Mai Tai'd Up

  Praise for Alice Clayton’s laugh-out-loud sexy Cocktail Series

  MAI TAI’D UP

  “Alice Clayton is a genius! Mai Tai’d Up is sexy, steamy, and totally hilarious! A must read that I didn’t want to end.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Emma Chase

  SCREWDRIVERED

  “Cheers to Alice Clayton! Screwdrivered is a hilarious cocktail of crackling banter, heady sexual tension, and pop-your-cork love scenes. The heroine is brisk and lively (can we be friends, Viv?) and the hot librarian hero seduced me with his barely-restrained sensuality. I’ve never wanted a nerd more.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Kresley Cole

  RUSTY NAILED

  “We want to bask in the afterglow: giddy, blushing, and utterly in love with this book.”

  —New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Christina Lauren

  “Clayton’s trademark wit and general zaniness shine through in abundance as readers get an intimate view of the insecurities one faces while in a serious relationship. Steamy playful sex scenes and incorrigible friends make this a wonderful continuation of Wallbanger and Nightie Girl’s journey to their happily ever after.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “For fun, sex, and strudel, make sure to spend some time with these wallbangers.”

  —Heroes and Heartbreakers

  “A great follow-up to Wallbanger . . . just as funny and HOT as the first!”

  —Schmexy Girl Book Blog

  “Humorous, sizzling hot, romantic, and not missing dramatics. If you weren’t a fan before, you certainly will be after reading Rusty Nailed.”

  —Love Between the Sheets

  “Excuse me, I need to catch my breath. Either from panting or cracking up. Because I was always doing one of the two while reading Rusty Nailed. Alice Clayton, you never disappoint.”

  —Book Bumblings

  “Simon and Caroline are as adorable, funny, and sexy as ever.”

  —The Rock Stars of Romance

  “Witty dialogue, a quirky and lovable cast, and a whirlwind of a romance. . . .”

  —Peace Love Books

  “A great summer read, fantastic for lazing about and having fun with.”

  —Under the Covers Book Blog

  “A story that is sure to please.”

  —The Reading Café

  “I fell in wholehearted book-love! Fantastic voice, amazing characters!”

  —Teacups and Book Love

  “An entertaining romantic story overflowing with hilarity, passion, and emotion.”

  —Sensual Reads

  WALLBANGER

  “Sultry, seXXXy, super-awesome . . . we LOVE it!”

  —Perez Hilton

  “An instant classic, with plenty of laugh-out-loud moments and riveting characters.”

  —Jennifer Probst, New York Times bestselling author of Searching for Perfect

  “Fun and frothy, with a bawdy undercurrent and a hero guaranteed to make your knees wobbly . . . The perfect blend of sex, romance, and baked goods.”

  —Ruthie Knox, bestselling author of About Last Night

  “Alice Clayton strikes again, seducing me with her real woman sex appeal, unparalleled wit, and addicting snark; leaving me laughing, blushing, and craving knock all the paintings off the wall sex of my very own.”

  —Humor blogger Brittany Gibbons

  “From the brilliantly fun characters to the hilarious, sexy, heartwarming storyline, Wallbanger is one that shouldn’t be missed. I laughed. I sighed. Mostly, I grinned like an idiot.”

  —Tangled up in Books

  “Finally a woman who knows her way around a man and a KitchenAid Mixer. She had us at zucchini bread!”

  —Curvy Girl Guide

  “A funny, madcap, smexy romantic contemporary. . . . Fast pacing and a smooth flowing storyline will keep you in stitches. . . .”

  —Smexy Books

  And for her acclaimed Redhead series

  “Zany and smoking-hot romance [that] will keep readers in stitches . . .”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Alice Clayton makes me laugh, cringe, yell at the characters and cry.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “I adore Grace and Jack. They have such amazing chemistry. The love that flows between them scorches the pages.”

  —Smexy Books

  “Steamy romance, witty characters and a barrel full of laughs. . . .”

  —The Book Vixen

  “Laugh out loud funny.”

  —Smokin Hot Books

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  I’ve never been lucky enough to own a pit bull, but I’ve always been a tiny bit in love with them. This one’s for all those gorgeous doggy grins.

  acknowledgments

  I’ve got the best job in the entire world. Scratch that. I’ve got the second best job in the entire world. The actual best job in the entire world is Robert Pattinson’s massage therapist . . . but that’s a story for a different day. Today I’m calling out the people in my life that help me keep this amazing story going. Especially on the days when the words aren’t coming, even though the main characters want to be. See what I did there? Thanks to everyone who helped make Mai Tai’d Up, and the entire Cocktail Series, happen.

  Here’s that special hit list. I may have been watching too much Sons of Anarchy . . .

  team gallery

  Nuding

  Bergstrom

  Dwyer

  Horbachevsky

  Psaltis

  Burke

  team author

  Cole

  Probst

  Reisz

  Proby

  Evans

  Chase

  team comma

  Royer

  team sanity

  Hogrebe

  team sanctuary

  Bocci

  Hobbs

  Billings

  team fam

  Struble

  Struble

  Osterloh

  Tolpa

  team heart

  Peter

  You stay classy, San Diego

  Alice

  xoxo

  prologue

  I grinned as I watched the two of them circle each other without leaving their chairs. Perched backward on hers, she pointed aggressively in response to something he said. He pointed back just as hard, which made her . . . unbutton another button on her shirt?

