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. Specifically, the home of Mitzi St. Renee, wife of a famous producer and chaser of that most elusive of brass rings . . . never-ending youth.