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 toss and turn all night, praying my thoughts will quiet. I count sheep, stretch into yoga poses, brew another cup of tea. I even start tallying the new designers from spring's Fashion Week. Nothing works. The bottle of Ambien on my nightstand calls to me, but I refuse it. Not after it was pumped out of my stomach only hours ago.
When it's clear sleep isn't coming, I throw off the comforter and roll out of bed, slipping into black leggings, a sports bra, and—because it's still dark outside—Nico's New York Knicks sweatshirt.
The sun is just brushing the horizon when I step onto the porch. Life moves slower here. Six a.m. in Manhattan means cab horns, coffee shops crowded with interns, Will already at the gym. By now, he's showering, buttoning one of his designer suits, and grabbing his black coffee and apple muffin before walking into the office fifteen minutes early.
Will I ever stop imagining his routine?
At Dawson's Beach, the air smells of salt and memory. White sand crunches under my flip flops, scattered with pebbles and polished stones. Seagulls shriek overhead as they dive for breakfast. Lifeguard stands sit empty, red flags snapping in the breeze. Seaweed streams roll in with the tide, while dune grass rustles behind me.
I close my eyes and breathe deep. For a moment, it feels like sanctuary again—until a golden ball of fur barrels toward me, nearly knocking me flat.
"Well, hello there," I murmur, brushing my fingers through soft golden fur. The retriever rears up on its hind legs, tail whipping like a metronome, paws damp and sandy, tongue lolling pink and eager. "Aren't you adorable. But who do you belong to?"
"Me," a deep voice says from above. "He's mine."
I freeze, pulse skipping, then tilt my head up. Greyson. A plain white baseball cap shadows his milk-chocolate hair, the brim low enough that his eyes are cast in half-light. He's dressed down—black joggers tucked into scuffed white high-tops—but nothing about him looks casual. The grey-and-red raglan tee clings to his chest, stretching over the solid lines of muscle I used to know by heart. The sleeves are shoved carelessly up his forearms, revealing skin sun-warmed and sinewy, veins faintly visible beneath the tan.
Ugh. He looks so good, and it takes everything in me not to blurt it out.
"Oh," I say carefully. "Hi, Grey."
"Hey."
"What's his name?"
"Hercules."
I cover my mouth, stifling a laugh. "Hercules? Seriously?"
"Yeah. Why is that funny?"
"It's not. Just... fitting. The Sandlot was your favorite growing up. You made me watch it a hundred times."
He snorts. "And you made me watch The Breakfast Club over and over when I had my wisdom teeth out."
"Oh, please." I laugh, a little too brightly. "You were high on hydrocodone. You didn't even see it."
