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've kissed a lot of women. An easy feat when you're a rich, good-looking athlete with social status. That's not me bragging – it's simply a fact. Ask any athlete, movie star, director or talent agent, or musician and they'll tell you the same thing. When you have money, or power, or status you can pretty much get whatever you want, whenever you want. I've lived a dream life, in which my opportunities have given me the chance to spend time with models, actresses, socialites, and even some reality stars. They were all beautiful – and blonde, of course – with what some might consider perfect bodies, bank accounts that rivaled mine and the understanding of what it means to be in the public eye.
Most of them were great company – with the exception of a few who tried to trash me in the tabloids because I stuck to my one-and-done deal – and not at all the high-maintenance bitches the media portrays them to be. Things were easy. We hung out and fucked, we had fun, but none of them were Delaney. None of them ever made me feel the way she does. They never made me laugh until I'm in tears or smile so big my cheeks hurt. They never made me want to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to wait in line at Starbucks with the rest of the world to order a ten-dollar coffee that immediately strips me of my man card the second the words 'with oat milk and extra caramel drizzle please' come out of my mouth.
They never made me so happy I roll out of bed with an animated bluebird on my shoulder while I whistle "Walking on Sunshine," or so angry I see red. None of them ever brought out the protective instinct in me like Delaney does. She doesn't call me The Hulk for no reason. I never worried about hurting their feelings when I'd call them an Uber after our time together was over. From the second I'd pick them out in a crowded room, there was never anything between us other than a sexual connection – for me anyway. I never got personal, or left time for conversation, or asked for their phone number. None of them ever made me want to open my heart and risk loving someone again. Maybe that's because I've never taken the time to heal after Delaney and my break-up, or because I gave my heart to her when I was fourteen years old, and never took it back. Shit, maybe it's because I've already had perfection and lost it, so I know that nothing and no one will ever measure up. Either way, I was never willing to test the theory.
None of them had her flawless, heart-stopping smile – the one that stops me in my tracks and makes me say yes to whatever it is she's asking of me. Their noses didn't crinkle when they'd laugh, accentuating the freckles sprinkled across their skin. They didn't have her eyes – sparkling, sapphire blue pools I'll voluntarily drown in. None of them knew that I cry like a baby at any commercial involving an old person who's alone at Christmas, or when Shadow comes limping over that hill at the last second in the first Homeward Bound movie, and none of them knew that the way to calm me down when I'm upset is to put my head in their lap and run their fingers through my hair.
None of them made me feel safe and stable the way she does, or as happy as she does, or turn me on the way she does, and none of them ever kissed me the way she does. They didn't taste the way she does, and fuck does she taste good. Like peach pie, and bourbon, and some kind of fruity lip gloss – watermelon maybe. She's like one of those frozen cocktails you drink while sitting poolside at a fancy, Caribbean all-inclusive resort.
