Praise for
WALLBANGER
“An instant classic, with plenty of laugh-out-loud moments and riveting characters.”
—Jennifer Probst, New York Times bestselling author of Searching for Perfect
“Sultry, seXXXy, super-awesome . . . we LOVE it!”
—Perez Hilton
“Fun and frothy, with a bawdy undercurrent and a hero guaranteed to make your knees wobbly . . . Wallbanger delivers 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
“Finally a woman who knows her way around a man and a Kitchen-Aid Mixer. She had us at zucchini bread!”
—Curvy Girl Guide
“A funny, madcap, smexy romantic contemporary. . . . Fast pacing and a smooth flowing story line will keep you in stitches. . . .”
—Smexy Books
THE REDHEAD PLAYS HER HAND
“This zany and smoking-hot romance will keep readers in stitches as two strong, well-defined protagonists struggle to navigate their relationship while fame, jealousy, and snarky fans attack from all sides. Fast pacing, witty dialogue, and a cast of well-meaning friends provide the script for an Oscar-worthy story about a couple whose journey has delighted readers since the beginning.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Completely sigh worthy . . . a must-read for contemporary romance lovers.”
—Fiction Vixen
“As fresh and sassy as ever. . . . 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. These two are soul mates who are destined to be together and you believe that with all your heart.”
—Smexy Books
“Great humor and sex . . . Alice continues to make me laugh out loud, and then writes a scene so hot I swear the windows steam up in the room I’m reading it in.”
—Bookish Temptations
THE REDHEAD REVEALED
“The love that flows between Jack and Grace scorches the pages. Witty commentary and playful hilarious sexual banter adds laughter and realism to this story. It’s unusual when an author can find a healthy sexual balance that translates well to paper without sounding raunchy. . . . Hilarious, snarky, smexy, [and] romantic. . . .”
—Smexy Books
“Steamy romance, witty characters and a barrel full of laughs. . . .”
—The Book Vixen
“The serious parts of the story (Grace’s self-doubts, the long distance between Grace and Jack and dealing with the paparazzi) together with the fun scenes full of witty remarks and the very hot sex scenes make this book so special and great. The Redhead Revealed will make you laugh, smile, cry and might also get you thinking about some serious issues.”
—About Happy Books
“Where has this series been all my life? It’s just the right touch of everything that makes a book a good read. It had romance (and some steamy sex), funny parts, things that make you cry.”
—One Book at a Time
“Another wonderful addition to this series. I laughed out loud on the airplane reading this baby. It’s funny, sexy, and has an addictive ongoing story line.”
—Penelope’s Romance Reviews
THE UNIDENTIFIED REDHEAD
“Laugh out loud funny.”
—Smokin Hot Books
“If you like your contemporaries sexy, funny, and made of pure fun then get Alice Clayton’s The Unidentified Redhead and get ready for a wild laughter filled read about Hollywood, cougars, and poo heads.”
—Smexy Books
“Reading this was the equivalent of going out for martinis with Ms. Clayton and swapping lengthy pop diatribes and chortling our way through witty repartee.”
—Alpha Reader
“Not only was Grace and Jack’s chemistry off the roof, but their romance was an utterly captivating and engaging one that I couldn’t help but gobble up as fast as I could.”
—Larissa’s Bookish Life
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To Peter
For being there before, during, and always ever after.
Thanks for keeping me sane. Which is a relative term.
XOXO
acknowledgments
This book is 100 percent the result of wanting Banger Nation to have a little more time with their Simon and Caroline. It is because of you, you perfect reader you, that this book is even on the page. Thank you for being patient as you waited for it, for being mouthy when you told all your girlfriends to read it, for being steadfast in your devotion that sexy and silly can exist in the same space. Banger Nation, you get me. So this is for you. Thank you from the bottom of my tiny Grinch heart.
Thank you to my editor, Micki Nuding, and the entire team at Gallery Books for taking such an enormous chance on a new author. Most days I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Thank you to my San Francisco/Sausalito detail police, the one and only Staci Reilly. And yes, the Hillevator is real and she could tell you some stories . . .
Thank you to my family, who is incredibly patient with me when I have to say no to things because I’m on a deadline, and for remembering that even though I work in my pajamas some days, it’s still work.
Thank you to the bloggers who bang this drum day in and day out, promoting all of us authors and putting our books into the hands of your readers. At the end of the day, I am a reader first and a writer second. I appreciate your love of storytelling and your eagerness to share your new favorite book more than you know.
Thank you to some of my favorite authors on the planet, whose words I not only love but who I can now call friends: Kristen Proby, Tiffany Reisz, Jennifer Probst, Ruthie Knox, Kresley Cole, Samantha Young, Sylvia Day, Helena Hunting, Debra Anastasia, Mina Vaughn, Leisa Rayven, EL James, Katy Evans, Jasinda Wilder. Thanks, ladies.
