The Cocktail Collection Read online

  “And what if he brings someone? Shit, he’s totally bringing someone, isn’t he? Isn’t he? That’s it—that asshole; he thinks he can show me? He thinks he’s gonna get the better of me? Hell no, not on my watch. Stupid overgrown boy-looking sportscaster motherfucker.”

  This entire conversation was had by Sophia alone as she grabbed her purse and headed back toward the bathroom.

  Once she was gone, I grabbed the rest of her waffles and divided them between my plate and Mimi’s. We clinked forks and tucked in for a few minutes.

  “Do you think he’s bringing someone?” I asked.

  “I’m sure he is. I’ve tried asking Ryan about it, but he’s claiming guy code, or bros before hos, or something ridiculous like that.”

  “Same with Simon. I wonder if they—” I stopped as Sophia exited the bathroom.

  The sweatshirt was now tied around her waist, the revealed tank top tight. Her hair was braided, bangs swept back revealing a clean, shining face. Lip gloss had been added; a little blush too. The girl was stunning once more; you just can’t keep that kind of beauty buried for too long. But what made every man and more than a few women do a double take were her double D’s. Accentuated more than ever by the purposeful rip she’d given her tank top, perfectly highlighting each D to its full potential.

  “Can you believe I was ever worried about gaining a little weight? Look how great my tits look!” she announced as she came back to the table. “Let’s head over to the park and pick up hot boys. Let’s see how many I can get to stop jogging with these,” she said, pulling a wad of cash from her purse and throwing it on the table.

  I couldn’t help but laugh as she dragged a protesting Mimi away from her food. Sophia was back on the prowl, and she took out two busboys on her way out of the diner.

  • • •

  I went to the park just long enough to see that Sophia was indeed back out of her coma. I doubted she was actually over the situation with Neil, but sometimes you have to pretend to be feeling better to actually feel better. It’s why new workout clothes make you feel like you want to work out.

  I was still waiting for that one to turn out to be true . . .

  I begged off staying the whole afternoon on the grounds that I had a Wallbanger in my bed, which needed no further explanation. As I turned the corner onto my street after hopping off the trolley, I thought about what Mimi had said earlier, about needing to see Ryan every day. They could easily do that: Both had jobs in the city and rarely traveled for work. Mimi was a professional organizer, helping families declutter and clean up, while Ryan headed up a nonprofit that helped put computers into schools in low-income areas.

  Would I like to see Simon every day? Of course I would—the speed bump abs alone are worth the price of admission. But more than that, we just . . . worked well together. There was an ease to our relationship that I had never had with anyone else, maybe because we became friends first. And while we had our share of raised eyebrows like every couple, we rarely fought. Maybe because we spent less time together than regular couples.

  I shook my head as I walked up my stairs. It didn’t matter why we worked, we just did. And since Simon would continue to be in demand professionally, we’d continue to make it work long-distance. I liked the idea of an unconventional romance, especially since the beginning of ours was so much so.

  I’d been on a dating freeze after a one-night stand with He Who Shall Not Be Named (read Cory Weinstein) scared my orgasm into hiding, disappearing from the earth entirely. Going, going, gone it was; no good-bye, no nice knowing you. Just gone. I’d attempted to recover the O by bringing back a few tried-and-true partners, but no go. And of course I’d tried to reconnect by using the Holy Trinity of Fantasy Lovers (the Leto, the Damon, and the Holy Clooney), but even by my own hand, the O had left the building. Finally Simon and I were able to conjure her again in a poof of flour on the floor of my kitchen, surrounded by raisins and honey.

  And speaking of unconventional, Simon had never dated anyone in the traditional sense. When I met him he was king of the Friends with Benefits scenario, with an actual harem. As Simon and I were becoming friends in those early days, he’d confided that all the women he’d ever dated seemed to want the same thing: a white picket fence. I convinced him that in fact not all women want that, especially this woman in particular. I’d told him, “The right woman for you wouldn’t want you to change anything about your life. She wouldn’t rock your boat, she’d jump right in and sail it with you.”