  These two. I’d never heard my cousin Clark complain so much about a girl, which made me 100 percent positive this girl was perfectly matched for him. Vivian this and Vivian that—that’s literally all I’d heard from him in the last few weeks.

  I leaned back against the bar and pondered the passion that was pinging back and forth between them. Their words were antagonistic, but their body language? They were already having the sex; they just didn’t know it yet. He leaned; she leaned. He rolled his eyes; she all but rolled her hips. Words were heated; their skin even more so.

  My skin was rarely heated. In fact, everything south of my ankles was getting decidedly cold. But that was normal for a bride, right?

  I was getting married in a month. After spending the last few weeks running around like crazy with wedding preparations, I was treating myself to a long weekend at my favorite B&B in Mendocino to see my favorite cousin. Coming up to visit him was the break I’d needed from my real life in San Diego. I’d spent the last fe
w days walking on the beach, sitting by a crackling fire at night, and trying hard to see the forest for the trees in my life. And listening to Clark talk nonstop about this girl who had rocked his world. I was supposed to be working on my thank-you cards for gifts we’d already received, but getting distracted by my somewhat old-fashioned, hopelessly romantic cousin Clark and his obvious affection for this new girl in town was exactly what I really needed.

  And now, watching these two dance around each other, watching his eyes being drawn again and again to the bosom she seemed to be deliberately using to her advantage, I realized that this was what it was supposed to be about. The dance. The back-and-forth, the spark, the excitement.

  I’d never had that spark with anyone. And after watching Clark go toe-to-toe with this Vivian? I wanted to get sparked too. And I was no longer sure that I’d be getting sparked in San Diego . . .

  chapter one

  Four weeks later in San Diego

  “And so tonight, I raise a glass to the most beautiful girl in the world—my daughter, Chloe Patterson. And to her intended, I say: take care of her. Because I know people.”

  I could feel my blush rise as my father toasted me and my fiancé—the “intended” he’d just threatened in front of the fifty people attending our rehearsal dinner. Threatened in a perfectly acceptable way, of course, like a father of the bride would tease the man who’s going to take away his little girl forever. And everyone laughed along with me, raising their glasses in our direction.

  My intended, Charles Preston Sappington, rose to his feet, shaking my father’s hand and clapping him on the back good-naturedly. Was the clap a little harder than necessary? Yes. Was the threat as affable as my father made it sound? No.

  I caught my dad’s eye and he winked. I giggled loudly, earning an eye roll from my mother, who had the most audible eye roll in the room. In any room. And particularly any room my father was in.

  Relieved that I could get back to my dinner, I felt Charles’ hand on the back of my neck. He leaned over me, pressing an absentminded kiss onto the top of my head. “Going to go say hello to the Nickersons; I’ll be right back,” he whispered.

  I kissed the air behind him as he sped off to press some more flesh, and turned to see my mother watching us.

  “Don’t you think you should go with him, dear?” she asked, watching as my fiancé schmoozed. Our rehearsal dinner, and he was schmoozing.

  “Not particularly. Did you try the artichoke soufflé? It’s delicious,” I answered, forking up another bite.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, dear? That wedding dress barely fits as it is.” She signaled for a waiter to remove my plate.

  I smiled resignedly, setting down my fork with a clatter that earned me an eyebrow raise. “Sorry,” I mumbled, patting at my lips delicately with my napkin, which I refolded and placed squarely in the center of my lap.

  “Oh, leave her alone, Marjorie, she’s getting married! She should enjoy this night! You know, before the Big Fade,” Dad teased.

  A snort escaped me, and my mother’s neck turned three shades of red.

  “Honestly, Thomas, I hardly think it’s appropriate to tease her like that, the night before she gets married. And what was that toast? You know people? For goodness’ sake, who are these alleged people? Accountants? Pencil pushers?”

  “Oh, lighten up! It was a joke, that’s all,” my father protested, clearly loving this.

  Divorced for the last six years after twenty-two years of bickering, my father loved nothing in the world more than to get my mother’s back up. And she never failed to take the bait.

  But tonight, she surprised us both by pushing back from the table. “Chloe, go stand with Charles. He shouldn’t have to chat up all these guests by himself,” she chided, not giving my father a second glance as she sailed away. Tall and regal and every inch the mother of the bride, she slipped seamlessly into the background, making sure that the waiters were circling and everyone had everything they needed. She was the hostess with the mostest, a job that I supposed I should be doing. Truth? I wanted more of that sinful artichoke soufflé.

  I glanced at my father’s plate and he grinned, shoving it across the table toward me. I grinned back, then quickly ate the soufflé.

  “So, you ready for tomorrow?” he asked as we watched the room.

