Dark Wild Night

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.

And at thirty-two (who would have thought that someone only five years older than me could talk down to me like it was her job), in a town where thirty was the benchmark for older men marrying for the love of tits, Mitzi was obviously concerned about her age. Holding a honeydew, I paused to consider said tits. Said tits were attached to a beautiful woman. Said tits were attached to a not-very-nice woman. Said tits were attached to an asshole, truth be told.

I shook my head to clear it, and started to cut up the melon. One-inch cubes with crisp edges; no rounded corners here. Next up were cantaloupe balls, rounded and plump. No ragged hollows; simply perfect balls. I heard how that sounded in my head, snorted, and moved on to the watermelon triangles. Acute. Obtuse. Did Mitzi appreciate the knife skills that went into her fruit bowl? Doubtful. Did she notice the culinary geometry that composed her a.m. energy burst? Probably not. No one noticed the perfection of my melons—but everyone sure noticed hers.

My inner dialogue and I moved on to assembling Mitzi’s plate—she liked her dinner served at exactly 6:30 p.m. Some people hired private chefs just to do the cooking. Some even took the credit, while the chefs were hidden in the kitchen. And others assumed that because I worked in a kitchen and was paid for cooking, I also was a butler of sorts. But with the kind of money Mitzi paid me, I was okay serving her trendy Asian-fusion, low-calorie-but-high-in-taste dinner on a tray in her dining room.