Never Ever You

Chapter 1

February 14, 2024

I wake to the smell of hazelnut coffee. It’s my second favorite way to wake up, next to a kiss on the shoulder—never on the mouth because dear god, morning breath.

Thank goodness my husband understands this. And thank goodness he’s a hard-core caffeine addict like me. It’s a fact I don’t take for granted seeing as he’s English.

Not that English people don’t drink coffee. Plenty of them do. But there’s a fixation on tea here in England that I, as an American, didn’t fully understand until I moved to London nine years ago. Tea in the morning. In the afternoon. In the evening. After dinner. Sometimes more. Tea all day, every day. Too bad just a whiff of Earl Grey makes me want to puke. It possesses a dank, faintly citrus smell with wet-dirt undertones. How can anyone ingest liquid that smells like mud multiple times a day, every day?

Thankfully, when I inhale, it’s a rich, nutty, caramel aroma that slides through my nostrils. Eyes still closed, I smile as I roll from my back to my side on our pillow-top mattress. Because that’s not the smell of brewed coffee wafting from our kitchen; that’s the smell of a fresh cup nearby.

When I open my eyes and sit up, I’m greeted with the image of my husband, Tristan, walking toward me clad in rumpled boxers and yesterday’s undershirt, wooden tray in hand. On it there’s a blessedly huge cup of coffee that looks more like a bowl and a thin glass vase with a trio of daisies sprouting from the top. Fake daisies—my husband is allergic to flowers.

“You’ve made it a year being married to me. Congrats, love.” The way his pet name for me rolls clipped off his tongue, like a soft growl, turns my sleepy smile into a grin.

Setting the tray on my lap, he leans down and dusts a kiss on my bare shoulder where my satin sleeping top has fallen off. I close my eyes, relishing the contrast of sensations on my skin. The wet heat of his breath against the crisp air in the bedroom. The softness of his lips paired with the scratch of his strawberry-blond stubble.

“Coffee in bed and a shoulder kiss. Is this some one-year-anniversary tradition I don’t know about?”

He settles at the foot of the bed. “I reckon you’d like it more than the traditional gift for a first-year wedding anniversary: paper.”

When he wrinkles his nose in mock disgust, I laugh. “You know me so well,” I say before taking a long sip.

He flicks the stem of the daisies. “I tried to find fake peonies, since they’re your favorite, but apparently those are impossible to procure. So daisies it is.”

I tell him it’s okay before taking another long sip of coffee. I reach my arm out to offer him some, but he shakes his head. “Already had a cup. That’s all for you.”

By “already had a cup,” he means that he’s drained almost an entire pot while fielding predawn work calls, his typical morning routine. As the co-owner of a half dozen upscale restaurants in London, Tristan works from the moment he wakes to the moment he crawls into bed. When he’s not putting in fourteen hours a day at his various restaurants, he’s on the phone negotiating with a produce supplier or planning a menu with one of his executive chefs or calling maintenance to handle a repair.

Tristan is a textbook workaholic whose lifeblood is the restaurant industry. That’s why seeing him carve out time in his frantic morning schedule to bring me breakfast in bed is a moment worthy of a heart flutter. You have to be one hell of a special person in Tristan Chase’s life to get him to interrupt his routine. Yeah, it’s a strange thing to take pleasure in, but that sort of stuff is what counts for me. I’m one of the few people he disrupts his packed schedule for. And in the thirty-two years I’ve been on this planet, I’ve learned that if a guy as handsome, charming, and successful as Tristan is willing to disrupt his routine to accommodate you, it means he really does care.

Leaning forward, I grab his hand and lace my fingers with his. “This is the sweetest anniversary surprise. Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and his crystal-blue eyes sparkle just before he captures my lips in a kiss. I laugh, shocked, and push him back.

“Morning breath!” I sputter against my hand as I cover my mouth.

But Tristan wraps his warm, thick fingers around my wrist and gently pulls my hand away from my face before kissing me again.

“I don’t care,” he says against my mouth.

I decide right then and there that I don’t either.

