A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 41: CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ASHLEY

I WOULD NEVER DRINK WHISKEY AGAIN.

It was all fun and games when the sun was shining and the buzz was warm and harmless, but in the cold grip of nighttime, whiskey turned into a traitorous accomplice. It dredged up memories I should’ve buried long ago—of Kyle’s mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the way he said my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

Heat crept up my neck as the images flooded my mind. My forehead thudded softly against the cabinet while the coffee machine sputtered behind me.

God, what was I thinking?

A bar bathroom. A public bathroom. After two years of pristine self-control and careful distance, I’d unraveled in his arms like I hadn’t spent every waking minute trying to move on.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made the memories sharper.

The music fading into the background.

The rough scrape of his stubble against my neck.

"Shh. Patience."

My stomach dipped, and the flush across my skin deepened. I hated that he still had that effect on me—that a single word, a single touch, could leave me aching for something I swore I didn’t want anymore.

The coffee machine beeped, grounding me in the present. I exhaled and poured the steaming liquid into my favorite mug—a simple ceramic one stamped with Make It Happen. Appropriate, given that’s what I was trying to do: make my new life happen. Make it permanent. Make it mine.

I curled my fingers around the mug’s warmth and brought it to my lips, my next breath emerging as a whisper.

"At least you didn’t agree to go back to him," I muttered, bringing the cup to my lips.

The bitter liquid scalded my tongue, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the memories of last night. My reflection stared back at me from the kitchen window—cheeks flushed, hair still tousled from sleep, regret shadowing my eyes.

I’d almost caved.

Alcohol and sex had already done a number on my judgment, but his words? His touch? They’d come terrifyingly close to breaking the last of my resolve.

Come back to me.

My stomach flipped, and my grip on the mug tightened.

Thank God for that phone call. The shrill interruption had shattered the tension between us and given me the lifeline I needed to escape before I made an irreversible mistake. Clearly, the universe was looking out for me because I refused—absolutely refused—to be the woman who went crawling back to the man who cheated on her just because he suddenly remembered how to say the right things.

A few pretty words and a nice—okay, a spectacular—orgasm didn’t erase the betrayal. It didn’t undo the nights I’d spent crying myself to sleep, wondering where I'd gone wrong.

Last night was a fluke.

An anomaly. A slip-up born from too much whiskey and two years of unspoken tension that never fully disappeared, no matter how much distance I tried to put between us.

It would never happen again.

The coffee machine gurgled as it finished brewing, the sound pulling me from my thoughts. I poured a second cup and forced myself to ignore the singsong voice in the back of my mind.

You can blame the alcohol all you want, but part of you wanted him.

I shook my head and stalked toward my desk. I hadn’t uprooted my life and moved to New York just to fall back into old patterns. This city was supposed to be my clean slate—a place where I could build my artisanal perfume and scent bar business from the ground up without the ghosts of my past breathing down my neck.

I didn’t have time to agonize over bad decisions or lingering attraction.

I had meetings to schedule, scents to refine, and partnerships to secure.

No Kyle. No distractions. Just work.

I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop with a determined click. But as I stared at the screen, the faintest trace of whiskey and sandalwood drifted from my skin—a stubborn, taunting reminder that some things weren’t so easily left behind.

Focus Ashley.

I straightened my shoulders and opened my email. The screen lit up with a flood of unread messages: supplier updates, appointment reminders, inquiries from potential clients.

A faint thrill stirred beneath my skin. The idea of having a physical space for my artisanal perfume and scent bar had been a daydream for so long, I almost didn’t trust the reality of it.

The phone rang, startling me. I answered without glancing at the caller ID, too distracted by the possibilities buzzing in my brain.

"Hello?"

"Hi, I’m looking for Ashley Carrington."

The voice was soft but clear, with a professional edge that cut through my scattered thoughts.

I sat up straighter, my heart picking up speed. "Speaking."

