Buns

  Praise for Alice Clayton’s hilariously fun, New York Times bestselling Hudson Valley series

  CREAM OF THE CROP

  “Emotionally ripe with bold dialogue, strong characterization, steamy sex scenes and Clayton’s trademark wacky humor, the author builds a delectable, opposites-attract romance.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 star review)

  “A titillating story with plenty of happy endings.”

  —Library Journal (in a starred review)

  NUTS

  “Small towns are filled with different personalities and Nuts is simply that, chock-full of so many special nuts you won’t want to leave.”

  —Heroes and Heartbreakers

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

  LAST CALL

  “Witty dialogue, engaging scenes and the ever-present smoking-hot chemistry once again prove that Clayton is a master at her trade.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The hilarious conclusion to a series that made me laugh until I cried, swoon until I sighed, and reminded us all that there’s always time for one Last Call.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Colleen Hoover

  MAI TAI’D UP

  “Clayton’s trademark charm and comical wit saturates the storyline, which features engaging dialogue, eccentric characters and a couple who defines the word ‘adorable.’ ”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “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

  “Screwdrivered has sexual tension, romantic longing, and fantastic chemistry.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  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

  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

  “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

  “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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  To Mohonk Mountain House, where inspiration became reality

  Acknowledgments

  As I sit writing this, I’m staring out a hotel window, gazing at the Sydney Opera House. How is this my life? How did I get here? How in the world did a woman managing a day spa in St. Louis, Missouri, end up on the other side of the world at a book signing (signing books she herself actually wrote, but you knew that)?

  The answer is you. Simply put, it’s you, you gorgeous reader you. You came along with me on this wild ride from the moment I hit publish on the first chapter of The Unidentified Redhead, back when it was nothing more than a little-known piece of fan fiction.

  I love this community more than I can ever say. There’s something so magical about women reading romance, and recommending romance, and loving romance as much as we all do. And as grateful as I am as an author who gets to participate, I’m even more grateful as a reader for the genre itself. In this very strange world we’re living in right now, to be able to spend the last few moments of my day, every single day by the way, in bed with an incredible piece of romantic fiction is exactly what we all need.

  But now specifically about this book, the Buns that you’re currently squeezing. This book was inspired entirely by a trip I took to Mohonk Mountain House in New Paltz, New York. This hotel is like a peek into a different world. It’s beautiful, it’s peaceful, it’s like a giant hug on top of a mountain. I can’t say enough about this piece of heaven on earth except to say that while Bryant Mountain House was inspired by Mohonk, creative license was required to invent this fictional world because there is nothing, NOT A THING, about the real resort that would ever require someone like Clara to come along and update it. Mohonk is, quite literally, perfection. It’s become one of my favorite places on the planet. And to anyone who lives a train ride away from the Hudson Valley, figure out a way to go spend a weekend up there. And if you don’t live close by, go anyway. Make the trip. It will change your life.

  I must thank my usual suspects, Nina Bocci, Jessica Royer-Ocken, Marla Daniels, and while she is my new editor I’ve admired her for years now, Lauren McKenna. Thank you all for always pushing and expecting better. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  And thank you again to everyone who came along on this journey with me. I’m not entirely sure where we’re going next, but I hope you’ll be along for the ride.

  Alice

  xoxo

  Chapter 1

  “Partner?”

  “Partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “Partner.”

  “Partner?”

  “Not if you continue to have this newly developed comprehension problem, but yes, Clara. Partner.”

  Whoa.

  I sat across three feet of mahogany desk from inarguably my favorite adult in the entire world, who happened to also be my boss, and she just told me that if I was able to knock this next job out of the park, I’d be promoted to partner.

  I breathed in, then out. In, then out
. This was one of those moments—the kind you read about, the kind you remember later on in life when you reminisce about the good old days and you point to it as though it were a blue ribbon, plucking this day out of all the others and festooning it with colors and sparkles and maybe a unicorn. One day I’d look back and say that was the day my life changed. That all the hard work and hours and weekends spent in the office and missed dates and skipped parties and blood and sweat and tears became worth it because I’d arrived here, in this space and time, and I’d finally carved out a place in this world that was mine.

