Never Planned on You

Prologue

prologue

EIGHT YEARS AGO

“Moment of truth. Someone’s life is about to change.” I peer over the edge of my playing card, narrowing my eyes as I stare down each of my competitors. Across the table, my flatmate Morgan groans.

“Give it a rest, Ali. We’re playing Kings, not hustling for a ticket aboard the Titanic .”

I shrug, then tip my chin toward Morgan’s boyfriend, Theo. He’s got the sickly green pallor of a man who’s just realized this ship may sink and there definitely aren’t enough lifeboats. “You alright there, Theo?”

Theo opens his mouth to reply, then snaps it shut, clutching a fist over his lips. Our favorite pub is busier than usual tonight, the buzz of voices and clinking glasses undoubtedly muffling a whimper behind his hand. He swallows, then nods wordlessly.

“Okay, then. Alfie, start us off?” My friend Alfie flips over his card, revealing a six of clubs.

“Six is dicks,” Morgan declares. “Drink up, boys.”

Alfie and Theo raise their glasses. But before he can take a sip, Theo bolts in the direction of the bathroom. I shake my head as I take another sip of beer.

“Men,” I say. “The weaker sex.”

Morgan stares longingly at her unfinished lager, then rises reluctantly. “I’d better go check on him.”

“Seriously?” I protest. “That’s half the players at the table. I can’t play with just Alfie!”

Alfie smirks. “Sure you can. One-on-one competitions are where I shine. Especially contact sports.”

I throw my cards down on the sticky wooden tabletop. “Gross, dude. I’m out.”

“Well, in that case, I win by default,” he says.

“Excuse me? How on earth do you figure?”

His grin widens. “I paid for the pints.”

A spark kindles in my belly. It feels a lot like the time my older sister, Sarah, told me I was too young to watch The Ring with her and her friends. Sure, I might’ve slept with the lights on for a month. And refused to rent movies from Blockbuster (RIP) for years after. And maybe I still occasionally get freaked out when I spot preteens with long black hair and pale skin. But I didn’t back down then, and I’m sure as hell not about to back down now. I shove back my shoulders and lift my chin.

“Over my dead body. The game isn’t over until it’s over—and we still have a few cards left. Let’s find another player so we can end this properly.”

Alfie cracks his knuckles. “Fair enough,” he concedes, and I can’t help but grin at the way he pronounces the word “fair.” I’ve spent the past three months in London for my semester abroad, but I’m still not over how pleasing certain vowels sound with a British accent.

“My flatmate Graham is over at the bar, probably nursing some grumpy old man drink befitting his grumpy old man nature. I’ll see if he’ll rally.”

“Your flatmate?” I raise an eyebrow. “We’ve hung out almost every night this semester, and I still haven’t met this alleged flatmate. I was starting to think he was imaginary.”

Alfie shakes his head. “Wanker hardly ever comes out. He’s been revising at LSE and spends most of his time holed up in his room, bent over an Excel spreadsheet or something equally depressing.”

With a groan, Alfie shoves out his chair and heads over to the bar. He taps the shoulder of a sandy-haired man who’s sitting alone, nursing a tumbler of dark liquor. Alfie whispers something in his ear, and the guy glances over his shoulder at me. A wrinkle forms between his brows as he meets my eyes. Then he shakes his head and swivels back around. A hot flash of indignation spikes through me. Seriously? Who does this guy think he is?

I’m about to go over there and give him a piece of my mind, but Alfie claps a hand down on his friend’s shoulder and forcefully guides him toward the table. A moment later, they’re both standing in front of me.

“Got our replacement player,” Alfie announces. “Ali, this is Graham.” My eyes flit over the other man, who I am now fully prepared to despise, and oh.

Graham is taller and leaner than Alfie, with a mop of golden hair that contrasts with Alfie’s dark curls. There’s a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Above it, bright blue eyes regard me curiously behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. He pushes them up with his index finger, an expression of annoyance painted across his face. Also of note: he is wearing a cardigan. In a bar.

Alfie was right; this guy is definitely giving off These Neighborhood Kids Keep Stomping on My Hydrangeas vibes. But in like, the hottest way possible.

I clear my throat. “Right. We’re playing Kings. It’s the last round, but we need someone to carry us to the finish line. Have you ever played?”

Graham blinks, as if trying to comprehend the concept of recreational drinking. “Party games aren’t really my thing,” he says after a moment. When I roll my eyes, he quickly adds, “But I’m a fast learner.”

He slides into Theo’s vacated seat while I explain the rules. “Theo was up next, so you can take his turn,” I say. Graham nods and flips over the card that was lying face down in front of him.

“Eight is for… mates?” he asks tentatively. His accent is more subtle than Alfie’s, just a hint of the British influence bringing a lyrical quality to his voice. I wish this fact made me swoon any less.

When Alfie nods, Graham flicks his gaze toward me, and something sparks to life behind his eyes. Something I recognize immediately as a challenge. “Shall we?”

