“Eggnog. I’ll give you some fucking eggnog,” I grumbled, searching through the crowd. It shouldn’t be so hard to find a six-foot-six-inch-tall man, but still no sign of him. “Sonofabitch,” I continued—and heard a telltale rattling sound behind me.
There was Polly, wearing a Christmas sweater and shaking her swear jar, which was festively festooned. “You swore, Natalie. Please put in a quarter.”
“You’re like a little curse ninja, you know that?” I said. “Who’re you here with?”
“Daddy brought me, but he’s helping Roxie bring in the cakes.” She winked, and started talking out of the side of her mouth a little, very 1930s gangster. “And you know what that means.”
I’d been burned like this before. “What does that mean?”
She shook her head and rattled her jar. “I don’t know, actually. It’s just what I heard Uncle Chad say one time. Quarter, please.”
“Kid, you’re bleeding me dry.” I dug in my purse for a quarter.
“That’s all?”
“You said a quarter.”
“Yes, but you usually give me a dollar, in case you say something else.”
“Well, I’ll try and keep my mouth zipped tonight.”
“You can try . . .” she muttered, walking away while shaking her jar to the tune of the music.
“Little hustler,” I said under my breath, and I heard a low chuckle behind me.
Every part of me turned on. I could feel it, feel him. My skin tightened, my hands clenched, my heart burst, and my teeth chattered. I slowly turned, and there he was.
Tall. Beautiful. Hair artfully pulled back in that leather tie, looking effortless as usual. It was Oscar, my caveman.
Wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen. Red and green, covered in running reindeer, it was too tight across his chest and too long in the arms, and absolutely hideous.
“Wow,” I said, taking in the riot of colors. “That’s some sweater.”
“Missy made it for me; she knits me one each year,” he said with a shrug, watching my eyes carefully for any sign of jealousy.
I realized with a start that there was no jealousy here. I didn’t have to worry about Missy, even if she did still love him. Which, based on her dance partner and the way she was gazing at him, seemed like less of a possibility than before. If the world had more relationships end as amicably as theirs did, it’d be a much happier place.
“That’s truly sweet,” I said sincerely.
He stepped closer to me as the Christmas lights twinkled all around us. “Everything looks really great, Natalie. People have been saying all night long how impressed they are, and how Natalie Grayson is the best thing to happen to this town in a long time.”
“That’s kind of them,” I answered, taking a step toward him as well. “I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed with the way things turned out campaign-wise.” I stepped closer. “But not so much with how things turned out . . . with us.”
His eyes widened for a split second, the tiniest bit of hope showing before he got his emotions in check. “Well, the deck was kind of stacked against us, I suppose.”
Taking one more step, and a chance as well, I reached for his hand. “What if I told you I could unstack that deck?”
“What are you saying?”
I took a deep breath, looked into his eyes, and told the truth. “When I was seventeen, I fell in what I thought was love, with a very bad man. He told me things, made me think certain things about myself, about my body. He turned me against my friends, against my family, and by the end I was willing to sacrifice everything for him, because I thought that’s what love was. And that I wasn’t worth anything. And when it ended, I had to get away and rebuild everything that was left of me.”
His eyes flared hot with anger on my behalf, for things that had happened long ago and he could never change, but wanted to anyway.
“I was lucky to find myself again, to come out the other side of it. But something got lost in the process, and it made it impossible for me to fall in love again. Until you.”
His mouth parted, wanted to say something, but he held it back.
“I do love you, Oscar. I love you so much, but I can’t give up who I am and my entire world just to be with you.” I squeezed his hand. “But I would like to try a compromise.”
The smallest of smiles curved his lips. “A compromise, huh? What does that mean?”
“It means that I’m going to start working from home a few days a week. I’ve already talked to my boss, and while we’re still ironing out the details, he knows that it’s in his best interest to let me have this.”
“Home office?”
“Mm-hmm, and funnily enough, Chad Bowman knows the guy who owns that old store on Main Street—the one with the empty top floor that’s just waiting for someone to open up shop.”
His smile grew. “You don’t say . . .”
“Hold on there, Caveman: you’ve got a part to play in all this, too. I realize you’ve got responsibilities here that aren’t so mobile. And I can work with that, provided that you agree to spend weekends with me in the city when the market is running weekly again, as the cows allow. I’m willing to work with you on this because I know how much you love my apartment, and I know how much you love the bed in my apartment.”
“It’s a good bed.”
“And speaking of beds, we’ll need to make some changes at your place. I’m willing to bet your last dollar that Missy picked out every piece of furniture and country cow art in that house, yes?”
“Yes,” he said, the grin getting larger by the minute.
“Luckily for you, I happen to know all the best furniture designers in Manhattan, and we’ll be taking advantage of the discount I get. Just nod, Oscar.”
He nodded, looping one finger through my belt loop, tugging me closer. “Any other compromises I need to agree to?”
“I hate that sweater.”
“Okay.”
“Lose it.”
