Chapter 3
“Are you trying to kill me, Miss America?”
Tristan’s gaze catches on the hem of the tweed pencil skirt I’m wearing. It’s nothing notable—it hits just above my knees, a perfectly respectable length for the family gathering we’re currently at.
But I know it’s not the hem he’s fixated on. He’s looking at that to keep his composure after what I just showed him, which was a peek of the red lace thong I’m wearing. When we walked through the doors of Last One Standing, the upscale pub he owns, I shed my trench coat, pulled up my blouse, tugged up the right strap of my thong, and winked at him.
“Part two of your anniversary gift,” I whispered right before a gaggle of his relatives walked in. Tristan’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he cleared his throat and said quick hellos to everyone, urging them in the direction of the party room in the back, where the anniversary party is.
When he takes my hand, I think he’s going to lead us there, too, but he stays planted in that spot, his blue eyes on fire.
“We’ll stay an hour, tops. Then we’ll head straight home, and you’re going to let me play with my gift,” he growls against my mouth between kisses.
I bite back a giggle as he walks us into the private room. His grandparents sit at the head of the long mahogany table that is the center of the dimly lit space while a small group of relatives stands over them, chatting. I’m silently relieved that they’re preoccupied and I don’t have to stop and say hello. It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve tried to be nice and engage them. They always offer a pinched expression and a polite “Hello, Riley,” and then immediately focus their attention on Tristan. They pretty much pretend I don’t exist. Even when Tristan tries to include me in the conversation, they always say, “Oh, that’s nice” with a tight, fake smile and change the subject. It’s so awkward, standing there and watching the three of them chat warmly while I look like a pathetic hanger-on.
I catch Tristan’s grandmother’s glance my way. Her scowl lands on the neckline of my blouse. Probably because the neckline dips lower than my throat and there’s a delicate lace trim reminiscent of lingerie. I’m practically topless in her eyes, since I only ever see her wear turtlenecks and blouses that button all the way to her collarbone. I fuss with it for a split second before she looks away. I stop myself, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. I shouldn’t let a mean look from his grandmother throw me off so much.
I look around and notice a mountain of gifts on the floor behind them, but it’s the ice sculpture at the center of the table that I gawk at. It’s two swans touching beaks, their profiles making a massive heart shape the size of a flat-screen TV. It rests on a silver tray that’s lined with chocolate-covered strawberries along the perimeter.
“Um, wow.”
Tristan sighs. “A bit over the top, I know. But my mum insisted. Said we needed a romantic touch to the centerpiece since it’s Valentine’s Day.”
I silently reflect on the fact Portia has chosen swans as a symbol of love and affection, despite the fact that they’re some of the meanest, most aggressive birds on the planet. I guess that’s fitting.
One of Tristan’s uncles pulls him away to ask a question about the wine they’re serving tonight. I say hello to Tristan’s cousin Nesta, who pulls me into a hug.
“My god, that blouse. Gorgeous. What is that color, emerald green?”
“More like kelly green, I think.”
“Stunning. Is it from your boutique?”
I nod. “Just came in this week. We’re trying out selling a few clothing items in addition to lingerie now. I’ll set aside a blouse for you. Size medium?”
“You gem. Thank you. Though you’d better make it a large. I’m still pumping, and the girls are gigantic.”
This is how Nesta greets me every time I see her at a family gathering—with a hug, a glowing compliment, and a promise to buy something from my shop. From the moment we met right after Tristan and I started dating, she was kind and welcoming to me. When she found out I ran a lingerie and makeup boutique, we became fast friends. Before she had her daughter, she would stop in almost every week to shop.
She smiles warmly at me. “How do you look so chic every time I see you? I’d be infuriated if I didn’t adore you so much.”
I chuckle as my cheeks flush. “You’re sweet, Nesta. It’s a holdover from my modeling days, I guess. I always had to look presentable.”
“What a champ you are, coming to this tonight,” she says in a hushed voice. She wrinkles her nose at the ice sculpture. “Say you’re from a wanky rich white family from London without saying you’re from a wanky rich white family from London. You’d think we’ve forgotten that half our family are from Leeds.”
I snort a laugh. Her husband, Roland, walks up, their infant daughter snoozing against his chest.
“Hey, Riley,” he says through a breath. “Brilliant anniversary gift you got for Tristan.” He aims a tired stare at Nesta. “Vintage Cartier watch is on my Christmas list this year.”
“Then you’d better steal Tristan’s. Too rich for my personal assistant salary.”
