“Jesus. Didn’t see that coming.”
“But, yeah, I hear from Vic and Tab from time to time. They always invite me over for Thanksgiving dinner each year. I think they feel bad about sending me away like that, but honestly, it was harder on them than it was on me. And it all worked out in the end. I can set a fancy table like no one’s business, my posture is amazing, and I know how to make an entrance.”
“I noticed.” I kiss the top of her head, her hair silky soft and smelling of honey and almonds.
“My mom passed away a few years ago,” she says.
My smile wanes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was an overdose. And it was only a matter of time. Dad took it pretty hard though. He’s been getting treatment,” she says. “He wants to reconnect, but I’m not really there yet. Maybe with time? But he did some … pretty terrible things.”
“I read your case file,” I confess. “Back at Rosefield. I was curious about you.”
She glances up at me. “I kind of figured you did.”
“Why’d you figure that?”
“Because one day you were looking at me like you wanted to devour me, and the next day you were acting like I was some fragile china dove, afraid to touch me,” she says. “People catch wind of all the shit I’ve been through and they start treating me like I’m made of tissue paper.”
“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“It’s true,” I say. “And it takes a strong woman to put up with me.”
“Okay, that I believe.” She nudges my arm. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass, but you’re worth it.”
Halston pulls me toward a park bench up ahead, and we watch a fleet of sailboats racing across the open waters.
“So where are you going after this?” she asks.
“Prague,” I say. “I leave Friday.”
“Can I come?”
Glancing down at her, I cup her face in my hand and press my mouth against hers. “Like you have a choice.”
She smiles, her mouth still pressed against mine.
“I love you, Halston,” I whisper. “I’ve loved you since the very beginning. And I’ll love you until the very end.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Halston
I trace my fingers against his biceps, my thighs wrapped around his hips as his cock thrusts, quelling the throbbing ache between my legs.
We may be in Prague, physically, but I’m also in heaven.
Studying his face, he brings his mouth onto mine every few seconds, whispering the occasional “I love you” here and there, and fucking me harder when he hears my soft moan in his ear and his name on my lips.
“Missionary’s not so bad, is it?” I tease, lifting my fingers to his chiseled, beautiful face. Someone should make a statue out of him, immortalize this gorgeous man so the rest of the world can enjoy a piece of him.
His full lips turn at the corners, and he fucks me harder.
“You can try all you want to make missionary sex erotic, but it’s still romantic,” I tease, bucking my hips against his and relishing in the weight of his body pinning me down, anchoring me to the bed we haven’t left since we got here on Friday.
I can’t get enough of him, finding excuses to touch him and kiss him and make love to him every chance I get. For a while, I worried he was getting annoyed by it, sure that sooner or later he’s going to want space, and then he woke me up in the middle of the night because he missed me. He missed this.
But to be fair, we’ve got five years to make up for.
We’re only getting started.
Ford fills me with his cock, pushing himself deeper inside me, his hips bucking faster as we inch closer to the brink. My body relaxes, surrendering to him as I ride the wave and he fills me with his hot seed.
When we’re finished, he collapses on the bed and pulls me into his arms, running his fingers through my hair as we wait for our breaths to steady.
“So what’s with you ditching the blonde hair?” he asks a moment later.
“That’s random.”
“Don’t get me wrong. You’re sexy as hell as a brunette, and this whole classy charm school thing you have going on is top notch. But I miss my wild girl. The one with the wavy blonde hair, the one who was a little less restrained, a little more undone.”
“I’m still that girl,” I say, rolling to my side and resting my chin on his shoulder as I look up at him. Visually tracing his perfect profile, I rest my hand over his beating heart. I smirk. “That said, I have nothing against bringing the blonde back for old times’ sake. Maybe we can even do a little roleplaying? You can be the big, bad principal, and I can be the naughty school girl, and you can call me into your office and punish me.”
Ford almost chokes on his spit. “Oh, god.”
“What?” I play dumb. “You know it’d be really fucking hot.”
He’s speechless.
“Too soon?” I ask. “Too close to home? What?”
Ford sits up against a propped pillow, pulling me over top of him and resting his hands at the small of my back.
“It was never about the student-teacher dynamic,” he says. “It was only ever about you. All I ever wanted was the smart-mouthed girl who quoted Great Gatsby in a world where everyone else quoted Nickelback.”
I laugh. “Can I at least call you Principal Hawthorne next time?”
“No.”
“What if it accidentally slips out?” I fight a giggle. “Are you going to punish me? Put me in detention? Oh! You could spank me with a ruler. That’d be kind of hot.”
Ford tries not to laugh. “All right, smart ass. Meet me in the shower in two minutes. I’m showing you the sights today. Thought we’d see the Kafka Museum first.”
“A man after my own heart.” I kiss him, my hand sliding up his muscled neck and stopping at his chiseled jaw. I’d let him take me all over again if he asked.
