I slip the top button of his jeans free while his eyes hold mine, granting silent permission. The three beneath it open with only gentle coaxing. Oliver’s breath comes out fast and warm on my cheek.
“What are you up to, Lorelei?”
“Touching you.”
I look down, watching my hand dig into his boxers, but I can feel when he looks up and behind me at the beach, making sure we really are alone out here.
I tilt my face to his, silently asking for a kiss.
“This massive, massive love . . .” he murmurs into my lips, trailing off when my fingers slide over the swollen, slick head of him.
Oliver wraps his coat around us both, obscuring my bent arm, my hand when I pull him free of his boxers. His mouth opens against mine, tongue sweeping over me for tiny strokes, hands clasped together at my back to keep our cover intact. There are so many ways to declare love, to make love. I swallow his sounds, stroking him in this slow, nearly lazy way until he’s shifting against me, until he’s shaking, until his kisses stop and he’s too focused on the pleasure of it. His lips go slack, simply pressed against mine, and I’m greedy for the little grunts that begin when he’s close, swollen to bursting, knuckles pressed into my spine, begging. We’ve been nearly silent: a couple embracing, kissing on the beach in the darkness, but when something splits open in me—relief, thrill, tension unloaded—it pulls a paradoxical sob from my throat, and Oliver leans forward, coming with a low groan.
He’s warm in my hand, wet and slippery, urging me with a tiny retreat of his hips to not move my fingers anymore. But I don’t want to let go; I like the way it feels to share these languid kisses, hold the satisfied weight of him in my hand, cocooned in his circle of body heat with the enormous ocean crashing beside us.
Finally, I move my hand away as he buttons his pants back up, laughing at the mess. Once he’s situated, he kisses my nose, unwilling to let me out of the shelter of his jacket. And with the water lapping near our feet, it feels like Oliver and I have been together for years; the quiet between us is simply too easy for this to be a fickle fling.
When I look up at him, he’s staring out at the water but feels my eyes on him and turns to gaze at me, smiling. “I like it out here,” he says.
“I do, too.”
“I was thinking . . . you shouldn’t buy a house,” he says. “I’ve got a good one.”
Excitement and unease boil together in my stomach. “I was thinking the same thing while I worked up the nerve to come to your door. But then I figured . . . one thing at a time.”
His eyes smile first and it spreads down to his mouth. “One thing at a time,” he repeats. “But just don’t buy a house. It’ll be a huge waste of money.”
Stretching to kiss his chin, I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell him I honestly don’t know if I ever want to be married again, I don’t know how to do any of this and am pretty sure I’m going to fail . . . a lot. “But I don’t—”
His fingertips come over my lips and he covers them with a small kiss. “Shh. We are not our friends. We have our own path, okay? I’m just being optimistic here.”
With a smile, I pull him down with me onto the sand and we sit and watch the moonlit foam of the curling surf. Oliver tells me stories about his first year in the States. I tell him stories about the year my mother left. We grow quiet and nearly fall asleep on the beach before we wrestle each other awake and halfheartedly argue over what to get for dinner.
I’m so lucky.
I’m so lucky.
The panel shows the girl, and her boy, raised hands dusted in sand as they try to count the stars.
Acknowledgments
LOLA’S LESSON WAS also ours: sometimes you need to do it all wrong before you know how to do it right.
We hope you had no idea that we wrote this book twice. The first time, it took us three months. It was a good book, but it wasn’t Oliver and Lola’s story. The second time, it took only five weeks, and we knew as we put the words on the page
this
this
this is Loliver.
Thank you to Adam Wilson for seeing it. You didn’t tell us how it should be, but you knew how it shouldn’t be, and—as always—you were right. Did you have to do a couple of shots before that phone call? We certainly had to do a couple shots after. But we’re so glad you know these characters as well as we do, and that these books matter as much to you as they do to us.
And thank you, Holly. You called it a barnburner, you wore Ansel’s corsage, and you’re available and present for all of the tiny and enormous moments. It means a whole, whole lot, but you get that, because you’re Holly.