We go at it like two hormone-crazed teenagers. We break apart just long enough for Tristan to move the tray to the floor and shed his shirt and boxers. Sunlight streams in from the nearby window, bathing his alabaster skin in an orange glow. The muscles in his tall, lean frame pulse as he pulls the fabric from his body. As soon as I peel off my shirt and panties, I reach up and pull him on top of me.

He lowers his mouth to the shell of my ear, his hot breath sheeting across my skin. It sends a shiver through me. I writhe underneath him and claw at his back.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

“Riley, love, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Tristan calls from the kitchen.

I smile at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Coming!”

I finish swiping on the last bit of my makeup. I take the extra few seconds to blot my lipstick on a square of toilet paper. Such an old-fashioned habit—I don’t know anyone my age or younger who does this. But I can’t help it. It’s a holdover from my modeling days, when I’d have to do my own makeup sometimes. I’m a stickler for perfectly applied lipstick. Always have been and always will be. It just looks so polished and understated. I’ve dropped most of my other model habits, like the twice-monthly facials, crash dieting, religious waxing, and holding cold spoons to my under-eyes to reduce swelling. But this lipstick-blot technique dies with me.

I get dressed and grab Tristan’s anniversary gift from the drawer next to my sink in our bathroom, since I assume that’s what we’re about to do. Normally when it’s a special occasion, we make dinner reservations and exchange gifts at the restaurant or when we get home. But tonight that’s not an option because it’s Tristan’s grandparents’ sixtieth-wedding-anniversary party.

Today isn’t their official anniversary—that was two months ago. But his grandmother got sick with pneumonia right before their actual anniversary, and the party had to be pushed back. Once she recovered, it was rescheduled for tonight at one of Tristan’s restaurants. His whole family is attending.

When I walk into the kitchen, he’s standing at the far wall, straightening the trio of small, framed black-and-white landscape photos that are the only pieces of decor in the room’s minimalist aesthetic. He looks up, grins at me, and then walks over to the marble island, where a gift box the size of a microwave sits.

I waggle the long velvet box at him. “Ready to exchange?”

He tells me to open mine, but I shake my head. “You first.”

He chuckles, then walks over to me. “You sure this morning wasn’t my gift?” he says against the side of my neck. “You look incredible, by the way. This dress ...”

The tips of his fingers skim the midthigh-length hem of my black Max Mara sweaterdress.

“Christ, is this dress painted on your body?” he murmurs against my skin.

“Pretty much.”

“And it’s so short. So gloriously, gloriously short.”

I chuckle and give myself a mental high five. I knew chopping off six inches from the length of this vintage store find was a good idea.

My eyelids flutter as I savor the feel of his lips on that ultrasensitive patch of skin just above my shoulder. This is my favorite way he kisses me—and speaks to me: his mouth pressed along the side of my neck, his words a cross between a whisper and a grunt.

“I mean, that was quite the present you gave me in bed, Miss America.”

I smile at the ridiculous nickname he’s called me ever since the day we met three years ago. I playfully push him away, knowing that if his lips remain on me for one more second, we’re going to end up fucking against the kitchen island and make ourselves late for work.

“I think you’ll like this too.” I press the velvet, rectangular box into his hand.

As he pries it open, I bite back what I’m certain is the cheesiest smile ever. It was by total accident that I found this vintage Cartier watch. I was with my best friend and business partner, Poppy, at an antique jewelry store in Bermondsey when I spotted it. The impossibly shiny exterior caught my eye. It was stainless steel, but it had been kept up so well that it shone like silver. It was exactly Tristan’s style—simple, sleek, and understated, yet undeniably high end.

At just over ￡2,500, it wasn’t cheap, but I didn’t care. In the three years we’ve been together, he’s showered me with countless expensive gifts. Every piece of valuable jewelry I own is from him, including my cushion-cut diamond engagement ring, which cost five times as much as this watch. Whatever he got me for my anniversary gift is likely more expensive as well—every gift he’s ever given me has always been nicer and cost more than whatever I’ve given him. He deserves this watch.

His eyes go wide for a split second as he gazes at the open box. Then the corner of his mouth turns up. “Christ ...”

“Do you like it?”

He grins at me, then gently grabs my chin and kisses me. “I love it.”

