Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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I've done my best to avoid Greyson. When I go to the bar to get a drink, I stand on the opposite end of where he's sitting. When I sit down to rest my feet, I get up when I see him coming toward me. I take the long way to the bathroom, but when I'm on the dance floor, I can't help but peek at him from across the room, and every time I do, he's watching me through the smoke and flashing strobe lights. His eyes are piercing, and I can't say drunk me doesn't throw extra sway in my hips knowing his eyes are on me.
He looks good. His wavy, brunette locks are perfectly disheveled, like he woke up five minutes before he was supposed to leave, ran his fingers through his hair and walked out the door. He's dressed in a white, button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up and exposing his taut forearms, dark jeans and leather, mocha-colored, lace-up boots. Light scruff decorates his chiseled jawline, and I imagine how it would feel to drag my hand across his cheek, feeling the soft hairs underneath my fingertips. And his eyes – the eyes that have always been my kryptonite – are just as mesmerizing as they used to be.
Despite everything, I'm having fun. Jo and I have spent most of the night dancing and singing along to the music like we're eighteen again, and it's been a good distraction, but I know my euphoria is due to the amount of alcohol I've had. I'm not actually happy. I'm numb, but I feel good for the first time in weeks. I know I should slow down but I don't want the high to end. I want to forget everything for a night.
I just want to forget.
"I need a drink," I tell Jo, shouting over the music.
I push my way through the throngs of sweaty people crowding the dance floor and stumble toward the bar.
"What can I get for you?" the bartender asks.
He's handsome, raven black hair cut into an impeccably groomed fohawk, a sharp jawline and icy blue eyes, but he doesn't hold a candle to the guy I've been avoiding all night. The guy who – though he despises me – has made me feel like the most beautiful girl in the room tonight.
I slap my hand drunkenly on the bar top. "Bourbon. Rocks. Vamos, por favor."
Tapping my fingernails on the bar, I look toward the dance floor to check on Jo, and when I see that she's okay, I turn back just as the bartender places my drink in front of me. As I lift it to my lips and take a sip, someone sits down next to me. The familiar scent of his spicy cologne surrounds me, and I grip my cold glass as I let out a shaky breath. I don't need to look to see who it is. I already know.
I want to be annoyed that out of all the beautiful women in this club, he chose to sit next to me. I want to be annoyed that he won't just leave me alone. I want to be annoyed that when he's within six feet of me, I feel more alive than I have since the day we walked away from each other, but I'm not. I feel exhilarated instead.
"Can I help you?"
"You're avoiding me," he says.
"Well, you haven't exactly given me a warm welcome since I've been back. Do you blame me?"