We stare over the edges of our drinks, eyes locked like we’re two Real Housewives forced to endure the reunion episode after months of shit-talking each other in our confessionals. We chug for one second, two, and then…

“Finished already?” I ask, wiping my mouth as he slams his glass against the tabletop. “I didn’t realize this was amateur hour.”

Graham’s mouth crooks into a half smile. “Going easy on you felt like the gentlemanly thing to do.”

With effort, I tear my eyes away from his lips and scoff. “Trust me, I am the last person you will ever need to go easy on.”

Graham’s eyes widen a fraction as the subtext dangles in the air between us. Then Alfie clears his throat, dispelling the tension.

“Aces,” he says, holding up his card. “Waterfall.”

We throw back our drinks again. A few seconds pass, then Alfie slams down his half-empty pint with a loud belch. Graham and I keep going until both our glasses are drained, then set them down in perfect synchronicity.

“Well, I always enjoy a good pissing contest,” Alfie says. “Although I guess I must declare this one a draw.”

My head snaps in his direction. “A draw ? How is that fair? He just sat down!”

Graham crosses his arms. “I’d be down for a tie-break.”

He tips his chin toward the dartboard across the room. “How about a friendly game of darts?”

Alfie and I grin at each other conspiratorially. I’ve been honing my skills on that board all spring and haven’t lost a game in weeks. “You’re on.”

Ten minutes later, Graham and I are somehow evenly matched, and we each have one dart left.

“Are you sure you don’t want a stool?” Graham appraises me with a sidelong look. “I imagine it’s difficult to see the entirety of the board from your eye level.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve been the shortest kid in my class since the first grade and have been called every nickname in the vertically challenged catalog. So, if this guy thinks heckling me about my height will distract me, he’s going to need to get a lot more creative.

“Please. You’re going down like a Fourth of July hot dog.”

“Americans,” he says. “Always so eloquent.”

“Of note, you are suspiciously good at darts for a person who doesn’t spend much time in pubs.”

Graham smirks. “We have a board in our student lounge. It’s a nice way to blow off steam between classes. Now are you ready, or do you require more time for stalling?”

“Don’t get your britches in a bunch, Benedict. I was born ready.”

“Benedict?”

I shrug. “You have the essence of a Benedict. Might have to do with the posture. It’s so… rigid. Have you ever considered applying to the Buckingham sentry?”

Graham’s lips twitch in amusement, his eyes lingering on mine for a long beat. The intensity of the prolonged eye contact sends a pleasurable shiver down my spine. I grab my beer off the table, taking a long sip before he can fully derail my concentration with smoldering glances.

“In fact,” I say, once I’ve recalibrated. “Why don’t we make this interesting?”

“Interesting, huh? What did you have in mind, Polly Pocket?”

“Loser buys us both chips at the food stand across the street.”

Graham’s eyebrows shoot upward. “That’s your best offer? Frankly I pinned you as a bit more innovative.”

I scowl at him. “Okay, how about this? Loser gets a tattoo. And the winner gets to choose it.”

I know I’ve got him now. There’s no way in hell this dude’s going to agree to a tattoo. Because again, the cardigan. But then he grins at me and—in the most shocking twist since Marissa’s untimely death on The O.C. —replies, “Okay. You’re on.”

I squint one eye, aim, and toss the dart. It arcs gracefully through the air, following the precise trajectory I envisioned. And with a satisfying thunk, it lands directly in the inner circle. Black six. Finally, my otherwise useless pursuit of dart supremacy has paid off.

“You’re getting inked tonight, Benedict!”

Graham ignores me, his eyes trained on his own dartboard. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters. He aims with a worrisome sense of ease, shoots, and… son of a bitch. His dart lands in the exact same spot mine did.

“Mother fucker !” I exclaim.

Graham crosses his arms and grins. “Guess this ends in a deadlock.”

I scoff. “In your dreams. Tie means we’re both getting tattoos.” Shit. That sounded smarter in my head. Did I just agree to getting a tattoo? Shit.

Alfie, who’s been spectating from a stool in the corner, chooses this moment to chime in.

“There’s a tattoo parlor just ’round the corner,” he offers helpfully. Fuck you too, Alfie.

I straighten my shoulders with resignation. Fine. I’ve made my bed, and now it’s time to lie in it with this hot British man. Which, when put in those terms, doesn’t sound half bad. It also doesn’t matter, since there’s not a chance in hell Graham will go through with this. Because again, the cardigan. The only way to win this thing is to call his bluff.

I pick up my purse. “Ready when you are.”

Graham gives me a broad smile as he gestures to the door. “After you.”

Ten minutes later, we’re standing inside a dimly lit spot called Cloak and Dagger, thumbing through a sticky binder of tattoo images while an enormous dude named Ivan stares us down, his own heavily inked arms crossed.

“Let’s see,” I say, flipping through the book. “My friend Benedict here is looking for something that really captures his essence. A pair of ballet slippers, perhaps, or maybe just a butterfly with an accompanying Mariah Carey lyric.”

Ivan raises a questioning eyebrow at Graham.

