Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
JULIE
ONE YEAR LATER
The drive from San Francisco to Carmel Valley takes us through rolling hills that turn golden in the afternoon sun. Asher has one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles through my sundress. We've been married exactly one year today.
This past year has been so much better than I dared to hope on our wedding day. We've settled into our life together. The anxiety I felt on that day has faded. Dean's financial trap still exists, but it feels manageable now. Distant.
Sure, there are small things. Asher is easily distracted—his phone buzzing with work emails, his mind drifting to contracts and deadlines even when we're supposed to be relaxing. And we don't see eye to eye on money.
He likes to spend freely, to enjoy the best of everything, while I still think about unnecessary excess and practicality. I insist on compromise, which I know frustrates him, but I told him it's a non-negotiable for me, so he does his best.
Dean was wrong about him. Asher is a good husband.
He values my opinions and makes sure I know he's proud of me.
That's real. That matters more than anything else.
So every six to eight weeks when we have dinner with Dean and he asks— in front of his son— if Asher is treating me right, I say yes without hesitation.
He always looks mildly surprised, but also relieved.
My father was bad, but he’s worse. I couldn't imagine having someone as aggressive as Dean is.
Carmel Valley Ranch appears like something out of a dream, nestled among vineyards and oak trees, with views that seem to go on forever.
"This is gorgeous," I say as we pull up to the entrance.
"Only the best for my wife."
We check in and a staff member drives us in a golf cart to our suite, a private cottage tucked into the hillside with a deck overlooking the vineyards. Inside, there's a king bed with crisp white linens, a fireplace, a deep soaking tub, and floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the view.
"Oh my god," I say, walking straight to the windows. "Asher, this is perfect."
He's looking at something on his phone, his brow furrowed slightly. "Hmm?"
"I said it's perfect."
He glances up, then pockets his phone quickly. "Sorry. Work email. But yes, it’s perfect. And I have something for you.”
"You already got me this trip."
"That doesn't count. That's for both of us." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small wrapped box.
I open it carefully. Inside is a delicate gold bracelet with a single charm of a tiny book.
"From where it all started on our first date at Barnes & Noble."
My throat tightens. "Asher."
"I know that I fucked up with your engagement ring," he says quietly.
"I notice you never wear it unless you have to and it shames me that I chose wrong.
So I wanted to give you something that would make you smile for real.
Something not my father's taste. Not what anyone else thought you should have.
Just something that reminded you of that first day. "
I slip it on my wrist and it catches the light. "I love it. I love you."
"Love you too."
We kiss again, slower this time, and I feel the familiar heat building between us. His hands slide down to my hips and pull me closer.
"We should unpack," I murmur against his mouth.
"We should," he agrees, but he's already walking me backward toward the bed.
He undresses me slowly, his hands familiar and sure. When he lays me down on the bed, there's no hesitation, no nervousness. Just comfort. Just us.
"You're so beautiful," he says, his eyes moving over me like he's memorizing every detail.
"You say that every time."
"Babe, that’s because it's true every time."
He kisses me deeply, his body settling over mine, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We move together easily, instinctively. I still struggle getting there myself and I fail more than I don't. But these moments with him in bed are often among my favorites of the day.
The way his breath catches when I tighten around him, the way he groans when I dig my nails into his back, the way he whispers my name like a prayer when he's close, is everything to me. Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and satisfied, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
"I'm never leaving this bed," I announce.
"Good. I'm never letting you."
"We have dinner reservations."
"Cancel them."
I laugh. "We can't cancel. You made them two weeks ago."
"Fine. But after dinner, we're coming straight back here."
"Deal."
We spend the next two days in a blissful haze. We go wine tasting at a nearby vineyard where Asher insists on buying three cases of a Chardonnay I fall in love with.
"Three cases?" I say as he's giving the tasting room attendant his black card. "Asher, we have wine at home."
"Not this wine."
"But three cases is?—"
"Jules." He turns to me with that slightly defensive edge in his voice. "I want to buy the wine. Stop."
I bite back my response. It's not worth the fight. And honestly, he's right—it's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. "Okay," I say. "Three cases it is."
His expression relaxes immediately. "Thank you. You're going to love having this at home, I promise."
And he's probably right. He usually is about these things. We hike through the hills in the early morning, the air cool and smelling of wild sage. We get couples massages at the spa and I fall asleep on the table, completely relaxed.
That night at dinner, we sit outside on the restaurant's terrace under string lights, sharing a bottle of wine and a ridiculous five-course tasting menu.
Asher tells me about some new innovations at Ancre.
I tell him about the holiday line Jamie and I are developing—bath bombs shaped like ornaments, peppermint sugar scrubs and a cinnamon scented hair perfume.
"You're going to crush it," he says. "You always do."
"I hope so. It will be our biggest holiday launch yet."
"I believe in you."
He's never once dismissed my work or treated it like a hobby the way his father does.
He asks questions. He celebrates our wins.
He's genuinely proud of what Jamie and I have built.
His phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, and I see his expression shift—that look he gets when work pulls at his attention.
"You can check it," I say.
"No, it's fine." But his eyes drift back to the screen.
"Asher. Just check it."
He picks up the phone and scrolls quickly, his brow furrowing. For a moment, he's completely absorbed—his thumb moving across the screen, his jaw tightening slightly. Then he seems to catch himself and sets the phone down.
"Sorry. It's just—there's an issue with the Singapore contract and—" He stops himself. "You know what? It can wait. I'm here with you. Keeping you happy is worth more than that."
What an odd thing to say. But it's so very him. "Is it urgent?"
"It's always urgent with them." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "But you're more important. This is our anniversary. I'm not going to spend it staring at my phone."
And I believe him. Because even though he gets distracted sometimes, even though work pulls at him more than I'd like, he always comes back to me.
On our last night, we lie in bed with the windows open, a cool breeze drifting in from the valley. Asher is on his back with one arm around me, and I'm curled into his side, my head on his chest. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand. He reaches for it automatically, then stops himself. "It's probably just Cal," he says.
Calvin Louis Essington the third, aka Cal, is one of his college friends. Rich. Entitled. Pompous. Damn near unbearable. Like almost all of Asher's friends, except for one notable exception.
Ryan. He's always been kind to me, has never looked down on me or acted like my lack of family wealth is problematic.
"You can check it."
"No. I'm with you."
We lay together in silence for a few minutes, just breathing. "I don't want to go home," I admit after a moment.
"We have to eventually."
"I know. But I like this. Just us. No distractions."
"We can do this at home too."
"It's not the same. At home there's distractions.”
Asher laughs. "Fair point."
"Let's just stay here forever."
"Tempting. But I think they'd eventually kick us out."
I sigh dramatically. "Fine. But I'm bringing this feeling back with me. This peace and happiness.”
"Good. Hold onto it." He kisses the top of my head. "Because I'm not going anywhere. This is forever, Jules. You and me."
Forever is the goal. Fuck the five year clause.