The Redhead Series

by Alice Clayton

  “What’s that?”

  “You. I’m fairly certain about my redhead.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. I’m fairly certain about my Brit.”

  We’d finally gotten to a place where we were totally honest with each other, even if we didn’t have all the answers. This is what I meant about falling more and more in love.

  The plane touched the ground, and I felt my heart swell. Christmas in L.A. was unlike Christmas anywhere else, and I couldn’t wait.

  Holly had some open time in her schedule that afternoon (amazing!), so she was the one who got to fetch me from the airport. As I walked through baggage claim after collecting my stuff, I texted her to let her know I was ready.

  She texted back almost immediately.

  Thank God you’re home.

  No one has cooked for me in ages!

  I’ll be there in 5.

  Your favorite bitch

  I smiled to myself. I’d shipped most of my things back, so they’d be arriving within a day or so. I was so happy to get back to life in L.A. and finally make my house a home that I exited the airport with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face.

  Outside in the California sunshine, I breathed deep: smog and oranges and excitement. Yummy. I felt the breeze and sunbeams on my face, and I was home. Holly waited at the curb, flipping off several people honking at her. I almost didn’t recognize her. She leaned against the hood of a brand-new car, looking fierce. She was on the phone as I approached.

  “No, dear, you’re not hearing me,” she said. “He cannot take a meeting tomorrow . . . No. He’s not meeting with anyone until after the holidays . . . Nope. Not gonna happen . . . Okay, we’ll speak again after the New Year. Great. Kisses,” she said, rolling her eyes and clicking her phone shut.

  She finally spied me and grinned. “Asshead!”

  “Dillweed!” I answered. I dropped my bags, and we hugged it out.

  “Fuck, I’m glad you’re home.” She giggled as we embraced.

  “Me too.” I laughed, then jumped as we heard another round of honking start.

  “Oh, settle down! We’re moving, we’re moving!” she yelled as we piled my bags into the back of her new wheels.

  As I settled into the plush leather seat of her Mercedes, I sniffed. I loved new-car smell. “So what’s up, Hollywood?” I asked, running my hands along the wood grain on the dashboard, admiring the lines of her newly chic ride.

  “Shut it. It was time to upgrade, and I totally deserve it,” she said, swerving out into traffic and heading for the freeway.

  “Yes, you do. I’m amazed you lasted as long as you did, frankly. You’ve wanted one of these since college.” I dug out my phone and began texting the Brit to let him know I’d landed.

  “Are you texting Jack?”

  “Yep, I told him I would when I got in. Why?”

  “He has some interviews this afternoon. He’s so glad to be almost done with this press tour. I got him on an early flight from Madrid, and he should be here sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’s what I heard. I’m so glad we have these few days here together before he goes to London,” I said as I sent the text.

  Sweet Nuts,

  Just landed and headed HOME!

  What the hell time is it where you are?

  I don’t care—call me before you go to sleep.

  Love you and miss your body more.

  Dorothy Zbornak

  He loves it when I talk Golden Girls to him.

  You sure about that?

  “He’s leaving on the twenty-third, right?” she asked, weaving in and out of traffic with the reflexes of Danica Patrick. L.A. driving could prepare anyone for that circuit.

  “Yep.” I sighed. I was glad he was going home for some time with his family. He needed it. When I saw him in recent interviews, my Brit just looked totally exhausted. But still pretty . . . oh, still pretty.

  “But you have all this week with him. Any plans?” she asked, missing a Bentley by mere inches on the 405.

  “Nope, just the Christmas dinner on the twenty-first.”

  Since most of our friends were staying in L.A. for the holidays, I’d volunteered my house as Holiday Central. We were having a dinner party to celebrate together, and everyone was in charge of something. Jack and I were cooking, and Holly was bringing wine. Nick was providing the entertainment (which terrified me a little), and there might be a few more dropping by.

  We chatted and laughed and giggled as we made our way through the Hills of Beverly and on up to my house. As we turned on to Laurel Canyon and the trees closed in around us, I was reminded why I loved this street so much. Growing up in the Midwest, it was easy to think of L.A. as a very cheesy, very plastic, very shiny place. And there was definitely some cheese in this town.

