Topping that, when you serve it, it makes you look like a culinary queen, which you will be, of course, if you make the whole of it. But I’m not, since I cheat due to Suzanne being my Pepper Jelly Dealer.Click here to return to the table of contents.Elvira’s Famous CosmopolitanCirôc vodka
Cranberry juice
Cointreau
Fresh lime juice (or bottled, in a pinch)
Orange, lemon or lime rind for twistChill martini or coupe champagne glasses in the freezer for no less than 10 minutes.
Fill cocktail shaker with ice.
For each drink to be served, add two shots vodka, 1 shot cranberry juice, and 1/2 -to-3/4 shot each of lime juice and Cointreau.
Shake vigorously in the shaker and strain into chilled glasses. Garnish with citrus twist.Mixologist’s option: Go the “Full Elvira” and purchase a Dior tote bag and travel sizes of all the above so it can be mixed at your whim wherever you are.Click here to return to the table of contents.All on My Side, The EndFast forward one week…I excuse myself from the patio and meet Auggie in his kitchen.
He’s making Elvira a Cosmo, so it’s clear she’s no stranger to Auggie’s pad, because Aug is not a Cosmo type of guy, but all the ingredients are there.
I get close to him and offer, “Can I help?”
“You can grab some fresh Fat Tires from the fridge,” he says.
I do that and come back to him as he’s straining Elvira’s drink into a glass.
“I’m sorry,” I say low. “I haven’t gotten to writing yours and Pepper’s…”
“It’s okay,” he says softly.
“This means your part in the cookbook is gonna be small,” I warn.
“It’s okay,” he repeats, turns, and shoots a white smile at me. “Save the best for last, yeah?”
I nod, my lips curving, and reply, “Yeah.” I give it a beat and ask, “What’s your favorite recipe?”
“Totally the Philly Cheese,” he answers.
“What’s Pepper’s?”
“Those candied cashews are all for my woman.”
As it should be with a Next Gen Rock Chick.
“And Juno’s?” I press on.
“Chocolate Butter Bars, for certain.”
No surprise there.
“You’re a good man, Auggie,” I tell him.
He smiles again at me.
And I smile back.Chapter EightInevitableKAThree and a half hours later…You aren’t going to believe this.
Or maybe you are.
I’ve been kidnapped.
One second, exiting my Lyft outside Hotel Teatro…
The next, I have a hood over my head, my hands are being zip-tied behind me and then I’m shoved in the backseat of a car.
We’re on our way before the driver asks, “It’s a long ride, got a preference for music?”
“The hood is unnecessary. I know who you are, Sly, and I know where we’re going,” I reply.
“Elvis Costello’s Greatest Hits it is,” he mutters.
I refuse to give him points for good taste.
“Pump It Up” comes on and I experience pain at the effort it takes not to sing along and rock to the beat.
Stupid Sly.
He’s not wrong, the ride is long.
And after it’s over, I’m hauled out of the back of the car.
It’s colder there than it is in the city.
I’m shuffled somewhere that’s warm and smells of piñon.
The ties are cut from my wrists, I’m pushed into a chair (that I will not admit is very comfortable) and the hood is pulled off.
I feel my hair fly and see I’m in a fabulous, elegant, welcoming, large mountain-house living room.
A fire is crackling in the fireplace beside me.
And Brett “Cisco” Rappaport is sitting in an armchair opposite me.
“Are you kidding me with this?” I demand as I irately smooth my hair.
“You come to town, you don’t contact me?” Brett replies. “I’m hurt.”
“I’ve been busy, Brett.”
“Not so busy you haven’t spent quite a bit of time with Magnusson, Sadler, Pantera, and Hero.”
Uh…
Seriously?
“Have you been following me?”
He ignores my question and carries on.
“And Tack, High, and Smithie.”
The dude is totally following me.
“Um, Brett—”
“And your plane leaves tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“It does not,” I refute. “I don’t do anything first thing in the morning when I’m not writing. That’s Kit’s Lazy Make Up Stories in Her Head Time which intermittently mingles with Starla Deigning to Cuddle with Me Time.”
“I’ll amend,” Brett offers. “Your plane leaves tomorrow, first thing as defined by what you consider first thing after lazy time.”
I roll my eyes before I retort, “I have a cookbook to write.”
“To raise money for women’s charities. And I’m not on your call list?”
Regrettably, he has a point.
“I’ve been dealing with hella whiplash of nostalgia, resurgent sorrow and hot guy overload, cut me some slack,” I demand.
“This is an emerging theme, Kit,” he informs me. “I’m always coming up empty.”
“I don’t know what to say, bruh. Except I got something saved up for you and epicness doesn’t happen,” I lift a hand and snap my fingers, “just like that.”
“Epicness?”
“Please,” I scoff. “Like I’m not gonna take care of you.”
His smile is slow.
And it’s cute.
And hot.
Lord help me.
“I’ve got some recipes for you,” he states.