  Barbara smiled, watching me take it all in, likely being able to see my wheels turning. She hired me five and a half years ago, took me under her wing and mentored me every step of the way. And now she was handing me the keys to the kingdom. Partner in one of the most well-known and well-respected branding agencies in the country. If . . .

  “So Bryant Mountain House leaps into the twenty-first century, and I get to see my name on the letterhead?”

  She nodded. “That’s the deal, kiddo.”

  I breathed in, then out. In, then out.

  I smiled. “I’ll head down there tomorrow.”

  I didn’t own a car. Not that uncommon when you consider I’m on the road nearly 80 percent of the year, and when I was home in Boston I pretty much walked everywhere I needed to go. The nightmare traffic in Boston was enough to make me change the channel the few times I’d actually paused to watch a car commercial, wondering if I should part with some of my hard-earned dollars and finally bite the bullet.

  I did love to drive, though, and took any excuse to head out onto the open road whenever a long-term job opened up. And let’s face it, long-term jobs basically described my entire life.

  But now I was about to be, maybe, possibly, made partner in this career I loved so much. Was this real? Was this happening? Was this—

  “Just make sure she’s full of gas, okay?”

  I snapped back into the present at the Hertz rental car lot on the edge of town. I’d been daydreaming while this kid had been lecturing me on my full-tank options.

  “Sure, sure, gas. Full of it. You got it.” I patted the roof of my rental, a beige four-door Corolla. Solid. Safe. Dependable. Utterly boring. “Am I good to go?” I was anxious to get on the road. It was only four hours to Bryant Mountain House, but I wanted to make sure I had time to scope things out before dinner.

  “Yep, where ya headed?”

  “Catskills, upstate New York . . .” I trailed off as a car inched forward out of the car wash, catching my eye. Early spring in the Northeast, when everything was sullen and gray, muddy and cold, was one of the earth’s uglier moments. But when this beautiful convertible, shiny and red and all kinds of pretty, rolled out and reminded the world what summer looked like, I couldn’t stop staring. It was bold, brash, braggy, and wholly unnecessary.

  And eight kinds of fun.

  The kid followed my gaze, raising an eyebrow in appreciation.

  I pointed. “How much is that one?”

  “Niiiiice,” he replied, his estimation of me going up a few notches. Born seven weeks premature, I’ve always been on the teeny side. Dressed in black leggings, black wellies that practically swallowed me whole even though they were the smallest size in stock, and a black rain slicker to keep the intermittent drizzle off me, I looked like I belonged in a beige four-door Corolla.

  But underneath that rain slicker was a cherry-red clingy T-shirt. And underneath the leggings were cherry-red silk panties. And as I took off my ball cap and ran my hands through my hair, turning my pixie cut into short little blond spikes, I spoke through cherry-red painted lips.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna need that one.”

  Twenty minutes later I blazed out of Boston in my wholly unnecessary, determined to knock this job so far out of the park I might just buy one of these for my cherry-red collection, sweet-ass ride.

  A partner deserved something a little special, right?

  A partner should also know better than to take a sports car on twisty, windy roads still crusted with salt and ice and potholes. This is why I rarely if ever made spur-of-the-moment decisions, rarely if ever flew by the seat of my pants. I preferred to Keep It Simple, Stupid, and leave the crazytown to my best friend Natalie Grayson, and even to some extent my other best friend Roxie Callahan, who could serve up her own brand of crazy when needed.

  Natalie and Roxie. The three of us had met years ago when we all wound up at a culinary school in California, all eighteen and ready for big-time changes. Roxie was the only one who actually had any real culinary skills, and while I’d enjoyed the year I spent in California, I realized early on cooking was never going to be more than a hobby, and hightailed it back to New England. Natalie was similarly disillusioned with cooking as a career, and she also headed back to her home, the island of Manhattan, which she was pretty sure belonged only to her.

  Roxie stayed, made her mark in California as a private chef to the stars, and only found herself back in her tiny hometown of Bailey Falls, New York, when her career imploded over an ill-timed whipped cream turning into butter. This very butter is what changed the course of her life and made her truly appreciate her hometown, a hometown that had welcomed Leo Maxwell in the time she’d been gone, the man who was currently rocking her world.

  The town’s next victim into its black hole of charm and sweet was Natalie, a city girl if there ever was one. Officially she lived in Manhattan. Unofficially she was fooling no one as she’d recently begun spending weeknights ninety miles north of her island in the company of one Oscar Mendoza, owner of Bailey Falls Creamery and the only man who could make her set one toe north of the Bronx.