He chuckles before sobering slightly. “I’ve got good news and bad news,” he tells Nesta.
“Bad news first. Always,” she says without missing a beat.
“Molly had a blowout, and I had to throw away the onesie.”
“And the good news?”
“She was so exhausted from unloading the biggest poo I’ve seen her make so far in her three months of life that she’s now fast asleep. Finally.”
Roland explains to me that Molly’s been cranky most of the day and refused to nap.
Nesta shakes her head, her copper-red curls dancing around her face as she chuckles, then takes Molly into her arms. “Hallelujah. Go grab a pint. You deserve it.”
Roland runs off to the bar, promising to bring back lemon drops for the both of us.
“You two are incredible parents,” I say to Nesta.
Nesta makes a noise that sounds more like a scoff than a laugh. “You wouldn’t have thought I was very incredible if you had witnessed me muttering every curse word in the book while this little princess was screeching like a demon at four in the morning a few nights ago. I didn’t sleep a wink, and I was raging.”
“Lack of sleep will make anyone rage,” I say. “You’re amazing, Nesta. Truly.”
She starts to smile, but then she looks behind me. She frowns. “Oh fucking hell,” she mutters.
“Nesta, darling. How are you?” Portia’s shrill purr sounds from behind me.
“Just fine, Auntie Portia. You?”
Portia sidles up next to me, her gaze fixing on Nesta. Instead of answering Nesta, she squints at her. “You’re looking quite buxom, my dear.”
I hold back a wince. Typical Portia, offering a thinly veiled insult as a greeting to her own niece. The only person she seems to ever have kind words for is her son.
Nesta purses her lips. “Well, seeing as my tits are engorged with milk in order to feed my baby, I’d say you’re stating the obvious, Auntie Portia.”
I cover my mouth to muffle the chuckle that falls from my mouth, but it’s too late. Portia’s glare pivots from her niece to me.
“Good of you to make it, Riley.” There’s a bitterness in her tone, like she’s trying to speak after swallowing a shot of vinegar.
“I’ll say.” Nesta rests her free hand on her hip. “She’s here on her wedding anniversary. That’s quite commendable. You’ve got a hell of a daughter-in-law.”
“Commendable. Yes.” Portia narrows her gaze at me before sipping from her martini glass. She does a seconds-long once-over of me. All the muscles in my neck and shoulders tense as she sizes me up. I brace myself for whatever insult she’s about to lob at me, but she says nothing. She just keeps sipping her martini. I feel the slightest tinge of relief. Of all the low-key ways my mother-in-law has insulted me, she’s surprisingly never said a word about my clothes. A nice difference from the way Tristan’s grandmother glowered at my blouse minutes ago.
A beat later I notice the glassy stare in her eyes. All the muscles in my body tense now.
I’ve only ever seen Portia intoxicated once—at Christmas dinner last year, right after a very loud argument with Tristan’s dad ... that everyone in their massive Westminster home overheard, even though Portia and her husband were holed up in their bedroom on the third floor. It was one of the few times Tristan’s dad, Weston, was home in England.
According to Tristan, even though his parents have been married close to four decades, they’ve spent the majority of their marriage apart, with Weston traveling for work. I had met him only a handful of times, and every time he seemed like he couldn’t wait to leave. And when they were together and I happened to be around, I could feel the tension between them, like a thick fog hanging in the air. The way they barely looked at each other, how they never hugged or kissed, how they exchanged minimal words in every interaction I’d ever witnessed.
At that dinner, after several minutes of shouting and muffled arguing, there was a door slam and the sound of tires screeching. Tristan’s dad was nowhere to be found. But Portia proceeded to make a beeline for the liquor cabinet and got progressively drunker as the day wore on, lobbing insults at whoever happened to walk into her line of view. Thankfully Tristan put her to bed before she could set her sights on me, but I don’t think I’ll make out as easily tonight.
Portia eyes Molly as she sleeps cradled in Nesta’s arms. “Speaking of babies, you and my son should probably get started,” Portia says.
My eyes bulge at her. She merely shrugs before sipping her martini. Nesta mutters a curse under her breath right as Roland walks up to us.
“Two lemon drops for—”
He freezes when his hazel gaze lands on Portia. He drops the drinks on the table next to us and scurries to the other side of the room. I don’t blame him for running off. He was one of the unlucky souls Portia drunkenly unloaded on at Christmas. Even now I wince as I recall how she loudly complimented Roland’s beard and proclaimed that if she were thirty years younger, she’d make a meal out of him.
