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 pushes to his feet, brushing sand from his jeans with slow, absent movements, his mind seemingly somewhere else. When he straightens, he reaches for me, his hand open, waiting.
From where I'm sitting, he feels larger somehow – not just in height, but in presence, in the way he stands there like he's already decided something and is just waiting for me to catch up.
"What?" I ask, squinting up at him.
"Come on."
Something in his voice makes me pause. I dawdle for a moment, then place my hand in his and let him pull me up. The movement is quick, my balance catching against him for a second longer than necessary, my hands splayed against his chest before I reluctantly step back.
"You're not about to go all Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, are you?"
He blinks down at me, thrown. "Huh?"
"The bonfire," I clarify, brushing sand from the backs of my legs. "You got weird and dragged us out of there. Something about Hercules and your dad needing to go to bed?"
Recognition hits, followed by a soft exhale through pursed lips.
"Yeah. Uh..." His hand lifts, dragging through his hair, pushing it back before it falls right where it was. He bites the inside of his cheek, gaze drifting past me toward the shoreline. "I got... nervous."
My eyebrows lift as I wait for more.
"Wyatt was playing that song," he continues. " And then you were right there. In my arms." He shakes his head once, like he still doesn't quite know what to do with that. "It felt too easy. Like nothing had changed."
The air between us tightens, becoming heavier, proof that everything matters more than it did five minutes ago.
"As far as New York went, I had no idea what you were doing," he says, glancing back at me. "If you were staying, if you were leaving again... if that was all this was going to be." His jaw tightens just enough for me to notice. "And I couldn't do that. I couldn't sit there with you like that, knowing I might have to let it go all over again."
I draw in a breath like I'm about to answer, then hesitate, my attention fixed on him as I try to catch up to what he just admitted.
"I didn't trust myself to keep it where it needed to be. So I ended it before it had the chance to turn into something I couldn't walk away from."
The words hang between us. I hold his stare, trying to sort through everything – what he's saying, what he's not, what it all means.
"And now?" I ask, my voice not as steady as I want it to be.
He forces out a small breath, something resembling a laugh, but there's nothing light about the way he looks at me.
"And now..." He shrugs, but it doesn't feel dismissive. It feels resigned. "Now I don't think I get a say in it."
