The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” I sassed, pulling things tighter.

  “I’m going to get changed, and I’ll bring you back some dry towels. Try to stay out of trouble.” He winked and headed back to his place. I laughed again and went to the bedroom, where Clive was now just a bump under the covers.

  I looked in the mirror over my dresser as I dug for something to put on. I was positively glowing. Huh. Must have been all that cold water.

  An hour later things were back under control. We’d cleaned up the water, alerted the people downstairs in case there was leakage below, and placed a call to the maintenance guy.

  We began to move toward my front door, mopping up the last little bit of water with the towels Simon had generously provided.

  “What a disaster!” I cried, pulling myself up off the floor and sinking down on the couch.

  “Could have been worse. You could have had to deal with this after only three hours’ sleep and being woken up by some woman screaming at the top of her lungs,” he said, coming to sit on the arm of the couch.

  I arched one eyebrow, and he recanted.

  “Okay, bad example since that scenario is something you’re familiar with. What are you going to do now?”

  “I dunno. I need to stay here and wait for the guy to fix this mess. In the meantime, I’m without water, which means no coffee, no shower, no nothing. Sucks,” I muttered, crossing my arms across my chest.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be across the hall, drinking coffee and thinking about my shower, if you need anything,” he said, starting for the door.

  “Ass, you are totally making me coffee.”

  “Are you taking me up on the shower too?”

  “You won’t be in there with me, you know.”

  “I guess you can take one anyway. Come on, you little cockblocker,” he huffed, pulling me up off the couch and leading me across the hall. Clive tossed one last angry cry at me from the bedroom, and I shushed him.

  “Oops, wait. Let me grab breakfast.” I snatched a foil-wrapped package from the table.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Your zucchini bread.”

  I swear he almost bit through his bottom lip. He must really like zucchini bread.

  Thirty minutes later, I sat at Simon’s kitchen table, legs curled underneath me, drinking French-pressed coffee and towel-drying my hair. He seemed really relaxed and happy, and he’d devoured the entire loaf of zucchini bread. I barely managed half a slice before he took it away from me, the entire chunk disappearing in his mouth.

  He pushed away from the table and groaned, patting his full belly.

  “You want another loaf? I baked plenty, you little piggy.” I wrinkled my nose at him.

  “I will take anything you want to give me, Nightie Girl. You have no idea how much I love homemade bread. No one’s made anything like this for me in years.” He let out a tiny burp.

  “Now that’s sexy.” I frowned and took my coffee cup into the living room, opening up the door and quickly glancing out into the hallway to see if the maintenance guy had shown up yet.

  Simon followed me in and sat down on his big, comfy couch. I wandered around, looking at all his pictures. He had a series of black-and-whites on one wall, several prints of the same woman on a beach. Hands, feet, tummy, shoulders, back, legs, toes, and finally one of just her face. She was gorgeous.

  “This is beautiful. One of your harem?” I asked, looking back at him.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Not every woman has made a trip to my bed, you know.”

  “Sorry. I’m kidding. Where were these taken?” I asked, sitting down next to him.

  “On a beach in Bora-Bora. I was working on a travel photography series—the most beautiful beaches of the South Pacific, very retro style. She was on the beach one day, local girl, and the light was perfect, so I asked if I could take some shots of her. They came out great.”

  “She’s gorgeous,” I said, sipping my coffee.

  “Yes,” he agreed with a sweet smile.

  We sipped silently, being okay with being quiet.

  “So what were you planning to do today?” he asked.

  “You mean before my pipes revolted?”

  “Yes, before the attack.” He smiled over the rim of his mug, blue eyes twinkling.

  “I didn’t have a lot planned, actually, and that was a good thing. I was gonna go for a run, maybe sit outside and read this afternoon.” I sighed, feeling warm and comfortable and cozy. “What about you?”

  “I was planning on sleeping the entire day before tackling a mountain of laundry.”

  “You can go sleep, you know. I can wait in my own apartment.” I started to get up. Poor guy, he’d gotten in late, and I was keeping him from sleep.

  But he waved me off and pointed to the couch. “I know better, though. If I sleep I’ll have jet lag all week. I need to get back on Pacific time as soon as I can, so it’s probably a good thing your pipes attacked.”

  “Hmm, I guess. So how was Ireland? Good times?” I asked, settling back.

  “I always have a good time when I’m traveling.”

  “God, what an amazing job. I’d love to travel like that, living out of a suitcase, seeing the world, amazing . . .” I trailed off, looking around again at all the pictures. I spotted a slender shelf on the far wall with tiny bottles on it. “What’s that?” I asked, heading for the curious little shelf. They each contained what looked like sand. Some were white, some gray, some pink, and one was almost jet-black. They each had a label. As I looked I felt, rather than saw, him move behind me. His breath was warm in my ear.

  “Every time I visit a new beach, I bring back a little sand—like a reminder of where I was, when I was there,” he answered, his voice low and wistful.

  I looked more closely at the bottles and marveled over some of the names I saw: Harbour Island–Bahamas, Prince William Sound–Alaska, Punaluu–Hawaii, Vik–Iceland, Sanur–Fiji, Patara–Turkey, Galicia–Spain.