“You really shouldn’t be drinking if you’re trying to get pregnant, Riley.”
“Wh—I’m not trying to get pregnant.”
“Well, you should be. Otherwise, what good are you?”
This time I can’t think of a single thing to say in response. All I can do is stand there with my mouth still open and stare as she glares at me over the rim of her glass.
“Carly would have happily had my son’s baby,” she mutters.
Just the sound of Tristan’s ex’s name spilling from my mother-in-law’s lips turns my skin ice cold.
“What did you just say?”
“They would have had the cutest babies. Blue-eyed ones for sure, given that both Tristan and Carly have blue eyes. Can’t really guarantee that with you, can you? Yours are so brown,” she mutters while glancing off to the side.
I always suspected from Portia’s initial lukewarm-at-best feelings toward me that she would have rather Tristan marry his ex, Carly, who’s a corporate lawyer and comes from a loaded English family. He ended things with her right before he met me, but Portia still kept framed photos of them as a couple displayed in her house until Tristan asked her to take them down as soon as he and I got serious. It’s no surprise to know that she prefers her to me.
But to hear Portia say the words out loud—to hear her tell me to my face that she wishes another woman would have married her son and given her grandbabies—slices deep.
I can barely swallow past the boulder in my throat. My eyes burn as I blink, still robbed of anything I could possibly say in response to the way Portia just hacked me open.
The feel of Nesta tugging on my hand jerks me out of my stupor.
“Come on,” she whispers, pulling me to walk away. “Before I coldcock my own aunt. Christ.”
We round the corner of the massive table and bump into Tristan.
“Running off somewhere?” He smiles, his gaze darting between us.
“Yes. From your racist bitch mum,” Nesta says.
Tristan frowns at her. “What the hell, Nesta. Don’t say that about—”
“I’ll say whatever I want about that cow after the way she humiliated your wife. Where the hell have you been anyway? What are you doing leaving Riley alone in a room with your drunk mum?”
Tristan’s face falls. “Fuck. What did she say?”
“That you should have married your ex, Carly,” I say, my voice shaky. “That she’d love it if Carly were the one to give her grandkids and not ... not ...”
Tristan’s eyes go wide. My throat aches as I struggle to get that final word out, but the sound of gleeful shouting and laughter interrupts me.
I glance behind Tristan to see his cousin Milo standing in the doorway of the room, one arm in the air, like he’s presenting himself to the family. In his other arm is a gigantic bouquet of roses, like the kind that beauty queens are given when they win a pageant.
“Happy anniversary, Gran and Grandad!” His Southern California accent cuts through the murmur of conversation in the room.
Tristan’s grandparents squeal and clap at the sight of Milo as he rushes up to them and tucks the bouquet in his gran’s arms. Her perma-scowl is gone, replaced with a wide grin. She saves her smiles for Milo, I’ve noticed over the years. He’s clearly the favorite grandkid, next to Tristan.
“Only the most stunning bouquet for the most stunning woman this side of the Atlantic.”
His gran blushes and pats Milo’s dark stubble–covered cheek before commenting on how handsome he looks, like she always does every time she sees him. As much as I dislike Milo, his boisterous entrance was jarring enough that now, instead of fighting back tears, I’m annoyed. Better than crying in front of my in-laws on my first wedding anniversary.
After hugging a handful of family members, Milo points to the paper gift bag he set on the table. “Brought some American candy from my work trip for anyone who’s got a sweet tooth.”
All of Tristan’s younger cousins head straight for the bag.
Milo does a quick scan of the room. “Wow. Is this a funeral or an anniversary party?”
“Anniversary party. Obviously,” Tristan says. Even in the dim mood lighting, I can tell his jaw muscles are on the verge of ripping through the stubbled skin on his face, he’s biting down so hard.
Judging by that smug smile he flashes, Milo is unfazed by the irritation in his cousin’s tone. He waltzes up to Tristan and offers his usual greeting of a slap on the back.
“You sure you weren’t going for a funeral-chic ambiance, cuz? Because I gotta say, with the dim lighting and the vases of white roses along the table, I’m getting memorial service vibes. A bit morbid, don’t you think?”
Behind me I hear Roland chuckle; then Nesta mutters something unintelligible before he clears his throat and goes quiet.
“I think it looks nice,” I say, my annoyance clear in my pitchy tone.
Milo raises a thick brow before smirking at me. “Of course you do, Miss America.”