He tugged it off over his head, revealing his bare chest, threw it onto the table next to us, his scarred eyebrow raised in challenge.
There was a round of applause at the impromptu strip show, and as I looked around I had to laugh, seeing Roxie and Leo and Polly, Chad and Logan, Trudy and Wayne, Elmer and Louise, Mr. and Mrs. Oleson, and every other person I’d gotten to know over the last few months.
Roxie pointed above our heads; I looked up, and there it was.
“Mistletoe,” I whispered, and he laid an enormous kiss on me, lifting me up out of my shoes, to the sounds of Bailey Falls’ approving applause.
“I love you, Pinup,” he murmured, crushing me against his naked inked chest.
“Turns out I really, really, love you, too, you fucking caveman.”
He kissed me again, this time to the sound of Polly’s swear jar shaking.
Epilogue
My girl clung tightly to my hand as we walked down the street. It was really cold; it wouldn’t get above freezing all day. I liked the cold: it made her stick closer to me. Her arm was either through mine or around my waist, clinging tight.
Natalie had moved to Bailey Falls. She hated when I said that, said to keep my voice down or she’d lose her New York card. Technically, she hadn’t really moved. We were figuring it out. But the town was ecstatic to have a “highfalutin big-city advertising whiz” ensconced on Main Street. And while she’d never admit it, she quite enjoyed being consulted on whether or not The Jam Lady’s new labels should be a pinkish beige or a beigey pink and how that might impact her overall sales trajectory . . .
Until the spring market started up again, it was hard for me to come into the city every weekend, so there were some weekends when we couldn’t see each other. But come March I’d be in town every Friday through Sunday. She was campaigning hard for Monday too, which I’d
told her was next to impossible but that didn’t stop her from pleading her case. Which I encouraged her to do, since she typically wore her thigh-high boots and nothing else whenever she attempting to sweet talk me into anything. I really should tell her sometime that I was pretty sure one of my volunteers could cover Monday mornings occasionally but then again . . . she looked fucking fantastic in those boots so . . .
For now, she typically spent Monday night through Thursday morning in Bailey Falls, taking the morning train back into the city. Sometimes I could convince her to stay over one more night. It didn’t take much; my girl was lost when my mouth was on her. Which was as often as possible, and would be even more if I had anything to say about it. There was nothing I loved more than making that woman come under my tongue. Unless it was watching her walk away, that great . . . big ass bouncing. I loved to make it bounce.
I loved everything about her, plain and simple. She was a nightmare in the kitchen, a dream in the bedroom, and bossy as all get-out, but she was my girl and we were figuring it out.
I’d be coaching the local high school football team next fall, and Natalie was keen to be in town for all my games. Not sure if she realized that would mean giving up Friday nights in the city, but we’d work on it. I was getting to know the city beyond the market, and it was growing on me. I’d never enjoy those cocktail parties that she’d dragged me to a few times, but I’d go. For her.
“This is it,” she said, stopping in front of a tall brownstone, its warm lights shining out into the snow-covered street. My girl was taking me to brunch.
She was nervous, I could tell. Everything that had to do with us, figuring out what kind of couple we were, made her a little nervous. She’d been hurt really bad before, and I understood why she was gun-shy. She could take all the time she needed; I wasn’t going anywhere.
“My parents are so excited you’re coming today. I told you, right?” Her voice was full of excitement as she clung to my hand.
“You did,” I answered, leaning down to drop a kiss on her forehead. Before we could go up the steps, her father threw open the front door.
“Get in here, it’s freezing outside! Oscar, how are you? I saw your cheese in Brannigan’s the other day—the big store over in Brooklyn. They even had the new one—what’s it called?”
“Pinup.” I grinned, resting my hand on my girl’s backside as she walked up the steps before me. “It’s called Pinup.”
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About the Author
PHOTO BY LISA NORDMANN
ALICE CLAYTON worked in the cosmetics industry for over a decade before picking up a pen (read laptop). She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and finally convinced her long-time boyfriend to marry her. Now, about that Bernese mountain dog . . .
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ALSO BY ALICE CLAYTON
The Hudson Valley Series
Nuts
The Cocktail Series
Wallbanger
Rusty Nailed
Screwdrivered
Mai Tai’d Up
Last Call
The Redhead Series
The Unidentified Redhead
The Redhead Revealed
The Redhead Plays Her Hand
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Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Alice Clayton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books trade paperback edition July 2016
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Cover design by Sarah Hansen Okay Creations
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Clayton, Alice, author.
Title: Cream of the crop / Alice Clayton.
Description: First Gallery Books trade paperback edition. | New York : Gallery Books, 2016. | Series: Hudson Valley series ; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2016010533 (print) | LCCN 2016017343 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501118159 (softcover) | ISBN 9781501118166 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women executives—Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3603.L3968 C74 2016 (print) | LCC PS3603.L3968 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016010533
ISBN 978-1-5011-1815-9
ISBN 978-1-5011-1816-6 (ebook)
Cream of the Crop Page 29