  I used to date someone who wanted me to be his picket fencer, his own personal Mrs. Stepford. Or Mrs. James Brown, in this scenario. Lawyer, not Godfather of Soul, to be clear.

  Picket fences? Thanks, but no thanks. I liked my life, I liked our life—it was pretty great.

  A perfect example was our living situation. As I put the key in my lock, I looked across the landing to his apartment door. When he was home we tended to spend most of our time at my place, but I liked that we still had our own apartments. I’d lived with roommates most of my adult life, and even though I was technically subletting from Jillian (no way would I ever be able to afford this amazing apartment without her rent control), it was still my own space.

  Which I shared with a very particular feline. I let myself in, looking around for Clive but not seeing him. I had an idea where he might be, though. Kicking off my shoes, I padded quietly back to the bedroom, peeking my head around the door.

  Tucked into the one corner of the bed I typically allowed him was Simon, still sleeping off his long trip home. Curled into a ball behind Simon’s knees, Clive opened one eye and registered that I was home. He flicked one ear and stretched his back out, tucking himself tighter into his favorite spot.

  I whispered, “Hiya, Clive, how’s my sweet—”

  He cut me off with a quiet but very curt meow.

  And he gave me a very specific look, letting me know that my boys needed their sleep and I should leave well enough alone. I chuckled to myself as Simon let out a loud snore, then backed away. Clive remained behind Simon’s knees.

  Simon’s Knees . . . What a great name for a band.

  While the boys slept I did some laundry, I worked on some sketches for the new hotel project, and I baked. Baking centered me, helped me focus and see my way around corners, especially when I was working on something new. Two loaves of zucchini bread later, I was perched on the kitchen island with a colored pencil in my mouth when I heard shuffling.

  Simon came into the kitchen, nose first. I caught my breath, almost inhaling my pencil when I saw him in his loose pajama bottoms, rumpled hair, and sleepy expression. I knew if I pressed my face into the exact center of his chest, he’d smell like Downy and warm boy. Heart, as always, skipped a beat.

  “Zucchini?” he asked while sniffing the air, his eyes still at half-mast but scanning for bread. His eyes weren’t the only thing at half-mast . . .

  “Zucchini,” I affirmed, nodding my head.

  A slow grin crept across his face; nothing could make him happier than homemade bread. Well, almost nothing.

  “You want some?” I asked.

  He walked toward me, and the bread behind me, with a determined look on his face. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, uncrossing my legs so he could stand between them. “I always want some.”

  “Are we still talking about zucchini bread?” I asked, as his hands dug into my hips. Sliding me closer to the edge suddenly, he pressed a wet kiss below my ear.

  “I’m hungry, yes,” he whispered, in a voice that instantly told my thighs to part. “And the zucchini bread can wait.”

  I moaned. I mean, of course I moaned.

  Gone in sixty seconds was everything under my apron, which was flipped up and out of his way. To his knees he went, pulling my hips exactly to the edge of the counter, my legs roughly thrown over his shoulders.

  “Christ Simon, what brought this—oh!”

  I lost my train of thought as his open mouth pressed against me, his tongue
strong and searching. With one lick, I was close. With a second lick, I was close to stupid.

  With the third . . . Here’s the funny thing about my orgasm. Once I got out of my own way, she was happy to come. Ahem.

  “Oh God, you . . . that’s . . . so . . . wow . . . mmm,” I moaned. He moved, I moved. He pulsed, I twitched. He plunged, I . . . Oh, hell. I flailed.

  “Responsive, aren’t you?” he murmured, raising his head and wickedly licking his lips. I threaded my hands through his hair and not so gently pushed him back down.

  “If you stop now I’ll kill you with this egg timer,” I managed, grabbing for the only thing that was nearby. Which I dropped as soon as he returned to me, my breathing fast and impossible to control. I dug my heels into his back, shamelessly flexing my hips to bring him closer to where I needed him. Giving a long lick to the inside of each of my thighs, he splayed his hands under and around my hips, holding me still as best he could and opening me further to him.