Ford climbs out of our bed, and I keep my gaze shamelessly trained on his exquisite derrière which officially belongs to me, a fact I’m content to bask in for the rest of my existence.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Ford
“So this is him?” Halston’s roommate, Lila, leans against the kitchen island in the San Francisco apartment they share, her pale blue eyes studying me from head to toe.
“Yep. This is Ford,” Halston says, squeezing my hand. “Or as you knew of him … Kerouac.”
Lila ambles toward us. “I mean, I guess he does all right in the looks department.”
Halston chuckles, resting her cheek against my arm.
“Just don’t fuck this up.” Her roommate points at me. “Halston might do second chances, but I don’t.”
“Lila.” Halston chuckles. “I don’t think you intimidate him in the least bit, but good try.”
Lila’s hardened expression morphs into a giggle. “You knew I was messing with you, right?”
I nod. “The whole time.”
“Damn it.” Lila lifts her fist in the air. “This is why I could never be an actress. Anyway, come on in. It’s good to finally meet you. Halston’s always spoken fondly of you.”
Moving toward a wine fridge, Lila chooses a bottle of Riesling and retrieves three pieces of stemware from a cabinet. “Figured you guys might want a drink after a day of intercontinental travel. How was Prague?”
“Beautiful,” Halston says. “Bridges everywhere, cobblestone streets … the architecture, the food … it was all incredible.” She turns my way. “Best. Trip. Ever.”
I’d have to agree.
“How’d it go with Mason?” Halston asks.
She mentioned before we left the States that she was going to sever her professional relationship with him after Sag Harbor, and apparently Lila offered to do the honors because she never could stand him.
“He was a pompous douche, as always,” Lila says. “He said our services were pointless and he was planning on cancelling
our contract next month anyway.”
“Liar,” Halston chuckles.
“Oh, I know.” Lila takes a sip of wine. “He’s totally butt hurt.”
I chuckle.
“And he kept asking about you,” Lila adds. “So fucking pathetic.”
“What’d you tell him?” Halston asks.
“The truth. That you ran off to Prague with his stepbrother.” Lila shrugs, taking another drink. “Oh, god. I wish you could’ve seen his face …”
Me too.
I smirk, shaking my head. I like this Lila. She reminds me a lot of Halston, and it’s clear to see how they became fast friends.
“But get this,” Lila says, topping off her wine glass. “So I heard through the grapevine that Mason invested almost all of his money in some company that just went public last year. It was supposed to be the next hot thing. Anyway, I don’t know the details, but that company’s stock plummeted. He lost a shit ton of money. I mean, he’s still rich as hell, but just not as rich.”
“Serves him right,” I say.
“Mason built his empire with Ford’s inheritance,” Halston says, mouth twisted at the side.
“I knew I didn’t like that guy.” Lila exhales. “Some people you meet, and you know they’re hardworking and innovative and they’ve worked their ass off to get to where they are. Then there are pricks like Mason who get a free ride and take all the credit.”
“Anyway.” I take my wine glass off the counter. “Enough about him.”
Halston lifts her glass. “Should we toast to something?”
“Yes!” Lila raises hers. “Let’s toast to the fact that the wait is finally over. You found each other. And now you’re going to get married, have a ton of beautiful babies, and live happily ever after. The end.”
I clink my glass against theirs. “I’ll drink to that.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Halston
6 Months Later…
“Hi, welcome to Absinthe Rare and Used!” The greeter we’ve hired for the grand opening of Ford’s new bookshop welcomes a couple of hipster types who wandered in from the street. “Help yourself to a complimentary absinthe cocktail at the bar, and feel free to take a look around.”
The sensation of warm hands on my sides and soft lips against my cheek bring a smile to my face.
“Hey, babe.” I turn to face Ford, cupping his cheek in my hand. Tonight’s his big night, the culmination of a brainchild we dreamed up one lust-and-booze-fueled night in Belfast several months ago. “How are you doing? You doing okay?”
He chuckles through his nose. “I’m on fucking cloud nine.”
“Perfect.” I run my fingers through his soft, dark hair, loving that he kept it on the longer side. It suits him better, I think. He’s so buttoned up and in control in every other aspect of his life, so the casual hair is a sexy contrast. “Your sister took Arlo back to the apartment since it was getting so late.”
“I saw them on their way out,” he says. “Did you try one of those cocktails? With the sugar cube and the flame?”
Lifting my martini glass, I nod. “Delicious. Want to try?”
“Ford Hawthorne?” A silver-haired man in jeans and a blazer interrupts us.
“Yes,” he says.
“Jake Fairweather.” He extends his hand. “I work for the San Francisco Register. Not sure if you’re aware, but we’re the biggest newspaper in the area. Anyway, we have a section devoted to local businesses, and we’d love to feature you.”
“That would be amazing,” Ford says, offering his hand. “We’d love that.”
“Very impressed with this place,” he says, peering around the room and soaking in the scene. “I’ll have my assistant give you a call next week.”