I place my hands behind my back and clasp them together to keep from slapping Milo. When Tristan told me about his cousin after we first started dating, I was excited. We’re both Americans living in London and are around the same age. We were even from the same state, California. I thought we’d be fast friends, just like Nesta and me. And when I met Milo at a family dinner at one of Tristan’s restaurants, he was charming and polite at first. But then I overheard him talking shit about me by the bathrooms right as I was walking out.
“She’s pretty. Gorgeous, actually. Excellent trophy wife material, I’ll give her that,” he muttered into his phone. “But Jesus, what the hell is Tristan thinking? A guy like him and a girl like her? Gimme a break.”
The words float back in stunning clarity every time I recall that moment, like I’m hearing them for the first time all over again. The only person I’ve ever told about what Milo said is Poppy, who now hates him with the fury of ten thousand suns, like any loyal best friend would. I thought about telling Tristan, but it was clear from watching the two of them interact that they loathe each other, always trading thinly veiled insults whenever they’re together. When I asked Tristan why they don’t get along, he said that they’ve always disliked one another, even as kids.
“He’s always been so cocky and obnoxious. Always the loudest one in the room. Always trying to one-up me since we’re the same age. Family or not, I’ve never been a fan of that bullshit,” Tristan had said.
I decided to keep that ugly comment from Milo to myself. Tristan already hated him. No need to add fuel to the fire.
“You’re always so supportive, Miss America.” Milo wags his eyebrows at me, smirk still firmly in place. “My cousin’s a lucky man.” He glances down at Tristan’s arm. “New watch, cuz?”
He whistles like he’s impressed. I roll my eyes. “Yes. My anniversary gift to him.”
Milo winks at me, that smug grin on display. “Damn. Nice work, Miss America.”
“Call her Riley,” Tristan bites.
Milo chuckles before aiming his taunting stare at Tristan. “Sorry. I should know better than to steal such a precious pet name.”
The sarcasm in Milo’s voice makes me want to snap at him, but I bite my tongue. I’ve already made a pseudo scene with Portia minutes ago. I need to just ignore Milo’s usual bullshit and get through the rest of tonight.
Tristan steps forward so that he’s fully in Milo’s space. I start to reach for him, but he waves me off with a hand.
“Shit,” Nesta mutters.
“You think you can waltz in here and act like an absolute tosser by insulting my work and taunting my wife? What the fuck’s your problem, Milo?”
Tristan’s blue eyes are wild, and for the second time tonight, my entire body is on edge. I’ve never seen him get physical with anyone, even when he’s been irate, and now it looks like he’s about to come to blows with his cousin in front of their entire family.
Milo’s smirk is long gone, replaced by the straight line of his mouth. That look in his deep-brown eyes is still taunting, though.
“I don’t have a problem, man. I was just kidding around.”
Tristan moves forward, bumping Milo’s chest. But Milo doesn’t even budge, keeping his tall, steady stance.
Standing nearly nose to nose, their physical differences have never been so stark. They’re both a few inches past six feet and boast that long, lean, broad build all the men in their family seem to have. They’re even dressed similarly tonight: both of them donned dark trousers with matching jackets and dressy button-up shirts, no tie. But Milo is the dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, ruggedly handsome counter to Tristan’s fair and boyish good looks, thanks to Milo’s Portuguese American mother’s genes.
For a second I wonder if Portia secretly hates Milo because of his ethnicity, like she does me. If she does, she’s never admitted it or been open about it. I’ve only ever seen her be cordial to Milo. Not ever warm, but never rude. Probably because he’s her nephew—her family.
“You’re not fucking funny,” Tristan mutters.
Milo shrugs his blazer-clad shoulders. “I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, that’s for sure.” His unblinking gaze comes off like a dare.
Tristan huffs a breath, but before he can move or say another word, I grab his arm. “Enough.”
And that’s when I notice the entire room has gone silent. I twist my head around and see their whole family witnessing their exchange.
Milo and Tristan seem to notice, too, at the same moment, because a beat later they finally break their staring contest and take dual steps back from each other.
“Gotta love these precious family moments, right?” Milo chuckles before running a hand through his thick waves of brown-black hair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tristan tense.
“Brought to us by our most precious boy—Tristan.” Milo points at him, like he’s making finger guns. “You always bring us together in the most beautiful way. Always in one of your fabulous restaurants. Your generosity and integrity are unmatched, golden boy.”
The way Milo emphasizes the word “integrity” makes me pause. What the hell is that about?
They exchange a look I can’t quite decipher. Then a split second later Tristan punches Milo in the face.