  “Like I could stop? Don’t you know I dream about this when I’m away?” he asked, nudging me with his nose, exactly where I needed his mouth to be.

  “You . . . dream about . . . this?” I asked, arching my back. I was so close, so very close.

  “Fuck, yes, are you kidding?” He flattened his tongue and dragged it across my entire sex, dipping inside and continuing up, closing his mouth now and encircling me with his lips. Releasing me with a groan of his own, he brought one hand down, using his fingers to press into me. “I think about this, and the sounds you make when you come, the way you taste. Mmm . . . sweet Caroline, you drive me crazy.”

  His words swirled my thoughts. I leaned up on my elbows, skin on fire, my fuzzy gaze on this gorgeous man, this shockingly gorgeous man, with his mouth on me. Riding his hand, my hips undulated as his tongue and lips consumed me. His eyes burning into mine, I gasped when my orgasm hit me like a freight train. Shaking, I fell back onto the counter.

  He stood, one hand continuing to caress my skin as I shuddered, the other pushing his pajama bottoms down. He ran his fist up and down his length, then pressed inside me, but just barely. His head dropped back as he wrapped his hands around my hips, using my weight as leverage as he slowly . . . sank . . . inside.

  He was perfectly still.

  I was perfectly not.

  I simply couldn’t be. It was too much; he was too much. I would never get used to the feeling of him inside me, stretching me and filling me and being perfectly there. I thrashed, I shimmied, I arched and I flexed. And he stayed perfectly still. The muscles in his arms bunched, his neck corded, his torso gleamed with the sweet strain of not moving. He was like a naughty work of art.

  Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Singularly focused, dark, and of one mind-set.

  Simon was about to fuck.

  Pulling out almost entirely, he thrust low. And hard. And serious.

  And I came out of my skin.

  He rode me, rode my body and my sex, and when he leaned heavy over me and chanted the dirtiest words imaginable in my ear, I came again. Right as he came. Low. And hard. And so serious.

  Wrapping my arms around him, I kept him inside as long as I could. Even when he lifted me off the counter I fought that loss, keeping my legs around his waist as he laughed. He unraveled me, threw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and slapped my bottom.

  He then ate an entire loaf of zucchini bread with his pants around his ankles while he leaned on the counter, resting his head on my bottom.

  • • •

  “So remind me to never stop baking for you,” I said fifteen minutes later, when I was finally allowed to put my pants back on and start cleaning up the kitchen.

  “Would that ever happen?” Simon looked stricken. At the thought that I might stop baking, or perhaps because he’d just eaten an entire loaf of bread?

  “Doubtful. It’s a mutually beneficial kind of thing, obviously.”

  “I should say.” He smirked as I poured him some coffee and marched him over to the sofa. “Why am I on the couch?”

  “Because I’m cleaning and you’re in the way. Plus you just got back, so let me fawn over you a little.”

  “But mainly because I was in the way, right?”

  “Right.” I grabbed a broom and swept up some raisins. Clive had spirited a few away already; I imagined I’d find those in bed later tonight. He loved to hide them one by one. I’d stopped asking questions.

  Simon relaxed on the couch, watching me sweep and commenting when my backside looked particularly fetching. Looking over the rim of his coffee cup, he asked, “Hey, what were you doing sketching on a Saturday? You gotta work today?”

  “Kinda sorta.”

  “Kinda sorta?”

  “Yeah, a big job that Jillian put me on. We’re bidding on it next week, and if I get this job it’ll mean . . . Well, it’d be a big deal.” I hesitated, not even wanting to say it out loud. This would be big giant balls big.

  “That’s great! What kind of job?”

  “A hotel in Sausalito. Jillian’s given me the lead on it, due to the wedding and her honeymoon. So yeah, big week at work.” I finished the sweeping and threw the raisins into the trash. Grabbing my sketchbook, I headed into the living room and sat next to him, propping my feet in his lap.

  “Sounds big. That’s good, babe.”

  “Plus, I’m kind of taking over while they’re on their honeymoon. I’m gonna be swamped.”

  “You can handle it. I’m proud of you.”