Thank you to Christina Hogrebe, my agent and friend and guide to this crazy world of Get Alice on the Shelves. You’re a brave woman, and I appreciate you a thousand ways. Looking forward to the next meal at Mohonk when we are celebrating something big!
Thank you to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jessica Royer-Ocken, who has literally gone through the fires of hell to help get this book ready. The fires of hell being my lack of punctuation skillz and my shitty formatting capabilities. Not to mention, she’s a helluva sounding board. And not a bad baker . . .
Thank you to the Captain Hookers, my partners in crime, PQ and Lo (you’d know them as Christina Lauren). For the podcasting, for the texting, for the Tower of Terror. For the love of the mouse.
Thank you to Nina, the best taco a girl could ever ask for. Thank you for the endless motivation, the RPatz pics, and the Gummi Bears when I get fussy. Which, let’s face it, is almost always. Can’t wait for your book!
And a big fat thank you, thank you, and thank you again to you Fantastically Loyal Readers. To those of you who’ve been here from the beginning, to those of you who are just jumping on the Crazy train, thank you. It’s been the ride of a lifetime, and it’s just the beginning. So hold on tight, ch
ickens; here we go!
Alice
XOXO
prologue
It was the best of times, it was the nakedest of times . . .
December
I’d never spent a Christmas away from my family. Christmas to me is family: immediate, extended, and later, created. My family and friends gather, trees are trimmed, presents are wrapped, nog is made and most certainly consumed. It’s Norman Rockwell, with a drunk uncle. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Except this year. This Christmas was entirely different. This was Rockwellian with a Wallbanger twist.
As a freelance photographer, Simon had a seriously cool job. He traveled the world on assignment for National Geographic and Discovery Channel, or whoever needed a photographer to go to the farthest-flung places on earth. This Christmas he was photographing European cities in their holiday best, and he’d be gone nearly the entire month of December.
Since officially becoming a we, we’d settled into our own normal. He’d continued to travel for work, booking trips all over the world: Peru, Chile, England, even a long weekend in LA to do a study at the Playboy Mansion . . . Hardship.
But when my globe-trotting Wallbanger’s home, he’s home. Home with me, either in my apartment or in his. Home with me for the dinners out with Jillian and Benjamin, or playing poker with the other two couples that make up our best friends. Home with me, in my bed or his, my kitchen or his, on my counter or his—home.
Yet apparently Simon was always away on Christmas. He’d taken jobs in Rome, covering the mass in St. Peter’s Square. The Vanuatu Islands in the South Pacific, the first time zone to celebrate the holiday. He’d even traveled to the North Pole one year and made a snow angel at midnight.
Strange, you say? Not really. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was a senior in high school. Eighteen years old, and his entire world was turned upside down. With no other family, he left Philadelphia a few months later when he enrolled at Stanford, and never looked back.
So yeah, Christmas was hard on him. I was beginning to understand my Wallbanger, beyond the man, the myth, the legend. Holidays were sticky in general. And as such a new couple, Christmas with my parents would be a Very Big Deal. He hadn’t even met them yet, and a Reynolds Family Christmas was perhaps not the best time to take that major we step.
So I wasn’t surprised when he started planning to be away for the entire month. The surprise was all on him when I brazenly invited myself along.
“From Prague I’m heading to Vienna, then Salzburg, and I’ll probably be there on Christmas. They have this festival where they—”
“I’m coming.”
“Still? Damn, I’m good. We finished an hour ago . . .” He covered the area between my legs with one of his beautiful hands. We were lying in bed, well into the late-November night. He was home for a few days between trips, and we were nooking after nookie.
“No, sir, I mean I’m coming with you to Europe. I’d like to spend our first Christmas together actually together. It’ll be fun!”
“But what about your parents? Won’t they be disappointed?”
“Sure, but they’ll get over it. Will there be snow?”
“Snow? Yes, of course there’ll be snow! Are you sure about this? I’ve been alone most Christmases the last few years. It’s not a big deal. I don’t mind being alone,” he said, not meeting my eyes.
I smiled and lifted his chin. “I mind it, okay? Besides, I have the week off between Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m coming. It’s settled.”
“You’re bossy, Ms. Reynolds,” he noted, moving his hand decidedly south of my hip.
“Yes, I am, Mr. Parker. Don’t stop doing what you’re doing there . . . mmm . . .”
And that’s how I found myself in a holiday fairy tale. I flew into Salzburg, Austria, where we stayed in a wonderful little inn in the old city center—snow falling, trees lit with thousands of little white lights, and Simon looking ridiculously adorable in a ski cap with a pouf at the end. Being supremely touristy, he’d arranged for a horse-drawn sleigh with actual jingle bells. On Christmas Eve, underneath a warm blanket and wrapped entirely in Simon, I gazed out at the city and the moonlight on the river.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered, followed by a light nip to my ear.
“I knew you would be.” I chuckled as he snuck a hand underneath my sweater.
