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 toss and turn most of the night, praying the thoughts in my head will subside and I can sleep. I count sheep. I try yoga poses that are proven to induce peacefulness. I make another cup of tea. I even count the number of first-time designers that premiered at last spring's New York Fashion Week. The bottle of Ambien on my nightstand has been calling my name since I got in bed, but I refuse it. I won't take a pill that was pumped out of my stomach only hours ago.
Once I realize sleep isn't coming, I throw my comforter off me and roll out of bed. I slip on a pair of black leggings and a sports bra, and since it's still a little dark out, I decide to pull on Nico's New York Titans sweatshirt.
The sun has barely crested over the horizon as I step onto the quiet front porch and close the door behind me. Life is so much slower here. Six a.m. in Manhattan looks like people hailing cabs in a rush to get to work. Coffee shops bustling with interns ordering drinks and pastries for whatever business meeting is happening that day. Although I've been away from New York for a while, I know exactly what Will is doing. It's Tuesday, which means he woke up at five o'clock and went to the gym. After his two-hour workout – not a minute more or less – he'll shower, get dressed in one of his designer suits, stop at Manhattan Mocha for a black coffee and an apple muffin, and be at his office and ready for his first client with fifteen minutes to spare.
Will I ever be able to forget about him?
Dawson's beach has always been a sanctuary. A place I always felt safe and content, and it's exactly as I remember it. White sand, littered with tiny pebbles and colorful stones crunch underneath my sneakers. Seagulls cry in the distance as they dive into the water in search of breakfast. The lifeguard stands aren't open yet due to the early hour, but their red flags blow violently in the morning breeze. Streamers of seaweed roll in the surf as tide pools cut wet paths through the sand, and I hear the slide of seagrass behind me as a breeze ruffles through it.
I inhale the briny air, but my moment is interrupted when a golden ball of fluff comes running toward me, nearly knocking me over.
"Well, hello there," I say, brushing my fingers through its fur. "Where did you come from?" The dog – which looks to be a golden retriever – stands on its back legs, its fluffy tail wagging happily. The black pads of its paws are covered in sand and a wet, pink, tongue hangs from its mouth, bouncing up and down as it pants in excitement. "Aren't you adorable. But who do you belong to?"
"Me," a deep voice declares from above me. "He's mine."
His milk-chocolate hair is covered by a plain white baseball hat, and he stands tall, dressed in white, high-top converse, black joggers, and a grey and red raglan sleeve t-shirt. The cotton fabric of his shirt pulls against his muscular chest, accentuating his defined pectorals, and the sleeves are pushed up, exposing about a quarter of his tan, well-developed forearms.
He looks good, and it takes everything I have not to tell him so.
