watching TV, at either end of the couch, but with their hands propped up on a pillow so they could still be touching. . . . It was just . . . I don’t know, it was nice.”

  My hand, still tucked into his own, squeezed, and I felt his strong fingers squeeze back.

  “Sounds like they were still a couple, not just a mom and dad,” I said, hearing his breath speed up a bit.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “You miss them.”

  “Of course.”

  “Might sound weird, since I never knew them, but I feel like they would be so proud of you, Simon.”

  “Yeah.”

  We were quiet another minute, feeling the night around us.

  “Want to go back to the house?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He kissed the top of my head as we began to make our way back—hands stuck together like someone had spread Krazy Glue on them.

  I’d left Simon to clean up the mess from dinner. I wanted a quick shower before bed. After washing away the days of airport and travel, I threw on an old T-shirt and boy shorts, too tired for the lingerie I had packed. Yes, I had packed lingerie. Come on, I was no nun.

  I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom (yep, I had totally claimed the big one) after blow-drying my hair when I saw him appear in the doorway. He was on his way to his room after his own shower, wearing pajama pants and a towel wrapped around his neck. I was exhausted, but not so exhausted I didn’t appreciate the form in front of me. I watched him in the mirror as he appraised me as well.

  “Have a good shower?” he asked.

  “Yes, it felt amazing.”

  “Heading to bed?”

  “I can barely keep my eyes open,” I replied, yawning hugely to punctuate.

  “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Anything?”

  I turned to face him as he stepped inside. “No water, no tea, but there is one thing I’d like before I go to sleep,” I purred, taking a few steps his way.

  “What’s that?”

  “Good-night kiss?”

  His eyes darkened. “Oh, hell, is that all? That I can do.” He closed the distance between us and slipped his arms easily around my waist.

  “Kiss me, you fool,” I teased, falling into his embrace as if in an old-time melodrama.

  “One kissing fool, coming up.” He laughed, but within seconds no one was laughing. And within minutes, no one was standing.

  After falling into Pillow Town,
we scrambled about, arms and legs twisting this way and that, kisses becoming more and more frantic. My shirt bunched up around my waist, and the feeling of his hi-there against my hoohah was indescribable. He rained kisses down upon my neck, licking and sucking as I moaned like I was trying to win a contest where the winner gets a Simon to lick and suck on her neck.

  To be fair, I’d never actually heard a whore moan in church, but I had a feeling it sounded a lot like the unholy sounds pouring forth from my mouth.

  He flipped me about like a rag doll and settled me on top of him, my legs on either side, the way I’d wanted to be for so long. He sighed, gazing up as I impatiently pushed my hair away from my face so I could truly appreciate the magnificence I was perched on.

  We slowed our movements, then stopped altogether, staring unabashedly at each other, appraising each other without shame.

  “Incredible.” He breathed, reaching to gently cup my face as I nuzzled his hand.

  “That’s a good word for it, yes. Incredible.” I turned to kiss his fingertips. He stared into my eyes again, those sex sapphires doing their voodoo that made me a puddle of voodoo goo. For him to woo. See what he did to me?

  “I don’t want to screw this up,” he said suddenly, his words breaking me from my Seussian rhymes.

  “Wait, what?” I asked, shaking my head to clear it.

  “This. You. Us. I don’t want to screw this up,” he insisted, sitting up underneath me, my legs wrapping around to his back.

  “Okay, so don’t,” I ventured, unsure where this was going.

  “I mean, you need to know, I have no experience with this.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “I have a wall back home that would disagree with that. . . .” I laughed, and he crushed me to his chest, inexplicably hard. “Hey, hey . . . what’s up? What’s going on?” I soothed, my hands rubbing up and down his back.

  “Caroline, I, Jesus, how do I say this without sounding like an episode of Dawson’s Creek?” he stumbled, talking into my neck.

  I couldn’t help it, I chuckled a little as Pacey flashed into my head, and that brought Simon back. I pulled away a bit so I could see him, and he smiled ruefully.

  “Okay, Dawson’s be damned, I really like you, Caroline. But I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school, and I have no clue how to do this. But you need to know, that what I feel for you? Shit, it’s just different, okay? And, whatever your wall would say back home, I need you to know that this? What we have or will have? It’s different, okay? You know that, right?”

  He was telling me I was different, that I was no replacement for the harem. And this, I knew. He looked at me so earnestly, so seriously, and my heart opened even more. I pressed a gentle kiss to his sweet lips.

  “First of all, I do know this. Second of all, you’re better at this than you think.” I smiled, pressing his eyes closed and kissing each eyelid. “And, for the record, I loved Dawson’s Creek, and you did the WB proud.” I laughed as his eyes sprang back open and relief rushed in. I tucked him into my nook and held him there as we rocked back and forth, the rush of the earlier hormones subsiding as we found this new space, this quiet intimacy that was becoming almost as addicting.

  “I like that we’re taking things slow. You give good woo,” I whispered.

  He tensed underneath me. I could feel him shaking a little.

  “I give good woo?” He laughed, tears springing to his eyes as he tried to control his laughter.