When we first started planning, we wanted it to feel more like a cozy study or library than a bookstore. From the hand-scraped, reclaimed floors to the vintage-inspired custom bookcases and leather seating arrangements to the cedar and mahogany scent we pipe through the air system and the golden age jazz music piping through an old phonograph, everything is intentional and planned out with excruciating attention to detail. Our goal was to make Absinthe Rare and Used feel otherworldly, like taking a step back in time, to an era before Stephen King and Danielle Steele, before Jack Reacher and Game of Thrones.
“Oh, one of my clients just got here. I should go say hello.” I lift on my toes, kissing Ford’s cheek before scampering away.
Ford is a gracious host, and throughout the night I watch him from across the room. For a man who hates small talk, he certainly knows how to make it seem tranquil and effortless. Moving around the room, he ensures there’s a drink in every hand as he welcomes his visitors personally, and I smirk when I overhear him recommending Rebecca to a couple of elderly ladies who are “looking for a good edge-of-your-seat thriller.”
When the last of the visitors leave, we send the hired hostess home and turn out the vintage green lighted sign out front.
The store is dark, save for a few Tiffany lamps.
“We did it,” I say, strutting toward him and placing my empty martini glass on a nearby table. Tomorrow we’ll get this place back in order. Tonight I don’t have the energy.
“Yes, we did.” He reaches for me, bringing me into his arms, his nose grazing mine before he claims my lips with an impatient kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”
“I’ve been wanting you to do that to me all night,” I say. “I’m not used to having to keep my hands off you for such a long period of time.”
“How do you think it went?” he asks.
“Compared to several of my other grand openings?” I think back to the last handful of events Lila and I have organized. “Exactly as planned. If not better.”
My feet ache from dashing around in heels all evening and my eyes feel like paperweights. All I want to do is go home with my boyfriend, curl into bed, and close my eyes for a hundred-year nap, but when he gives me that look … the one with the wicked glint and hungry smile, I find myself curiously awake all of a sudden.
Ford runs his greedy hands down my sides, curving around to my ass before scooping me up and depositing me on the glass counter near the register. Spreading my knees apart, he slides a hand up my skirt, and I bury my smile in his neck, waiting for his reaction.
A moment later, he moans. “Where are your panties, Halston?”
“I ditched them a little bit ago.”
His other hand cradles my chin, pulling my mouth to his once more. “You dirty, dirty girl.”
“One step ahead of you, Hawthorne,” I say as his fingers separate my folds and plunge inside me. “I know this isn’t technically a library, and there’s no librarian to catch us, but I think we could still make use of that F-K section over there, don’t you think?”
Ford’s mouth curls against mine before taking my bottom lip between his teeth. “I like the way you think, Absinthe.”
Helping me down, he leads me to a dark corner of the shop, away from the store front, somewhere between Fitzgerald and Kafka, and he places my hands on a shelf, spreading my legs apart before gathering the hem of my skirt in his hands.
Tugging the fabric higher, his hand squeezes my ass before sliding lower, teasing my clit.
“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he says, exhaling and pressing the outline of his engorged cock against the back of my thigh as his fingers explore my depths.
A moment later, a metallic zip is followed by the sensation of smooth, warm flesh pressing against my seam. My legs tremble, weak with anticipation, and the second he slides his length inside me, as deep as it can go, my body is his all over again.
“I love you, baby,” I breathe, placing one hand over his. He kisses the back of my neck before nipping the sensitive spot between his teeth.
“I love you more.”
Ford’s hands control my hips, bringing my body against his with each thrust as we christen Absinthe Rare and Used.
This store is ours.
&
nbsp; This life is ours.
This love is ours.
Epilogue
Halston
Five Years Later …
I peek through the doorway to the room our three-year-old twins share, watching as Truman and Harper are cuddled up to their father under the dim glow of a bedside lamp. Ford reads to them from their favorite book, a collection of bedtime fairytales, and they fight their hardest to stay awake until the very last page, but just like every other night, it’s a losing battle.
Placing my hand on my growing belly, I think about what it’s going to be like transitioning from a family of four to a family of five in a few months. Our life is beautifully chaotic already, so I suppose adding one more to the mix won’t make that huge of a difference.
Besides, we make really freaking adorable babies.
Truman has my pale hair and creamy complexion, but his father’s striking, dark eyes and long lashes. Sweet Harper has Ford’s cocoa-colored locks and a face that matches mine down to the tiniest dimple at the tip of her nose.
He’s so amazing with them, better than I ever could have imagined he would be. Growing up, I never really had an example of what a proper father was like. There were the ones in books and the ones on TV, and then there were the ones that everyone else had; the ones I’d catch glimpses of from time to time, like little snippets that never truly showed the whole picture.
Watching Ford with them is one of my favorite things in the world. From the moment those two were born, he hit the ground running, waking in the middle of the night to change diapers and fix bottles, documenting their every milestone, archiving and preserving every photograph, every video.
I may be biased, but I’m pretty sure any other dad would pale in comparison to Ford Hawthorne.
Almost six years ago, this beautiful man came back into my life.
P.S. I Hate You Page 43