“I’m not actually called Benedict,” he says quickly. Then he points to an image in the binder. “There. That’s the one she’s getting.”

I peer over the side of his arm and physically recoil. Staring back at me is a unicorn’s head. On the body of a pig. A uni-pig. A pig-icorn. It looks like something straight out of a Tim Burton fever dream. In other words, it is perfect.

“He’ll have the same,” I say, snapping my binder shut. “On his hip bone. I’ll go easy on him and pass up the opportunity for a tramp stamp.”

I grin triumphantly at Graham. This has to be it, the moment he breaks. Instead, he narrows his eyes, fixing his gaze on mine with an expression that’s equally resolute.

Ivan rolls his eyes. “What a thrill. Who’s first?”

“I’ll go,” Graham volunteers. He slides into a chair and then unhooks the button of his trousers, sliding them down an inch to reveal a sliver of taut, tan skin. My mouth goes dry as I stare at the exposed flesh, utterly transfixed. Up until this moment, I’ve never noticed how sexy a man’s hip bone could be.

I don’t realize I’m staring until Graham lifts his head and lets out a low chuckle.

“It’s not too late to back out,” he says, and I realize he must be mistaking the look on my face for fear. “There’s no shame in surrender.” He’s staring at me with that penetrating gaze again, the one that blurs everything else in the background, and my heart spikes.

“In your dreams,” I manage to choke out. Then I take a deep breath and settle into a leather chair to await my turn.

“I can’t believe we actually did that,” Graham says. We’re strolling down the street, passing a greasy takeaway bag of chips back and forth. “The one night I take a study break, I end up getting matching pig tattoos with an American girl. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything so reckless in my life.”

“I can’t believe you did it either, Benedict,” I say. “Though admittedly, it was a very in-character move for me.” My brain queues up a memory from earlier in the semester, when my friends and I spent an evening in Notting Hill. On a whim, I’d attempted to scale the gate at Rosmead Garden, Julia Roberts–style. Only instead of scoring a kiss from Hugh Grant, the night ended with two badly scraped shins and a tense exchange with Garden Patrol.

We come to a stop outside our apartment building. Graham shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“So,” he says after a beat. “How have you been enjoying London?”

I suppress a smile at his adorably awkward transition, pleased that he’s as reluctant to end the night as I am. “Well, the curry is amazing. But I’ve also lived here for three months and have yet to spot a single member of One Direction, so, you know. Peaks and valleys.”

Graham grins as he shakes his head. “How is it possible that we’ve been living in the same building for three months, and I’ve never run into you? Of all life’s injustices.”

I shrug. “According to Alfie, you never leave your room.”

Graham exhales a conceding laugh. “Yeah, it’s been a tough semester. But I just took my final exam today, so my schedule should be freeing up a bit. Maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Afraid not. This is my last night in London. My study abroad is over.”

Graham’s shoulders deflate. “Oh. Right then. Shall I walk you to your flat?”

I grab hold of his hand and give it a little squeeze. “Or I could walk you to yours.”

Graham stares down at our interlocked fingers, clearly startled by the boldness of the gesture. But then, I’ve never been shy. When I see something I like, I go for it.

His hand is still interwoven in mine when we arrive in front of his door a few minutes later, and I’m suddenly aware of how reluctant I am to release it.

“Well, Benedict,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t sound too reluctant. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Graham uses his forefinger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stares down at me. Conflicting emotions brew behind his eyes. Caution, mixed with something else. Desire.

Taking a step forward, I place a hand against his stomach. I skate my fingertips under his shirt and over his skin, pausing when I reach the top edge of his bandage.

“Does it still hurt?” I whisper. Graham swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shakes his head. Then his eyes drop to my mouth, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. The sound is the green light I need. Before I can overthink it, I lift onto my tiptoes and press my mouth to his.

For one long, horrifying second, Graham doesn’t move. But then his body relaxes as his warm lips melt into mine. He reaches one hand forward to cradle my cheek, lifting my face toward his to deepen the kiss. The pad of his thumb brushes gently against my cheekbone, and I release a sigh into his mouth as our surroundings fade to a blur.

When his tongue parts my lips, I reach a hand up the back of his shirt, dragging my fingertips against his skin and leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. He groans as he tightens his grip on my hips, pulling me flush against him. My legs turn to water, and I’m grateful for his strong hold, the only thing keeping me upright.

I’m not sure how much time passes before he breaks away. He takes an unsteady step backward, his chest rising and falling with jagged breath as he stares at me wild-eyed. My head spins as I come crashing back into reality. Holy shit.

“Do you want to come in?” he asks finally, his voice low and raspy. Then he blinks a few times and clears his throat. “Or we could just say goodnight. After all, it’s not like we’ll see each other again.”

Desire tightens its grip on me as I take a step forward, closing the space between us.

“We’ll never see each other again,” I agree. “Which is exactly why we shouldn’t let an opportunity like this go to waste.” And with that, I yank him into his apartment, slamming the door behind me.