  But I truly believe you see what you want to see. And if you looked past that, L.A. was beautiful. The pocket neighborhoods, the architectural mishmash, the palm-lined streets. And then there were the canyons: Coldwater, Topanga, Benedict, and finally Laurel. There was something mystical about Laurel Canyon: the way it wound around the mountain, the houses dug into the landscape, the ancient trees, the stillness at night.

  And there was my bungalow. Cozy and warm. When we pulled in, I sighed contentedly.

  “Happy?” Holly asked as she shut off the engine.

  I heard birds chirping. I inhaled and smelled . . . lemons.

  “Hell yes,” I answered.

  She helped me get everything inside, then paused when she saw the Post-it on my fridge next to the picture of Jack and me in Santa Barbara.

  “You wrote yourself a welcome-home note?” she asked, laughing.

  “I sure did. I knew I’d be coming back,” I said, gazing at the picture of me and my Johnny Bite Down.

  “Okay, fruitcake. I gotta head back to the office. There’s a war going on about who’s gonna play the lead in some remake. Can you believe this town? Adios, asshead!” she fired over her shoulder as she walked to the front door.

  “Adios, dillweed,” I shot back, and began to plan which bag to unpack first.

  “Hey, Grace?” she said.

  I looked up at her. “Yeah?”

  “Glad you’re back.”

  “Me too, dear.”

  I smiled, and she showed me her middle finger as she left.

  I looked around, and my eyes settled once more on the Post-it.

  “Welcome home, Grace,” I said out loud with a smile.

  First I just walked around my house for a while, overwhelmed by everything I had to do. But then I sprang into action. Thankfully, the housekeeping service I’d hired before I left had kept ahead of the dust, and the house was basically clean. But having never been lived in, it was missing some essential items. I put my clothes away and made a list. The list to end all lists.

  After list-guided trips to Target, the Container Store, and Ralphs, I spent the rest of the day and most of the evening putting stuff away and arranging. My things from storage were arriving the next day, and I was anxious to start hanging pictures and personalizing. But even now, my home was beginning to look lived in. Clothes hung in the closets. There was soap in the soap dish and peanut butter in the pantry.

  At ten thirty that night, I stood in the shower with my eyes closed and my hands braced against the wall. I was beat. The work of the day had taken its toll, and my brain was still partially on East Coast time. I stood under the water, letting it beat down on some of the knots in my neck. I mentally planned everything I still had to do, everything I wanted to accomplish before Jack came home tomorrow.

  As I packed my tired ass into bed, I started another list. Included in the boxes coming from storage were all my Christmas decorations, which would need to be put up. I’d done some of my Christmas shopping in New York, but I still had a lot to do. Before I turned out the light, I reviewed my list from earlier today, crossing out what had been completed, and adding to it a bit. I still needed to get my Christmas tree and get my bough
s decked with holly.

  As I settled under the covers, I heard my phone beep. A text!

  Dorothy,

  Just waking up. No clue what time it is or where I am.

  France, I think? I’m connecting thru Chicago

  and should be there sometime late afternoon.

  I’ll call when I land. Can I come straight to your house?

  Love you, and I miss your body as well.

  Please say you will let me be on top of it soon . . .

  Stanley Zbornak

  Okay, I’d officially made him watch too much Golden Girls if he knew Stanley’s name. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

  nineteen

  The next morning I was up and out before eight. I zipped through Starbucks to grab a venti Caramel Macchiato with three sugars (a drink Leslie had started me on—I would really miss that little shit) and ran errands all morning. I got them all finished and even managed to pick out a fantastic Christmas tree. If you shopped for a tree on the right side of Doheny (which I did), they’d deliver it to you! I also picked up a new iPod for Nick. He’d left his at the gym a month ago, and every e-mail I’d gotten from him since lamented the loss. I even got him a Hello Kitty case, because I was a bitch like that. And I knew he would secretly love it.