Erin, you’re there at the drop of a hat with some of the most astute and detailed feedback. It’s amazing the things you find that we miss after twenty reads, but your brain is magical, and your enthusiasm is kiiiiind of everything to us. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
This job is an obscene amount of fun, and partly that’s because we get to write about hot people doin’ it, but mostly it’s because we have Kristin Dwyer, Kresley Cole, Alice Clayton, and Nina Bocci keeping inappropriate humor alive. What would we do without you guys? Let us not imagine it.
Thank you to our prereaders Erin Service, Tonya Irving, Sarah J. Maas, and Alex Bracken. Yours are the opinions we need to hear, and you’re never wrong. Marion Archer, thank you for taking the time to read it so carefully. Your feedback was not only what helped us finish this polish, but what also tied so many tiny pieces together. Thank you, Lauren Suero, for the tremendous amount of work you do every day, Jen Grant for being Team CLo since day -365, Heather Carrier for the graphics that still make us react audibly, alone, in our offices. Thank you, Caroline Layne, for the unbelievable illustrations that brought Loliver to life.
We love everyone in our Gallery family: Jen Bergstrom, Louise Burke, Carolyn Reidy, Adam Wilson, Kristin Dwyer, Theresa Dooley, Jen Robinson, Sarah Lieberman, Liz Psaltis, Diana Velasquez, Melanie Mitzman, Paul O’Halloran, Lisa Litwack, John Vairo, Ed Schlesinger, Abby Zidle, Stephanie DeLuca, Lauren McKenna, and Trey (later, skater).
This book is dedicated to Eddie Ibrahim, the original Oliver who pushed us to embrace our fandom side, gave Lo all the gateway comics so long ago, and has long been the bedrock beneath our wiggly foundation. We adore you, Superman, we really do.
To Blondie, Dr. Mr. Shoes, Carebear, Cutest, and Ninja: best families ever.
The truth is we would be nowhere without our readers, and we would simply be two gals writing stories on our computers without bloggers. Because of all of you, we have bestselling books on shelves. We are so grateful for everything you do to support us, whether it’s writing up a review or simply telling a friend to buy our book. We hope we’ve done right by you again, and we trust you to let us know. Thank you for being here with us.
Turn the page for a sneak peek of NUTS the first book in a brand new series by New York Times bestselling author Alice Clayton!
When a whipped cream disaster ruins the career of Roxie Callahan, private chef to some of Hollywood’s wealthiest--and meanest--calorie-counting wives, she finds herself back home in New York’s Hudson Valley, helping her mom by running the family diner.
But when delicious-looking local farmer Leo Maxwell delivers her an equally delicious-looking bunch of walnuts, Roxie wonders if a summer home isn’t so bad after all…
Chapter 1
“Okay, let’s see. Dashi broth is done. Bok choy is roasting; shrimp are a’poachin’. Gluten free as far as the eye can see,” I told myself, leaning on the stainless steel counter in the most beautiful kitchen ever created. If you liked midcentury California modern. And who didn’t? Miles and miles of stainless steel and poured polished concrete.
Countless appliances and chefs’ tools sat against the herringbone subway tiles, shiny and untouched by their owner’s hand. Touched only by my hand— private chef and banisher of the evil gluten in this land of blond and trendy. Specifically, Hollywood. Specifically, Bel Air. S
pecifically, the home of Mitzi St. Renee, wife of a famous producer and chaser of that most elusive of brass rings . . . never-ending youth.
And at thirty-two (who would have thought that someone only five years older than me could talk down to me like it was her job), in a town where thirty was the benchmark for older men marrying for the love of tits, Mitzi was obviously concerned about her age. Holding a honeydew, I paused to consider said tits. Said tits were attached to a beautiful woman. Said tits were attached to a not-very-nice woman. Said tits were attached to an asshole, truth be told.
I shook my head to clear it, and started to cut up the melon. One-inch cubes with crisp edges; no rounded corners here. Next up were cantaloupe balls, rounded and plump. No ragged hollows; simply perfect balls. I heard how that sounded in my head, snorted, and moved on to the watermelon triangles. Acute. Obtuse. Did Mitzi appreciate the knife skills that went into her fruit bowl? Doubtful. Did she notice the culinary geometry that composed her a.m. energy burst? Probably not. No one noticed the perfection of my melons—but everyone sure noticed hers.