  “And you’ve been all these places?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And why bring back sand? Why not postcards or, better yet, the pictures you take? Isn’t that enough of a souvenir?” I turned to look at him.

  “I take pictures because I love it, and it happens to be my job. But this? This is tangible; it’s tactile; it’s real. I can feel this; this is sand I was actually standing on, from every continent. It brings me back there, instantly,” he said, his eyes going all dreamy.

  From any other guy, in any other setting, it would have been pure cheese. But from Simon? The guy had to be deep. Dammit.

  My fingers continued to trail over all the bottles—almost more than I could count. My fingertips lingered on the few from Spain, and he noticed.

  “Spain, huh?” he asked.

  I turned to look at him. “Yep, Spain. Always wanted to go. I will someday.” I sighed and crossed back to the couch.

  “Do you travel much?” he asked, sinking down next to me again.

  “I try to go somewhere each year—not as fancy as you, or as frequent, but I try to take myself somewhere every year.”

  “You and the girls?” He smiled.

  “Sometimes, but the last few years I’ve enjoyed traveling by myself. There’s something nice about being able to set your own pace, go where you want, and not have to run it by a committee every time you want to go out for dinner, you know?”

  “I get it. I’m just surprised,” he said, frowning slightly.

  “Surprised that I’d want to travel alone? Are you kidding? It’s the best!” I cried.

  “Hell, you’ll get no argument from me. I’m just surprised. Most people don’t like to travel alone—too overwhelming, too intimidating. And they think they’ll get lonely.”

  “Do you ever get lonely?” I asked.

  “I told you, I am never lonely,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Yes, yes, I know, Simon says, but I have to say I find that a little har
d to believe.” I twisted a lock of almost-dry hair around my finger.

  “Do you get lonely?” he asked.

  “When I’m traveling? No, I’m great company,” I answered promptly.

  “I hate to admit it, but I’d agree with that,” he said, raising his mug in my direction.

  I smiled and blushed slightly, hating myself as I did it. “Wow, are we becoming friends?” I asked.

  “Hmm, friends . . .” He appeared to think carefully, examining me and my current state of blush. “Yes, I think we are.”

  “Interesting. From cockblocker to friend. Not bad.” I giggled and clinked his mug with my own.

  “Oh, it remains to be seen whether you’re lifted from cockblocker status yet,” he said.

  “Well, just give me a heads-up before Spanks comes over next time, okay, friend?” I laughed at his confused expression.

  “Spanks?”

  “Ah, yes, well, you know her as Katie.” I laughed.

  He finally had the decency to blush and smile sheepishly. “Well, as it happens, Ms. Katie is no longer part of what you so kindly refer to as my harem.”

  “Oh no! I liked her! Did you paddle her too hard?” I teased again, my giggling beginning to get out of control.

  He ran his hands through his hair frantically. “I have to tell you, this is frankly the strangest conversation I’ve ever had with a woman.”

  “I doubt that, but seriously, where did Katie go?”

  He smiled quietly. “She met someone else and seems really happy. So we ended our physical relationship, of course, but she’s still a good friend.”

  “Well, that’s good.” I nodded and was quiet a moment. “How does that work, actually?”

  “How does what work?”

  “Well, you have to admit, your relationships are unconventional at best. How do you do it? Keep everyone happy?” I prodded.

  He laughed. “You’re not seriously asking how I satisfy these women, are you?” He grinned.

  “Hell no. I’ve heard how you do that! There doesn’t seem to be any question about that. I mean, how does no one get hurt?”

  He thought for a moment. “I guess because we were honest going into this. It isn’t like anyone sets out to create this little world, it just happens. Katie and I had always gotten along great, especially in that way, so we just fell into that relationship.”

  “I like Spanks—I mean Katie. So was she the first? In the harem?”

  “Enough with the harem—you make it sound so sordid. Katie and I went to college together, tried dating for real, didn’t work out. She’s great, though, she’s . . . wait, are you sure you want to hear all this?”

  “Oh, I am all ears. I’ve been waiting to peel this onion since you first knocked that painting off my wall and clocked me on the head.” I smiled, settling back on the couch and curling my knees underneath me.

  “I knocked a painting off your wall?” he asked, looking amused and proud at the same time. What a guy.

  “Focus, Simon. Gimme the skinny on your ladies in waiting. And spare no details—this shit is better than HBO.”

  He laughed and put on his storyteller face. “Well, okay, I guess it started with Katie. We didn’t work out as a couple, but when we ran into each other after college a few years ago, coffee turned into lunch, lunch turned into drinks, and drinks turned into . . . well, bed. Neither of us was seeing anyone, so we started getting together whenever I was in town. She’s great. She’s just . . . I don’t know how to explain it. She’s . . . soft.”

  “Soft?”

  “Yeah, she’s all rounded edges and warm and sweet. She’s just . . . soft. She’s the best.”

  “And Purina?”

  “Nadia. Her name is Nadia.”

  “I have a cat that says otherwise.”

