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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We roam around the beach, talking to people as we pass by, and when Jo wanders off to take a call from her mother, I walk down to the water, smiling to myself as I take in the sights around me. There are people making smores, laughing as sticky marshmallow hangs from their chin, and couples cuddled up on blankets, no doubt believing the promises they make to each other tonight will hold up in the future. Cheers and screams come from a group of teenagers playing flip-cup. The fire pops as I walk by, sending bright embers soaring into the night sky, and when the nostalgic, earthy smell of the smoke wraps around me before disappearing into the air, I close my eyes and inhale.
Waves crash against the shore, slapping against my shins, and when a loud shriek comes from behind me, I quickly turn around, only to shake my head and laugh when I see a guy running towards the water with a girl over his shoulder.
New York has a lot of things going for it. It has Nico and Sloan. Amazing nightlife. Opportunities. Beautiful architecture. History and Culture. The fact that no matter what time of night it is you can always find a pizza place that's still serving, but it doesn't have Dawson's Beach. I love this place. Everything about it. The velvety feel of the sand between my toes. The warm sunshine. The way my skin smells when I get out of the water. The memories I've made here. Having a beach nearby was a requirement for me when Greyson and I were planning our life together, and as I look out into the water, I wonder how I've lived so long without one.
Greyson steps in front of me with his hands behind his back. "Hey, you." He tilts his head and smiles at me. "Whatcha doin' out here all by yourself?"
"Just enjoying the scenery." I lick my lips, rolling them into my mouth and lean to the side as I try to peek around him. "What're you hiding?"
"Hiding? Me?" He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get when you're hiding something," I say.
"You remember that look?"
"Couldn't forget it even if I tried." I reach out and grab his arm – my fingers not even close to fitting around his massive bicep – and try to turn him around, but he doesn't budge. "Grey, come on! Show me!"
"Okay, fine," he says, a deep, husky laugh falling from his lips. He hesitates for just a second before he finally gives in and moves his arms from behind his back, and when I see what he's holding, my heart dances with nostalgia. "I brought you a sparkler. I remember how you used to run around your parents' back yard when we were kids with one of these in each hand. You used to believe they were magic and considering all you've been through the last few weeks, and the fact that you haven't had a proper Fourth of July celebration in years, I wanted to give you a little magic."
I look up at him, my gaze roving his face lazily while my body longs for his familiar touch, and smile. "Thank you."