  “Well, be proud of me if I get the job. Till then it’s just a bid. But fingers crossed, right?” I laughed, lying back against the cushions as he rubbed my heel.

  “I have a good feeling about this. Maybe we’ll have something to celebrate next week,” he said, wiggling my big toe. “Speaking of celebrations, how’d you like to come to Rio with me this December?”

  Whuh?

  I say again, whuh?

  “I love when you drop your consonants,” he murmured, scooting closer and leaning over me.

  “I said that out loud?”

  “You sure did.”

  “Okay. Well, then, answer my whuh.”

  “No one on the planet has ever said that exact sentence before.” He chuckled, drawing a line with his fingertip down my nose and pressing it against my mouth.

  “Rio? In December?” I mumbled.

  “For Christmas.”

  “Whuh?”

  As he laughed, I scrambled up from beneath him. “Explain, please.”

  “Nothing to explain. I booked a job in Brazil—I’ll be working in Rio on Christmas. I want my best girl with me.”

  Christmas in Brazil. Sultry warm ocean breeze. Sipping caipirinhas under festival lanterns. Coconut oil. Bikini. Simon.

  Second Christmas away from home in a row?

  I flashed back to Christmases past, growing up. I had a favorite aunt and uncle— doesn’t everyone? Technically my great-aunt and -uncle, Liz and Lou were legends in our family. They never had kids, and whether that was by design or nature, I never knew; no one ever talked about that. But they led a life that I had always dreamed of.

  They traveled every year, and I mean they traveled. Uncle Lou made good money, invested wisely, and when he retired at sixty-five they hit the road. They owned a home in San Diego, but they just used it as a base. They had friends all over the world and spent time in places like Madrid, Athens, Rome, Lisbon, Amsterdam, Caracas, and São Paulo. Rio de Janeiro. They took off whenever they wanted, and went wherever the wind told them to go. They were only occasionally around for Christmas, and I was always excited to see where my present would come from each year, what faraway place the postage would be from.

  Did they love their family less because they chose to travel across the globe for Christmas? I never thought so, although some of the more traditional members of the family felt it was strange and a little selfish that they didn’t want to be singing carols at my grandmother’s and eating turkey with everyone else.
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br />   I thought it was romantic, exciting, and a little wonderful.

  They passed away a few years ago, within three months of each other. After they died I was helping to go through some of their things and I came across their passports. They were battered, worn, and stamped with cities all across the globe, some of which I had never heard of.

  And when I went to Salzburg last year to keep Simon company on Christmas, I didn’t feel selfish or strange. I thought it was romantic, exciting, and more than a little wonderful. Furthest thing from traditional, but maybe a Simon and Caroline tradition?

  I mentally calculated whether my additional work responsibilities would allow me to take time off. The holidays were a busy period for us, but the week between Christmas and New Year’s was pretty manageable. This invite was out of the blue, but not out of the world of the possible.

  I began to hum “The Girl from Ipanema,” a grin slowly spreading across my face.

  “Is that a yes to Rio?” he asked.

  “It’s a hell yes, Wallbanger—hell yes to Rio!” I squealed, wrapping my legs around his waist and seeing the look of excitement on his face before I brought him down for a big, wet kiss. Last year, I invited myself along. This year, he wanted me with him. Fuck, I loved this man.

  We kissed for a moment, then he went back to his side of the couch and resumed my foot rub and I went back to my sketching.

  A few minutes later, I got a text. I snorted, then told Simon, “Hey, this just in from Wedding Central. You need to get measured for your tux, pronto. Jillian said you and Benjamin are supposed to go together; she’s freaking out.”

  “I know—best man and all; I need to look good.” He rolled his eyes.

  When Benjamin asked Simon to stand up for him at the wedding, it was kind of perfect. Since I was one of Jillian’s bridesmaids.

  “You’ll look good, no one is worried about that.” I laughed as he tickled the bottoms of my feet. “The one that I’m worried about is Sophia. She’s out of her funk as of this morning, and ready to buy the sexiest dress she can find for this shindig.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he replied, concentrating on my instep.