  I got home just in time to sign for all the boxes delivered from storage, and I set to work immediately. By early afternoon, it was really starting to look like my house. Pictures were placed, although not hung yet. Books were back on the bookshelves, dishes were in the cupboards, and I was a mess. When I got the text from Jack saying he was getting ready to leave Chicago, I knew I had only a few hours left, so I kicked it up a notch.

  I got all my Christmas decorations out and arranged them around the house. I probably owned more Christmas decorations than anything else—more than half the boxes from storage were marked XMAS. I raced around like a madwoman with my ass on fire, and I finally placed the last Santa mug on the kitchen counter and hung the last of the stockings by the chimney with care. I had added a new stocking this year, for the Brit.

  I glanced at the clock and realized Jack’s plane was due to land any minute. I quickly prepped the dinner I’d planned by dicing vegetables for the salad and setting the table. I wanted to test out my new gas grill and make Jack play barbecue man for me. Then I set out the steaks to take the chill off and was frantically chopping shallots for the salad dressing when the phone rang. It was the Brit.

  “Hey,” I said, running around the kitchen like an insane person. I still had potatoes to peel and asparagus to clean. I was panting.

  “Hey, yourself. Are you out for a run?” he asked.

  “No, just finishing up a few things. Where are you?” I asked, trying to slow my breathing.

  “Just got in a car and I’m headed your way. I can’t wait to see you, Gracie,” he said, his voice full of intent.

  My heart flipped—both at his voice and the realization that he was so close and I still hadn’t had a shower. Why the hell had I decided to cook tonight? I should have just ordered from Chin Chin.

  “Mmm, I can’t wait to see you either. I’m just getting ready to run through the shower.”

  “Hmm, I could use a shower too. Sure you don’t want to wait for me?”

  Jesus Lord, that was tempting. I quickly sniffed my armpit. “Um, no, I’m going to go ahead, but there will be fresh, clean towels for you when you get home.” I smiled as I thought of him naked in my shower. Where he belonged.

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon. And Grace?”

  “Uh-huh?” I said, struggling to take off my shoes and stay upright as I headed straight for that shower.

  “I’m hungry,” he growled, then hung up.

  Once again, Jack Hamilton had made me lose all power of speech.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in the bathroom with wet hair and a bloody armpit. What was it about razors and my pits that seemed to argue every time? I dabbed Neosporin on it, contemplating whether I had time to dry my hair, when I caught a look at the clock in the bedroom. Nope, wet hair it is. I ran a comb through it and made sure to put on some lotion. Which burned the shit out of my freshly shaved legs. I hobbled into the bedroom and threw on my white polo sleep shirt while I decided what to wear.

  I went into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine to steady my nerves. But as I poured, I missed, spilling wine all over the counter. Cursing, I grabbed a dish towel to wipe it up. Finally sipping my wine, I looked around at the room and noticed I hadn’t lit the candles on the table yet. I quickly did so, wanting everything to be perfect. As I glanced around the kitchen and dining room, everything seemed to be in place.

  Table set? Check.

  Salad made? Check.

  Potatoes prepped? Check.

  What was I forgetting?

  Fucking put some clothes on, Grace.

  Right!

  I threw the dish towel back toward the counter and started for the bedroom. However, I miscalculated and the dish towel fell short—right on top of one of the candles. With a whoosh, it ignited. I squealed and turned to run to the sink for some water but tripped over a footstool and went down with a splat.

  “Ooof!” I grunted as all my breath left me. I was struggling to stand when I saw a blur run past me and dump a bottle of water on the dining room table. As I lay on the floor in my white polo, legs twisted and naked bum showing, I parted my hair so I could see.

  There stood Sweet Nuts, dumping the rest of his bottle of water on the now smoking dish towel and appraising the situation. He turned to look down at me, dropping his duffel on the floor.

  He cocked his head and smiled curiously. “What the hell are you doing on the floor when your house is on fire, Crazy?”

  “Oh, shut it, Hamilton,” I sighed, banging my head against the tile floor. Ouch.

  “You know I can see your business, right?” he asked, bending down to offer me a hand.