My inner dialogue and I moved on to assembling Mitzi’s plate—she liked her dinner served at exactly 6:30 p.m. Some people hired private chefs just to do the cooking. Some even took the credit, while the chefs were hidden in the kitchen. And others assumed that because I worked in a kitchen and was paid for cooking, I also was a butler of sorts. But with the kind of money Mitzi paid me, I was okay serving her trendy Asian-fusion, low-calorie-but-high-in-taste dinner on a tray in her dining room.
As I was pulling the bok choy from the oven my phone suddenly rang, surprising me and causing me to bump my hand on the inside edge of the oven. Hissing in pain, I set the pan down on top of the range. When I saw who the caller was I quickly pressed decline, then gave the bok choy a once-over. Selecting the greenest and the most pristine, I carefully placed it in the center of a white porcelain bowl, creating a tiny green tower just as the egg timer went off, alerting me to my shrimp.
Poached in a court bouillon with the faintest hint of Thai chili and cinnamon, they were pink and perfect. Stacking three on top of the bok choy trio (symmetry, always symmetry), I then sprinkled bias-cut scallion, pickled garlic, and shallots that had been ever so slightly browned in peanut oil (a secret that would never be disclosed to Miss Fat Gram Counter) all around. Setting the bowl onto an enameled tortoiseshell tray, I then poured the dashi broth into a white porcelain pitcher, and put exactly three-fourths of a cup of kaffir lime–scented jasmine rice in a matching bowl. Portion control is essential to maintaining a size zero lifestyle in a size zero town. Just as I was gathering up the tray to take into the dining room, my phone rang again. I hit Decline once more, noticed the time, and internally cursed myself for letting it get to 6:32 without noticing.
In the dining room, my client was perched at the head of the table, eating alone as usual. Her husband was always working, though whatever momentary soft spot I might have had for her disappeared when she made a show of looking at her watch.
“So sorry it’s a little late; the bok choy needed just a bit extra tonight,” I chirped, setting down the tray and serving her from the left.
“Why, Roxie, what’s four minutes? I mean, four minutes here, seven minutes there, let’s just relax all the rules, shall we?” she chirped back as I poured the broth from the pitcher, circling around the center.
She pays you well. Very well.
Gritting my teeth, I smiled at her Botoxed forehead and whisked away the empty pitcher. Why, Roxie indeed.
I headed back into the kitchen to finish up her “dessert” and her coffee, box up her breakfast and lunch for tomorrow, and clean up. Dessert had giant neon quotation marks around it inside my head, since it was hard to visualize such a lovely word applied to sugar-free carob-based wafer cookies set just so into shaved lemon ice. I wasn’t opposed to the lemon ice, or the “cookies”—which, let’s face it, also needed the quotation treatment. But they were not so much dessert.
The one thing I could get on board with was the way Mitzi took her coffee. Kona blend, dark roast, with one—and only one—tablespoon of full-fat, honest-to-goodness homemade whipped cream. She let herself indulge in this one treat, each and every day. Hey, it’s not up to me to tell anyone where to spend their “cheat calories.” Wow, lots of quotations tonight.
I fired up the stainless steel artisan KitchenAid mixer, retrieved the bowl from the freezer, and poured in a little over half a cup of fresh heavy cream. The bottle was almost empty; I’d have to add that to her market list. I made a shopping list for her each week, then came over several days to prepare meals that she could have on hand. Twice a week I cooked for her.
Adding a teaspoon of Madagascar vanilla and exactly two teaspoons of sugar to the cream, I let it whip while I tidied up the kitchen, ignoring the beep coming from my phone from the two calls I’d missed while on dashi duty.
Keeping one eye on the whipped cream and one ear toward the dining room, I tamped the coffee down, readying it to brew exactly four ounces of espresso. When my phone buzzed against the stainless steel counter, I saw who was calling again and slammed the trap shut on the expensive Breville machine.
“For heaven’s sake, can I call you back?”
