Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"So, the prodigal daughter finally drags herself back from the big city," he says, his voice sharp enough to cut. He twists on his stool to face me, crossing his arms over his chest, the thick muscles in his biceps pulling tight against the sleeves of his T-shirt. "I heard you were in town, but I sure as hell didn't think you'd still be here."
I've played out this moment in my head more times than I can count, wondering what I'd say—or do—if I ever came face-to-face with Greyson again. The St. Louis Cardinals, the team he once pitched for, play in New York a couple of times a year, but in a city that big, the odds of running into him were nonexistent.
"I came to see my family. It's been a while."
"Oh, I know exactly how long it's been. Since your fancy Hamptons wedding in November, right? House in the Hamptons—very pretentious, by the way." My head jerks back at the jab, a scoff slipping out before I can stop it. "I check on your parents now and then," he goes on. "Make sure they're okay. Help your dad with things around the house. Pick up groceries for your mom. You know—since you're not here to do it."
I'd planned to be civil, but now I'm pissed. Who the hell does he think he is? He hasn't seen or spoken to me in ten years. He has no clue what my life looks like or what I've been through. I told my parents not to share anything personal with him, so I doubt he knows the first thing about my time in New York. Yet here he is, full of judgment and zero facts.
Fuck. That.
"Let's not do this." I shove my hands into the pockets of my dress. "We don't know each other anymore."
"Oh, but I know you," he says, his voice low and cutting. "You're Delaney James—the girl who left this town, and everyone in it, behind for something bigger and flashier in Manhattan. Guess we weren't good enough for you. You haven't set foot here since you left for college—not once. Got yourself a fancy wedding to some hotshot attorney in a big-name law firm. How's that working out for you?"
My breath catches. I step forward, ready to tell him everything—about Will, the affair, why I'm really here—but movement in the corner of my eye stops me. Jo's slipped out of the kitchen, silent, her expression calm but her slight shake of the head clear: Don't give him the satisfaction.
So instead, I say, "How've you been? Heard you're working for your dad now."
He turns away, grabs a menu from behind the counter, and lets out a short, humorless snicker. "I've got a great life, Delaney. I'm very fulfilled. Thanks for asking."
"Are you trying to convince me, Greyson," I say evenly, "or yourself?"
The cocky smile—the one that used to make my pulse race and my better judgment vanish—disappears. It's been years since I last saw him, back when his early retirement announcement made the cover of Sports Illustrated, but time has only worked in his favor. The boy I left behind—rosy-cheeked, baby-faced—has hardened into a strong, masculine, and impossibly more attractive man, the kind of change that makes women envious and me... unsettled.
