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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Greyson stands, brushing the sand from his jeans before holding a hand out to me. From down here, he looks impossibly tall, like he could block out the stars.
"What?" I ask, squinting up at him.
"Come on."
I let him pull me to my feet, my body swaying into his. "You're not about to cut this short, are you?"
He frowns. "Why would I?"
"The bonfire. After Wyatt played, you got all weird and insisted we leave. Said you had to pick up Hercules so your dad could go to bed."
"Oh. Yeah." He runs a hand through his windblown hair, throat bobbing. "Truth? I didn't know if you were staying or going back to New York. I didn't want to get too comfortable—didn't want to get my hopes up if you were just gonna leave again."
The confession steals my breath. "Oh."
He steps closer, brushing a strand of hair off my forehead. His touch trails down the side of my face, lingering at the curve of my throat before sliding to the back of my neck. A shiver ripples through me. The strap of my dress slips off my shoulder, and I watch his eyes follow the movement. His fingers graze my skin as he lifts it back into place—slow, deliberate—before pulling away. Too soon.
"Let's walk," he says.
Our fingers lace, easy and natural, and then—without a thought—he lifts my hand and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. His lips leave a cool dampness there, the breeze fanning it, sending another shiver racing through me. He doesn't seem to realize what he's done. Or maybe he does, and this is just Greyson being Greyson. Affection used to come as naturally to him as breathing. But after all these years, should it still?
We walk in silence, the crash of the waves filling the space between us. Water rushes up, soaking the hem of my dress and sticking sand to my legs. Another wave hits harder, nearly knocking me sideways, and Greyson laughs, splashing water at me with his foot.
I yelp, giggling—an embarrassing, girlish sound—and retaliate with my own splash. He grins at me, wide and boyish, and for a second it feels like no time has passed at all.
"Tell me more about New York," he says.
"What do you want to know?"
"Something you haven't told me. NYU, maybe."
My gaze drifts out over the dark water, my smile fading. "Let's not talk about that."
"How come? I thought you liked it."
"I loved it. I just... think we should talk about something else."
"Why?" His brow creases, his voice soft but edged with hurt. "Why don't you want to tell me about it?"
"My decision to go to NYU is what tore us apart. Who knows where we'd be if I hadn't been so selfish? Things are finally good between us again, and I don't want to ruin it by rehashing the thing that ended us."