  “Oh, shut up,” I cried, smacking him with a pillow. We laughed for a few more minutes, falling back into the lush bed, and as the jet lag finally overtook us, we settled in. Together. There was no question in my mind now about sleeping in separate rooms. I wanted him here. With me. Surrounded by pillows and Spain, we nooked. The last thought I had, before slipping into sleep with his strong arms wrapped around me . . . I might be falling in love with my Wallbanger.

  chapter seventeen

  I was awakened the next morning by a great rumbling. Forgetting where I was for a split second, I automatically assumed I was home, and we were experiencing a tremor. I was halfway out of bed with one foot on the floor before I noticed that the view outside my bedroom window was decidedly more blue than it was at home, and decidedly more Mediterranean. And the rumbling? That was no tremor. It was Simon snoring. Snoring. Snoring to beat the band, and by beat the band I mean beat that band up with his nose—which was emitting the most unearthly sound. I clapped my hands over my mouth to hold in the laughter and crept back into bed, the better to appraise the situation.

  True to form, I’d taken over most of the bed in the night, and he’d been relegated to the far corner, where he was now curled into a little ball with a pillow tucked between his legs. But what he lacked in square footage, he made up for in sound. The sounds pouring forth from his nasal passages registered somewhere between grizzly bear and exploding tractor trailer. I wiggled across the mile-wide bed, curling myself around his head and looking down at his face. Even while making these horrific sounds, he was adorable. I carefully placed my fingers next to his nose and plugged. And then waited.

  After about ten seconds, he inhaled and shook his head, looking around wildly. He relaxed when he saw me perched on the pillows next to him. He smiled a sleepy smile.

  “Hey, hey, what’s up?” he mumbled, rolling into me and wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his head on my tummy. I ran my hands through his hair, delighting in the casual freedom we finally had in touching each other.

  “Just woke up. Someone was quite noisy on this side of the bed.”

  He closed one eye and looked up at me. “I hardly think someone as flaily as you can complain about anything.”

  “Flaily? That’s not even a word,” I huffed, enjoying his arms around me more than I wanted to admit.

  “Flaily, as in, one who flails. As in, one who, even though she is sleeping in a bed the size of Alcatraz, still needs almost the entire mattress to spread out and kick,” he insisted, accidentally-on-purpose pushing my shirt up so he could rest his head on my naked tummy.

  “Flailing is better than snoring, Mr. Snorey Pants,” I teased again, trying not to notice his stubble scraping against my skin in the most delicious way.

  “You flail. I snore. Whatever will we do about this?” He smiled happily, still half-asleep.

  “Ear plugs and shin guards?”

  “Yep, that’s sexy. We can suit up before bed each night.” He sighed, pressing the tiniest of kisses just above my belly button.

  A noise that sounded sadly like a whimper escaped my lips before I could pull it back, and my ears burned as I took in what he’d said about “each night,” as in sleeping together each night. Oh my. . . .

  We ate a quick breakfast at the house, then headed into town. I fell in love with the village instantly: the old stone streets, the whitewashed walls glimmering in the blazing sunlight, the beauty that poured forth from every open archway. From every speck of azure that peeked through from the coast to the friendly smiles on the sweet faces of the people who called this enchanted spot home, I was hooked.

  It was market day, and we wandered in and out of stalls, picking up fresh fruit to snack on later. I’ve seen beautiful places on this earth, but this town was heaven for me. I’d truly never experienced anything like it.

  Now, I had been traveling alone for years, finding my own company quite pleasant. But traveling with Simon? It was . . . cool. Just, cool. He was quiet, the way I am when I’m seeing something new. He never felt the need to fill a silence with chattery words. We were content to soak up the scenery. When we did speak, it was to point out something we thought the other shouldn’t miss, like the puppies playing in a dooryard, or an old man and woman talking back and forth over their balconies. He was a great companion.

  We strolled back to the rental car, the afternoon sun toasting through the thin cotton covering my shoulders, when my hand tangled with his in the most unassuming way. And when he took the time to open my door for me, and leaned down
to kiss me in the warm Spanish sunshine, his lips and the smell of olive trees were the only things I needed in the entire world.

  In the time I’d known Simon, I’d committed several images of him to memory: Seeing him for the first time, clad only in a sheet and a smirk. Driving back across the bridge with him the night of Jillian’s housewarming, when we called a truce. Warped and blurry Simon as seen from inside an afghan. Backlit by tiki torches, wet, and looking devilishly handsome by the hot tub. And a recent addition to my Best of Simons? The sight of him underneath me as he clutched me close, his warm skin and sweet breath all over me as we nooked in the Giant Bed of Sin.

  But nothing, and I mean nothing, was hotter than watching Simon work. I mean it. I actually had to fan myself a little—which he took no notice of, because when he was working he was delightfully focused.

  And now here I sat, watching Simon work. We’d driven up the coast to get some test shots at a place a local guide had told him about, and the perilously handsome Simon now concentrated completely on the task at hand. As he’d explained to me, it wasn’t about the actual pictures he was taking; it was about testing the light and the colors. So as he scrambled his way from rock to rock, I sat on a blanket we’d dug out of the trunk and observed. Perched on cliffs high above the sea, we could see for miles. The rocky shoreline stretched and curled back in on itself as millions of waves poured in from the deep sea. And while the scenery was gorgeous, what had my attention was the way the tip of Simon’s tongue poked out as he surveyed the scene. The way he bit down on his lower lip as he puzzled over something. The way excitement broke over his face when he saw something new through his lens.

  I was glad I had something to do, something to fixate on, as the beginning of a battle was starting to wage inside my body. Ever since we’d acknowledged the pressure that giant bed could have placed on us, all I could think about was that very pressure. As well as the pressure of an O long denied, waiting patiently—and sometimes impatiently—for her release. The pressure was so strong, so intense, that every single part of me could feel it.