“Love you,” he murmured, his voice laced with honey.
“Love you more,” I answered, my eyes sparkling with tears.
New tradition? We’ll see . . .
• • •
February 14
Text from Simon to Caroline:
Just pulled up, you ready to go?
Almost. Still need to get dressed. Just come on in.
I’m on my way up the stairs. We’re going to be late.
No, we won’t. Just keep your pants on.
Never heard that before.
Quit kicking my door and get in here!
I pressed send, then settled back against the kitchen counter. I could hear his key in the lock, and I muffled a grin. We were due to meet the gang for a romantic dinner in twenty minutes. With traffic, we’d be very lucky to make it in forty. If I was even luckier, we wouldn’t make it at all.
“Babe! What’re you doing? We gotta go!” he called. I could hear him dump his bag in the entryway.
As he came down the hall, I sighed dramatically and called back, “I decided against going out tonight. I’m not feeling so good.” I heard him stop dead in his tracks, and I would’ve bet my Le Creuset double boiler he was running his hands through his hair and swallowing a sigh.
I’d been pestering him for weeks to take me out for Valentine’s Day, and I’d insisted we make it a night out with our friends. But he was only home for a week, and I knew that he wanted nothing more than to stay in, veg out on the couch, and sleep with his girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
I still get goose bumps when I ponder this. I’m Simon’s girlfriend. He was once the Harem Master, and now I’m his girlfriend.
So, after dropping hints to him since mid-January about making sure he’d be home for Valentine’s Day, and then spending hours on the phone with Sophia and Mimi planning the perfect romantic evening out, my deciding at the last minute to stay in had to be making him question exactly why he’d decided a girlfriend was something he wanted.
“You sure about that? I thought you had your heart set on—”
He stopped as he rounded the corner to the kitchen. Perched on the counter, wearing an apron, a grin, and six-inch heels, was moi. Holding an apple pie on my lap.
“I have my heart set on something,” I told him. “But it isn’t a crowded restaurant. How could I get away with wearing only this?” I hopped down from the counter and turned around. Oh yeah, I was wearing the apron, and only the apron. And the shoes—don’t forget the shoes.
“Caroline. Wow,” he managed.
I grinned bigger. “I have pie.”
“You sure do.”
“Silly boy, I baked for you. Your very own hot apple pie. All you have to do is come over here and get it.” I broke off a piece of the crust and dragged it through the cinnamon sugar goo dripping down the side. Would he want pie or me first?
Turns out, he wanted both.
April
“See, now, I thought we were making progress. We watch baseball together, I sneak you peanut butter every now and again, and you go and do this? Why? Why do you continue to do this? And furthermore, why do I continue to allow this to happen?”
As I reached the top of the stairs, I overheard the conversation inside my apartment. Simon was home alone—maybe he was on the phone. Once inside, however, I peeked around the corner and found him sitting across the table from my cat, Clive, his Stanford sweatshirt between them. Clive had “marked his territory” on this very sweatshirt several times early on in our relationship, but it had been a while since he’d deemed it necessary to remind Si
mon who was the actual man of the house. We both thought Clive was over this particular peccadillo. Apparently not . . .
I stifled a laugh at how seriously Simon was staring at Clive, and how unseriously Clive seemed to be taking all this, batting at his tail as though it were unattached from his body. I backed down the hall silently, and then made a big show of rattling the doorknob to let them know I was home.
When I came into the dining room again, I found Simon reading the newspaper nonchalantly. He made no mention of the conversation he’d been having with my cat.
I allowed him that dignity, and pretended not to notice when I found the sweatshirt in the trash a few hours later.
May
A noise filled the bedroom, rending the night and pounding my eardrums. A great sawing, a loudness of indeterminate origin dragged me from my dreams of Clooney. I was sweltering, with a very warm body wrapped around me from the back and horrible noises pouring forth from his mouth, directly into my brain. I grappled for a cool spot on my pillow, his heat billowing toward me in waves as the snoring—oh my sweet Lord, the snoring—rattled my insides.
Even Clive had retreated to a safe perch on top of the dresser.
In a completely shit move reminiscent of schoolyard playgrounds, I drew back my legs and kicked the mass of sweaty, snoring boy that was filling my bed and ruining my sleep.
“Oof!” He woke with a start, inadvertently pressing more of his hot skin against mine. I peeled myself off the bed to stand over him, brandishing my pillow, which no longer contained even an ounce of coolness.
“Babe, what’re you doing? Did you kick me?” He curled back in on himself like a roly-poly.
“You have to stop!” I yelled.
“Stop? Stop what? Come on . . . come back to bed,” he mumbled, already slipping back into his dreams, where he seemed to be a lumberjack.
“Don’t you dare go back to sleep! No! More! Snoring!” I yelled, wild inside and out now. Being deprived of my sacred sleep turned me into a woman possessed.
“Snoring? Come on, it can’t be that bad—what the hell!”