  Pleasantries, mingling, restrained and dignified laughter spilling around the room. Fifty of our very very closest friends and family. And this was only the rehearsal. Four hundred (four hundred!) people from all over Southern California had been invited to the wedding tomorrow, being held at one of San Diego’s toniest country clubs. We’d been members for years, and when my parents’ divorce was final, my mother made it clear that it was now her territory alone. But my father was required to pay the membership dues every year. Alimony.

  “I suppose,” I said, and sighed, wondering not for the first time why I sighed every time someone asked me about the wedding.

  My father noticed. “Kiddo?” he asked, concern crossing his handsome face.

  “I’d better go chat with the Nickersons,” I answered, having just gotten the stink eye from my mother from across the room. She meant well. And it was my rehearsal dinner, after all; I should be enjoying hearing everyone’s congratulations. I reminded myself of this several times in the time it took me to make my way from the corner table to the center of the restaurant, where my intended held his hand out for me. I pasted on the look of happiness and sincerity that had won me Miss Golden State nearly two years ago. Charles, the most handsome man I’d ever known, smiled down at me, my smile taking its cue from his as he slipped his arm around me and brought me effortlessly into the conversation.

  Smile. Nod. Laugh. Smile. Nod. Laugh. Smile. Nod. Sigh.

  I stole a moment later in the evening, after the coffee had been served and the endless toasts completed (how in the world would anyone have anything to say tomorrow if they blew their toast wad at the rehearsal dinner?), and guests were beginning to edge toward the door. My mother mingled like a pro, smiling and nodding at each one as they complimented her on what a lovely daughter, what a lovely couple, what a lovely evening . . . arghh. Smiling and nodding was what she did best.

  It was a grace I didn’t possess naturally, although I could fake it with the best of them. Case in point: my earlier smile and nod when a twenty-minute discussion was waged over which was the best lawn service in town. Have to keep those lawns as green as possible, even when there was a drought, you know. Or my smile and nod when Mrs. Snodgrass went on and on about a racy book that everyone was talking about but no one would admit to reading, when in fact I know every woman there had read it. I even smiled and nodded when Mr. Peterson lectured us about illegal immigration, when I knew for a fact that his nanny was undocumented. Honestly, I felt like a bobblehead at times. But that pageant training kicked in, and I could smile and nod for hours on end, always looking interested, always looking pleasant, always looking pretty.

  But inside my head wasn’t pretty. Inside my head, I was wondering what would happen if I jumped onto a table and started screaming. What would the reaction be? Startlement? Horror? Amusement? How quickly would someone usher me off the table, and how quickly would everyone else go back to their coffee?

  I was saved from my mental screaming by my mother, who was making a second pass around the restaurant. “Dear, the Snodgrasses are leaving. Be a good girl and go thank them for coming.”

  “Yes, Mother.” I smiled and nodded. In particular at my handsome fiancé, who had already beaten me to the Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass.

  Finally, Charles and I found ourselves alone in front of the restaurant. Before Cinderella was packed off into her stretch limo coach, she was to say good night to her handsome prince.

  “Are you excited about tomorrow?” he asked, encircling me with his strong arms. Arms he kept strong, along with every other part of his body, with hours of tennis, racquetball, swimming, jogging, and, of course, golf. Avid golfer.
I’d been encouraged to take up the sport, so I did. Of course I did. Sigh.

  “I’m very excited for tomorrow,” I murmured into his chest, catching the scent of his cologne. Heady.

  “I mentioned to Nancy Nickerson that you’d be interested in volunteering some time when we get back in town. She’s chairing the committee for the new pediatric wing at the hospital. I signed you up.”

  “Well, okay. But I’m not sure how much time I’m going to have. They just got two new therapy dogs at the hospital, and they need some help with—”

  “Chloe. Baby. We talked about this before. Working with your pageant platform is one thing; the therapy dog charity was great. But you’re not doing pageants anymore, and we agreed it’s time to start moving on, taking on some new projects, right?”

  “But, Charles, I’ve worked with this organization since high school; it was never just because I was in pageants. They always need help, and I think that—”

  “No.”

  “Um. What?” I asked, crinkling my nose and looking up at him.

  Charles Preston Sappington was tall. Dark. Handsome. Perfect. My mother, who traded in perfect, had introduced us. He was an attorney. He argued for a living, which is why I never bothered to argue with him. Hard to go toe-to-toe with the toughest litigator in all of Southern California. I know this because he had it on a plaque above his desk. So I rarely bothered. However . . .

  “Did you just tell me no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you explain to me why?” I asked, pushing against his chest a bit when he tried to hold me tighter.

  “Not right now.”

  “But—”

  “Baby, it’s late. We’ve got plenty of time to talk about stuff like this. But for now? Just concentrate on getting some sleep tonight so you can be beautiful for me tomorrow.” His voice sounded soothing. “You know I can’t wait for tomorrow, right? But then after that? The honeymoon, baby—the best part.”

  His hands slid up my back and succeeded in pulling me into him. I sighed, bit back my remark, and concentrated on the band that was tightening around my chest. His arms, I mean.