“Well, that’s a fine howdy-do to your one and only mother,” a cheerful voice sang out.
I closed my eyes in frustration. “Howdy-do, Mother. I’m working. Can I call you back?”
“That depends. Will you call me back tonight?”
“I’ll try,” I replied, struggling to get the foam nozzle locked into the espresso machine.
“You’ll try?”
“I will, okay?”
“You promise?”
“Yes, I promise that I’ll— Oh, man . . .”
“What’s the matter? Are you okay, Roxie?”
“I’m fine—just a little kitchen mishap. I’ll call you later.” I hung up, staring into the bowl.
I needed to figure out how to explain to Mitzi St. Renee, a woman whose lifestyle hinged upon her ability to look beautiful and maintain an exquisite body, and whose only indulgence was her evening coffee, that instead of making billowy soft whipped cream . . . I’d made butter.
Fired.
Fired?
Fired.
F O R. B U T T E R.
I sat in my car outside Mitzi’s house, tucked high up into the hills. I’d packed up my knives, plucked my last check from her perfectly manicured gel tips, then trudged to my 1982 Jeep Wagoneer.
Fired. Over butter. I should have known better than to turn my back on cream being whipped. It can go from stiff peaks to buttery squeaks in seconds.
My phone rang again and my mother’s face appeared on the screen, with frizzy brown braids and a daisy behind her ear. Second-generation hippie. Woodstock Part Deux. I’d inherited my hair from her, but my eyes came from my father. I’d never met him, but my mother said she could always tell our moods based on our eye color. Hazel when I’m calm, a little blue when I’m blue, and a little green when I’m frazzled. I was very celery at the moment.
I heard the front door shut and saw Mitzi coming down the driveway, likely to tell me it was time to leave. Starting the engine, I waved good-bye with a specific finger and left. Unprofessional, but I didn’t have to care about what she thought anymore.
I grumbled to myself all the way home, down from the hills, across town to the other side of Highland, where the homes were considerably smaller, giving way to blocks and blocks of apartment buildings filled to bursting with hopeful young beauties. As I approached my building, my phone rang. Again.
“You really couldn’t wait for me to call you back?” I said as her voice came through the speakers. California’s hands-free law meant that I got to hear my mother’s voice ricocheting off every corner of the car, in stereo.
“Who knows when that would be? I’m literally bursting to tell you my news!” my mother cried out, giggling excitedly.
I chuckled in spite of myself. My mot
her was many things, but her enthusiasm was always hard to resist.
“It must be big news; it’s late back there. Why aren’t you in bed?” It was almost eleven back east: way past her bedtime.
“Eh, I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Listen, Roxie, I’ve got something fantastic to tell you!”
“Phish is touring again?”
“Roxie . . .” she warned.
I bit my lip to keep from saying something snarky. “You found a new brand of wheat germ and you can’t hide your excitement?” Lip biting does not, in fact, always work.
“I’m so glad you enjoy making fun of your mother, especially with your generic hippie quips. You’re very quippy tonight,” she replied, her voice getting a bit sharp.
I needed to ease off a bit. After all, it wasn’t entirely her fault that I’d been fired.
“Your news?” I asked sweetly, before she could go off on a tangent about maybe the reason I was so quippy is that I wasn’t getting enough iron. Or sex. Typical mother-daughter stuff.
“Right! Yes! My news! Are you sitting down?”
“Yes, I’m sitting down.”
“I’m going to be on television!” she burst out, ending in a squeal.
“Oh, that’s nice. Is Craft Corner back on the air again?”
Our little town in upstate New York had its own public access channel, and Mom had been contributing ideas for years. Every now and then, when the budget hadn’t been cut in half to seventy-five dollars, they’d ask her to come on and demonstrate. How to make a sweater dress, how to make a ceramic birdbath, etc. Her segment on Jiffy Pop paper lanterns generated the most calls the station had ever received. Three.
“No, no, not Craft Corner. Ever hear of The Amazing Race?”
“Sure, sure. Is Channel 47 doing a local version?” I asked, turning into my parking lot.
“It’s not Channel 47, dear, it’s the actual show! I’m going to be on The Amazing Race—the real one!”