Absinthe

by Winter Renshaw

  “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.

  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.

  Almost five years ago, he whisked me away to Key West, arranging for a private tour of Ernest Hemingway’s house, where he proceeded to pop the question outside next to the famed fresh water swimming pool.

  I’ll never forget what he said as he took a knee and held my hand in his: “I spent so many years thinking we were the broken ones, but it was never us. It was always everyone else. We were the good ones. We have good hearts and good souls and we deserve to be happy. We deserve each other.”

  He presented me with a beautiful brilliant cut diamond on a classic gold band with the words: “Absinthe + Kerouac Always” engraved on the inside.

  Six months later, we returned to that same site, exchanging our vows and hosting our reception under a string of party lights and a moonlit sky, laughing and dancing as our guests gathered around a sparkling, well-lit pool and a home rich with significance.

  Ford finishes the book despite the fact that the twins are well past asleep now. I chuckle at the notion that he was too into Hansel and Gretel, too busy doing the voices and bringing the story to life to even notice the drool dripping down Truman’s chin or the faint snore escaping Harper’s heart-shaped lips.

  Sneaking away, I return to our room, climbing beneath the covers and flicking on a bedside lamp to catch up on a little reading before calling it a day. If I’m lucky, this new little one will let me get some sleep tonight. Lately she’s been kicking up a storm around two AM like clockwork. Ford calls it her “witching hour,” and last night he proceeded to crawl out of bed in the pitch darkness, locate his noise canceling earphones and an old iPod, and when he returned, he insisted I wear the headset on my belly because he read an article about how classical music in the womb creates genius babies, but if the baby’s anything like him, it’ll just make her pass out.

  “Either way, it’s win-win,” he said that night. “She’ll either be a baby genius or you’ll be able to get some sleep.”

  We’re naming her Scout. Ford’s idea. I think it’s cute, and I can’t wait to meet her someday soon.

  Ford shuffles into bed, mussing his dark hair with his fingers as he yawns and slides in beside me. Even with tired dad eyes and constantly covered in the scent of play dough and dried mac and cheese, I still find him wildly sexy, addictive in each and every way.

  “Hey, baby,” I say when he pulls me close to him. I nuzzle against the crook of his neck. He smells like the kids with a touch of his cologne, and my heart feels so fu
ll I think it might explode.

  “Get some rest,” he whispers. “She’s going to be waking you up in about four hours.”

  I smile, turning to a bookmarked page in Virginia Woolf’s Selected Letters.

  “Read to me, Halston,” Ford requests, his eyelids heavy and closing as he draws in his last deep breath of the evening.

  Clearing my throat, I turn the page and begin to read Virginia’s words to my husband. “In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you.”

  25 Things About Me

  I’m deaf in my left ear, and my parents had no idea until I was three.

  If I couldn’t be a writer, I’d probably pursue a career in interior design or makeup art. I live to create!

  I’m a Leo, though I feel more like a Cancer most of the time. (Proud homebody!)

  My favorite band is The Weepies, followed closely by Iron and Wine.

  Thunderstorms are my favorite kind of weather.

  I’ve watched SNL religiously for the last 20 years.

  I’m a total introvert. I could go weeks without human interaction and not even notice.

  I’ve been obsessed with names since I was 13. Imagine my dismay when my husband refused to give me free reign when it came to naming our three children.

  I’m related to T-boz from TLC by marriage. I met her once at a family reunion. She’s the sweetest!

  A psychic medium claimed my deceased grandfather told her I was going to be having twins … two weeks before I even knew I was pregnant … with twins.

  I literally cannot go to sleep at night until I’ve perused Ask Reddit. My favorites threads are the creepy/scary/freaky questions and the glitch-in-the-matrix posts.

  I love discussing a good conspiracy theory.

  My favorite movies are: My Best Friend’s Wedding, Interstellar, This Is 40, Lawless, The Others, and Magnolia.

  I’m a first-born, so I’m bossy, responsible, and ambitious.

  Organizing relaxes me. The Container Store is life.

  I could eat Mexican food 24/7/365.

  My celebrity crushes are Tom Hardy and Joseph Gordon Levitt.

  I’m a pineapple-on-pizza kind of girl.

  I’ve known my best friend since first grade. We are complete opposites when it comes to most things, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

  I’m terrible at small talk, sewing, and cooking most kinds of meat.

  I’ll never say no to a round of mini golf. And I almost always win. ;-p

  I love, love, love classic board games! Monopoly, Sorry, Life, Clue, etc. And old school NES!

  My favorite adult beverages are margaritas and sangrias.

  I changed my major several times in college: Fashion Design and Apparel Merchandising, Psychology, Human Development and Family Studies, and finally Liberal Studies so I could graduate! My electives were mostly writing classes.

  If I could have any super power, it would be time travel. I’d give anything to be able to experience life from other perspectives and to live through certain major historic moments.

  Acknowledgements for Absinthe

  This book would not have been possible if it weren’t for the help of these amazing individuals. In no particular order …

  Louisa, not only is this cover H-O-T-T hot, it captured the feel of the book with the utmost perfection. Working with you is a joy, as always. Thank you!

  Wong, thank you for an amazing photo!! And thank you for being so quick with everything.

  Ashley, thank you for beta’ing as always. I couldn’t do this without you, and I love your brutal honesty to the moon and back.

  K, C, and M—hoes for life!

  Wendy, thank you for being so flexible! You’re a dream to work with.

  Neda, Rachel, and Liz, thank you for ALL the behind-the-scenes stuff you do. Your service is invaluable and you are a joy to work with!

  Last, but not least, thank you to all the readers and book bloggers, whether you’re a longtime loyalist or reading me for the first time. It’s because of you that I get to live my dream, and I’m forever grateful for that.

  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra-portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and her ankle biting pug pup.

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