  And here I was, heading toward that same town, which was also home to Bryant Mountain House, the old hotel I’d been hired to rebrand, reshape, and get back in the black.

  Roxie and Natalie were thrilled, convinced that once I spent some time in the quaint town, I’d fall just as in love with it as they did and decide to stay.

  I never stayed. Anywhere. I loved being on the road, meeting new people, hanging my hat somewhere just long enough to sink my teeth into something that used to be incredible and needed to be brought back to life. And once that was done, it was off to the next project.

  I had an apartment. I had things in it. I had my name on the mail slot.

  I did not have a home.

  “Keep your bags packed, kid, you’re not gonna be here long . . .”

  I blinked up at her, the sunlight behind her turning her head into an eclipse of sorts, unable to make out individual features of her face but knowing somehow that her expression would be one of tired resignation. I was just one more kid in a houseful of others. With their own never-truly-unpacked bags . . .

  I shook my head to clear it, squeezing the steering wheel. Partners in shiny convertibles didn’t think about the past, they thought about the future. I pulled over to grab a coffee for the road, thumbed through my travel playlist, and cued up some Fleetwood Mac.

  “You can go your own way . . .”

  That’s for damn sure.

  Three hours later I turned off the interstate and onto the state highway that would take me into Bailey Falls and up to Bryant Mountain House. Turning off the tunes, I began to put my game face on.

  This was where I needed to think, to ruminate, to imagine what it must be like to have your entire family’s history potentially subjected to a wrecking ball. When I took on a job, that is what I took on. It wasn’t just a few months of work, it was a way of life. And not just for the family but for all of the employees whose lives were typically just as tied into the history as those whose names were on the letterhead. The Bryant family was small in actual name but large by proxy. And I’d be working to save jobs for more than just the family.

  The Bryants had owned this property for almost one hundred and fifty years. And like so many other family-run hotels, they’d relied too much on “but this is how it’s always been done,” which simply doesn
’t work anymore in this modern age. With Yelp and TripAdvisor helping everyone make their vacation plans, reviews could make or break a place. And they’d had their share of bad reviews in the last few years. Couple that with the recent economic crisis and belt-tightening across the board for vacationers, and they were in danger of losing their beautiful hotel.

  Unless . . .

  * CUE TRUMPETS *

  . . . they had me. Which they did. I rolled my neck, cracked my shoulders a bit, and settled in for the final leg.

  I had a hotel to save.

  * CUE A SECOND BUT EQUALLY IMPRESSIVE ROUND OF TRUMPETS *

  “Melanie Bixby, arriving guest,” I said, leaning out of the driver’s-side window at the guard shack at the edge of the property. I didn’t even blink anymore when I used my pseudonym, it was second nature at this point. When I checked in under my real name, I never got the true sense of what was going on at a hotel. Clara Morgan was given the red-carpet treatment, Clara Morgan was upgraded, complimentary champagne was sent up almost without fail, and literally every single parking attendant/busboy/junior housekeeper went out of their way to bid good morning/afternoon/evening to Clara Morgan.

  Melanie Bixby, however, was just your average guest, and always got the real story.

  “Bixby, Bixby, oh sure, there you are, Ms. Bixby. Let me just grab your parking slip.” After a moment inside, he returned with a pass that he set just inside on the dashboard for me. “Now you keep that there while you’re with us, that’s how we tell the overnight guests from the ones who are just here on a day pass.”

  “Day pass?” I played dumb.

  “Yes, ma’am, Bryant Mountain House has some of the best hiking and biking trails around. For thirty-five dollars folks can come spend the entire day in the woods. No access to the main house, but there’s a nice enough snack shack on the edge of the property for refreshments.”

  “Do you get many day-passers up here? I mean, in the off-season?”

  The attendant looked skyward, scratching at his beard as though divining the answer. “Not really, ma’am, no. Summertime sure, but it’s getting harder and harder to get people up here when it’s cold and rainy. Like today. We had a storm a few weeks ago that would—now would you look at that? Me running my mouth off, when you’ve got places to get to! You just stay to the right, this road will take you right on up to the resort.” He smiled companionably, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he waved me on.