I help him put it on, giddy at how he can’t stop looking at it. He thanks me, then nods at my gift on the counter. “Your turn.”

“Is it the kitten I’ve always wanted?” I tease.

Ever since I moved in with Tristan, I’ve been begging for a pet, but he isn’t an animal guy. Every time we see a cat or a dog when walking through the city, while I run to pet it, he frowns and keeps his distance. Even as a kid, he said, he didn’t care for pets.

“This is way, way better than a kitten.”

Two decades of living in London has softened his West Yorkshire accent, but every once in a while it peeks through, like when he says “way” and it comes out more like “weh.” It makes me melt every time. Everything about Tristan is proper and sophisticated. His Cambridge MBA, his wardrobe full of designer suits, his old-money background. So whenever I hear remnants of that West Yorkshire accent, it always makes me smile. My ultrapolished husband has got a slight bit of unexpected edge.

I tear through the gold wrapping paper and pull open the box flaps to reveal a smaller box wrapped in the same paper. I chuckle and shake my head. This is exactly how he wrapped my engagement ring when he proposed.

After unwrapping and opening four gift boxes in total, I finally make it to a palm-size black velvet jewelry box, which I assume holds a pair of very expensive earrings.

But when I open it and see a car key fob, I frown. “What is this?”

Instead of answering, Tristan grins and grabs my hand before leading me down the stairs and through the front door of his Marylebone walk-up. We step onto the porch, and he points to a brand-new white Audi parked on the street.

“That’s yours.”

All I can do for a few seconds is stare with my mouth wide open. I twist to look at him. “Tristan, what the ... a car? That’s too—”

His gentle grip finds my waist. He pulls me against him. “It’s not too much. Remember when I asked if we could get married on Valentine’s Day, which was a weekday, pretty much the least convenient day to get married? And you agreed.”

I cup his cheek. “I agreed because it was insanely romantic that you wanted to get married on Valentine’s Day.”

He smiles at me. “You’re spending your first wedding anniversary with your in-laws when you should be having a romantic night with your husband. On Valentine’s Day, no less. The car is partly an apology for that.”

Most of Tristan’s family are kind to me—except his parents and grandparents. They’ve been frosty to me ever since I met them. I expect it’s because they didn’t think their beloved son and grandson would marry a half-Filipino, half-white American girl who peddles lingerie and makeup for a living.

To be honest, I’m perfectly fine with keeping my distance from them. I’ve never been one to beg people for their acceptance. But Tristan’s family means the world to him. If I have to see them every once in a while at family events and maintain a surface-level politeness, I’ll do it.

“Okay, yeah, I admit I didn’t expect to be attending someone else’s anniversary party on my own wedding anniversary. But come on, you didn’t have to buy me a car.”

I stare at the key fob in my hand. My memory slingshots to the day after he proposed, when he planned a similar surprise, only then it was the key to his flat. I chuckled when I opened the gift box.

“I already have a key to your place,” I said. I had been living with him for almost a year at that point.

“Read the card,” he said with a knowing smile.

This flat never felt like home until you moved in. It’s my gift to you, Miss America.

He led me by the hand to the front door, revealing a giant red bow tied on the outside. And then he pulled out a folded stack of papers tucked in an envelope from his back trouser pocket and handed it to me. It was a copy of the deed.

“I’m adding your name to the deed,” he said.

“Are you serious?” I asked, stunned. Tristan’s flat was worth millions. I’d never be able to afford a place like this in London, not in a hundred years.

“Of course I’m serious. We’re going to be married soon. My home is your home, Mrs. Chase.”

I kissed him breathless. “Mrs. Ricci-Chase.”

He flashed a half smile. “I like the sound of that.”

“Riley. You deserve this car,” Tristan says, pulling me back to the present. The conviction in his low tone, combined with the way his hold turns firm against the curve of my hip, softens me.

I bite my lip as I look up at him, dizzy with disbelief. “You bought me a car.”

“Guilty as charged, Miss America.”

I squeal and jump up, wrapping my arms around his neck. He squeezes me tight against him. In this moment I know, without a doubt, I am the luckiest woman on the planet.