  “I’m aware of that. Maybe this is the homecoming I had planned,” I said, mortified.

  He swiftly pulled me to my feet and slapped me on the bum.

  “That’s how to keep your lady: barefoot and half-naked in the kitchen.” He laughed.

  “Ass,” I said, wrapping my arms around him. He smelled like airport and gorgeous.

  We hugged for a moment, swaying gently while the scent of wet, burnt cotton bloomed around us.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered into his chest.

  “Me too. Otherwise it would have gotten a little crispy in the kitchen.” He kissed the top of my head.

  “Hey, I need a real kiss, please,” I pouted, sticking out my lower lip.

  “Oh, I haven’t begun to get to the real kissing yet,” he said softly, bringing my face closer to his and brushing his lips against mine. I sighed into his mouth and his hands tightened on my waist. As things became more intense, I heard a knock at the door.

  “Dammit, if that’s a carload of Joshua-seeking women, I’m not here.” He groaned, then lifted his eyebrow as I flashed him my naked buns on the way to the door. “Don’t you think you should put some clothes on before you open the door?”

  “Hmm, you could be right. If it’s the Christmas tree man, tell him I’ll be right there. If it’s a carload of women, you’re on your own, dear.” I laughed and skipped off to the bedroom to find some shorts.

  Turns out it was the Christmas tree man. As I supervised the placement of the tree, I encouraged Jack to go take his shower and get comfortable. I was going to do all I could do to get him in the holiday spirit. Including a little stocking stuffer . . .

  Once the tree was in the corner, beautiful and smelling piney, I tipped the guy and closed the door. With a smile on my face, I headed to the bedroom. I’d heard the shower turn off moments before, so I was hoping to catch him before he had a chance to cover up that fantastic body. I crept into the bedroom, and there he was. Sprawled out on the bed in his boxers. Hair standing on end, legs akimbo.

  Sound asleep.

  I smi
led as I watched him, his chest rising and falling with his breathing. He looked so sweet, so vulnerable. I sank down on the bed next to him, and he rolled over toward me in his slumber. His arms reached out and he mumbled, “Tits, please . . .”

  I sighed and slipped into his arms. Snuggled in, with his ever-present hands on my ever-constant boobies, I let my Brit sleep.

  I must have fallen asleep as well, because when I opened my eyes, it was fully dark. I forgot where I was for a second, and my body tensed as I became aware of someone in the bed with me. As I struggled to sit up I heard, “Shhh, sweet girl. It’s me.”

  I felt his warm breath in my ear, and I remembered where I was—and who was with me. I sank back into his arms, his lips still near my ear.

  “Mmm,” I moaned, then sighed as I stretched out against him. My legs tangled with his, and I clutched his hands against my breasts. His mouth kissed my neck and slowly worked down toward my shoulder. He nudged my shirt down a little so he could kiss my shoulder, and I felt my toes curl.

  “That feels nice.” I sighed again with contentment, my tummy flipping at his touch.

  “That’s good to know,” he whispered in my ear, his tongue darting out to lick my neck.

  “Jesus, that feels nice too.” I chuckled and arched my back, pressing my breasts into his hands in a very pronounced way. His fingers swept across me, unbuttoning my shirt slowly. He moaned in my ever-loving ear as his hands, warm and soothing, touched my bare skin. As I arched again, I pressed my bottom into him, and he hissed as I made contact with a very specific part of him.

  “Now that? That feels nice,” he said, pressing into me farther, his boxers barely concealing his—ahem—intent.

  His hands found my now-naked breasts again, and he slowly began to tease me, ghosting his fingers across my heated skin, dragging up and down the sides, sneaking underneath, finally capturing my nipples in his hands as he groaned in my ear again.

  Sweet Jesus, the man was talented.

  I snuck my arm behind me, clutching his hip and pulling him closer. His right hand left my breast and his fingers walked down my side to my hip, Yellow Pages style. I giggled as they slipped beneath the waistband of my shorts and grabbed my curves. He pulled me back against him suddenly, and we both moaned at the contact.