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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I've done my best to avoid Greyson. At the bar, I plant myself on the opposite end. When I sit to rest my feet, I get up the second he heads my way. I even take the long route to the bathroom. But on the dance floor, I can't resist glancing across the room – and every time, he's already watching me through the haze of smoke and strobe lights. His gaze is sharp, and drunk me can't help but add a little extra to sway to my hips knowing he's looking.
He looks incredible tonight – and it's annoying. His wavy brown hair is perfectly disheveled, like he rolled out of bed, ran a hand through it, and left. A white button-down with rolled sleeves shows off lean, taut forearms; dark jeans and mocha leather boots ground him. Light scruff shadows his jaw, and I imagine how it would feel beneath my fingertips. And those eyes—my oldest weakness—still hit me like they always have.
Despite everything, I'm having fun. Jo and I have been dancing and shouting lyrics like we're eighteen again. It's a welcome distraction, though I know it's the alcohol talking. I'm not happy—I'm numb. But I feel good for the first time in weeks, and I'm not ready for the high to end. I just want to forget.
"I need a drink," I shout to Jo over the music.
Pushing through the crush of sweaty bodies, I make it to the bar. The bartender's handsome—raven hair in a perfect fauxhawk, ice-blue eyes, a sharp jaw—but he's nothing compared to the man I've been avoiding all night. The man who, despite everything, still somehow makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the room.
"Bourbon. Rocks. Vamonos, por favor," I tell him, my hand hitting the bar.
While I wait, I do my best friend duty and check for Jo on the dance floor – she's fine. When I turn back, my drink is waiting, and as I take a sip someone slides onto the stool beside me.
His spicy cologne curls around me, stealing my breath. I grip the cold glass, my pulse kicking. I don't need to look. I already know.
I want to be annoyed that out of all the women in this club, he chose me. That he won't just leave me alone. That being this close to him makes me feel more alive than I have since the day we walked away from each other. But I'm not annoyed—I'm exhilarated.
"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?"
"You broke my heart. Do you blame me?" His deep voice carries accusation.
I finally look at him, my gaze catching on his lips before I sigh. "I'm not doing this, Grey. Not tonight."
"Fine. But at the risk of us having a pleasant conversation, you look..." His hand rubs his jaw as his eyes trail slowly over me, no pretense of subtlety. Heat floods my skin, my heartbeat hammering as his tongue glides across his bottom lip. A shiver climbs my spine, and my fingers ache to reach for him, to touch, to remember. Instead, I circle the rim of my glass, grounding myself. His eyes darken when they fall to my chest, and when they finally lock with mine, the crowded room disappears. It's just us. "Absolutely stunning."