"This is Mara Quinn from Crescent Realty, returning your message from three days ago. You were interested in learning more about the available storefront in the West Village?"

All thoughts of emails and deadlines flew out of my head. My dream wasn’t just inching closer—it was calling me directly.

"Yes." The word came out on a breathless squeak. I winced and cleared my throat. "Yes, I am. Thank you for getting back to me."

Honestly, I had forgotten about the storefront in the whirlwind of work and Kyle-related chaos. But the moment Mara mentioned it, the spark reignited. 

"Would you be available for a tour later today?" Mara asked. "We have a lot of interest in this property, but I wanted to give you the first look since you reached out early."

"Absolutely," I said without hesitation. No risk, no reward.

We settled on a two o’clock appointment, and I hung up feeling equal parts exhilarated and anxious. The West Village was the perfect neighborhood for my vision: charming, artsy, with plenty of foot traffic and a clientele willing to invest in personalized, luxurious experiences.

Now I just had to make it mine.

***

Two hours later, I stood in front of the address Mara had given me. My heart thudded beneath my ribcage as I took in the building.

The exterior was classic West Village—red brick with tall windows framed by black shutters. The glass storefront reflected the lively street behind me: couples strolling hand-in-hand, a man walking his Dalmatian, and a pair of women laughing as they balanced oversized shopping bags.

I could already picture it: delicate gold lettering on the window spelling out Blume and Essence: A Bespoke Fragrance Experience. Inside, shelves lined with hand-blended fragrances, custom scent consultations, delicate floral-infused oils and elegant glass decanters would draw in passersby. They’d step into a world where every scent told a story—where the fragrance of rain-soaked lavender or the smoky undertones of worn leather could transport them through time and memory.

"Ms. Carrington?"

I turned to find a woman in her late thirties approaching me with a smile. Her dark hair was swept into a neat bun, and she carried a leather portfolio under one arm.

"Yes Mara?"

“That’s me." She extended her hand, and I shook it with what I hoped was confident enthusiasm rather than barely-contained nerves.

"Thanks again for fitting me in today," I said.

"Of course." Mara gestured toward the door. "Shall we?"

I followed her inside, crossing the threshold into what I hoped would soon become my future.

The interior was dim and dusty, but the potential was undeniable. The space was deeper than it looked from the street, with exposed brick walls and warm wooden floors that creaked beneath my feet. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, casting golden patterns on the floor. In the back, there was a small kitchenette and a private office—perfect for meetings or scent-blending sessions.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, already imagining shelves filled with curated collections and a sleek bar where customers could create their own signature scents.

Mara smiled. "It’s got good bones. Needs a bit of work, but with the right vision..."

"I have vision," I said firmly.

We finished the tour back at the entrance, where Mara turned to me with a practiced smile. "So, what do you think?"

"How much is the rent?" I asked, hoping my voice didn’t betray the nervous flutter in my chest.

I probably should've led with that question instead of getting lost in my fantasies. But the heart of a dreamer often outruns the mind of a businesswoman.

Mara named the price.

I flinched. Visibly.

Jesus. I definitely should've asked earlier.

"That’s... more than I expected," I admitted, heat rising to my cheeks.

Mara didn’t look surprised. "It’s the West Village," she said with a small shrug. "But the landlord’s open to negotiating, especially with a long-term lease. Plus, you're new to the city—there might be some local grants or small-business incentives you could apply for."

I gave a short laugh, more out of nerves than humor. "Do those grants cover kidney donations? Because that’s probably what I’d need to make this happen."

Her smile softened. "Starting something like this is scary. But I can tell you’re serious. You’d be surprised what’s possible when you commit to it."

Commit. The word echoed in my mind as I stepped back onto the sunlit sidewalk.

Mara locked the door behind us and handed me a sleek business card. "Take a couple of days to think about it. The space has interest, but nothing concrete yet."

"Thanks. I will."

I slipped the card into my purse, gave the storefront one last lingering glance, and started down the street.