  “Nadia I met in Prague. I was doing a shoot one winter. I usually never do fashion photography, but I got asked to shoot for Vogue—very artsy, very conceptual. She had a house outside the city. We spent a naked weekend together, and when she moved to the States she looked me up. She’s getting her masters now in international relations. It’s crazy to me that at twenty-five she’s on the tail end of her career, in modeling, that is. So she’s working hard to do something else. She’s very smart. She’s traveled the entire world, and she speaks five languages! She went to the Sorbonne. Did you know that?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Easy to make snap judgments when you don’t know someone, isn’t it?” he asked, eyeing me.

  “Touché.” I nodded, nudging him with my foot to go on.

  “And then Lizzie. Oh boy, that woman is insane! I met her in London, piss drunk in a pub. She walked up to me, grabbed my collar, kissed me stupid, and dragged me home with her. That girl knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it.”

  I remembered some of her louder moments in great detail. She really was rather specific about what she wanted, provided you could get past the giggling.

  “She’s a solicitor—attorney—and one of her main clients lives here in San Francisco. Her business is based in London, but when we’re both in the same city, we make sure to see each other. And that’s it. That’s all she wrote.”

  “That’s it? Three women, and that’s it. How do they not get jealous? How are they all okay with this? And don’t you want more? Don’t they want more?”

  “For now, no. Everyone is getting exactly what they want, so it’s all good. And yes, they all know about one another, and since no one’s in love here, no one has any real expectations beyond friendship—with the best possible benefits. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I adore each of them and love them in their own ways. I’m a lucky guy. These women are amazing. But I’m too busy to date anyone for real, and most women don’t want to put up with a boyfriend who’s across the globe more often than home.”

  “Yes, but not all women want the same thing. We don’t all want the picket fence.”

  “Every woman I’ve ever dated has said she doesn’t, but then she does. And that’s cool—I get it—but with my schedule being so crazy, it got to be very difficult for me to be involved with anyone who needed me to be something I’m not.”

  “So you’ve never been in love?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I?”

  “So you have been in a relationship before, with just one woman?”

  “Of course, but as I said, once my life became what it is today—the constant traveling—it’s hard to stay in love with that kind of guy. At least that’s what my ex told me when she started dating some accountant. You know, wears a suit, carries a briefcase, home every night by six—it’s what women seem to want.” He sighed, setting his coffee down and relaxing further into the couch. His words said he was okay with all this, but the wistful look on his face said otherwise.

  “It’s not what all women want,” I countered.

  “Correction, it’s what the women I have dated all wanted. At least until now. That’s why what I have works great for me. These women I spend my time with when I’m home? They’re great. They’re happy, I’m happy—why would I rock the boat?”

  “Well, you’re already down to two now, and I think you’d feel differently if the right woman came along. 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.”

  “You’re a romantic, aren’t you?” He leaned in, bumping my shoulder.

  “I’m a practical romantic. I can actually see some appeal in having a guy who travels a lot, because, frankly? I like my space. I also take up the entire bed, so it’s difficult for me to sleep with anyone.” I shook my head ruefully, remembering how quickly I used to kick my one-nighters to the curb. Some of my past wasn’t all that different from Simon’s. He just had his sexcapades tied up in a much neater package.

  “A practical romantic. Interesting. So what about you? Dating anyone?” he asked.

  “Nope, and I’m okay with that.”r />
  “Really?”

  “Is it so hard to believe a hot, sexy woman with a great career doesn’t need a man to be happy?”

  “First of all, bully for you for calling yourself hot and sexy—because it’s true. It’s nice to see a woman give herself a compliment instead of fishing for one. And second, I’m not talking about getting married here, I’m talking about dating. You know, hanging out? Casually?”

  “Are you asking me if I’m fucking anyone right now?” I shot at him, and he spluttered into his coffee.

  “Definitely the strangest conversation I’ve ever had with a woman,” he muttered.

  “A hot and sexy woman,” I reminded him.

  “That’s for damn sure. So, how about you? Ever been in love?”

  “This feels like an ABC miniseries, with all the coffee and the love talk,” I said. I might have been stalling.

  “Come on, let’s celebrate this moment in our lives.” He snorted, gesturing with his coffee mug.

  “Have I ever been in love? Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. It didn’t end in a very good way, but what ending is ever good? He changed; I changed, so I got out. That’s all.”

  “You got out, like . . .”

  “Nothing dramatic. He just wasn’t who I thought he was going to be,” I explained, setting my coffee down and playing with my hair.

  “So what happened?”

  “Oh, you know how it goes. We were together when I was a senior at Berkeley, and he was finishing up law school. It started out great, and then it wasn’t, so I left. He did teach me how to rock climb, so I’m grateful for that.”

  “A lawyer, huh?”

  “Yep, and he wanted a little lawyer wife. I should have caught on when he referred to my future career plans as a ‘little decorating business.’ He really just wanted someone who looked good and picked up his shirts from the cleaner’s on time. Not for me.”

  “I don’t know you that well yet, but I can’t really see you in the suburbs somewhere.”