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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"Flight 8109 from Wilmington to Los Angeles will start boarding in five minutes. Again, this is your five-minute call for flight 8109 from Wilmington to Los Angeles."
The gate agents voice booms around the terminal and startles me awake. My legs are stretched out in front of me and crossed at the ankles. My arms have fallen to my sides and are resting on the open seats next to me, and I have cotton mouth, which can only mean my jaw has been hanging open like a corpse on an autopsy table.
I hate waking up early.
The sun isn't even up yet and so many people are already on the move. The check-in counter is packed with travelers carrying small suitcases and carry-on bags. Restaurants and bars are filled with diners and nervous flyers gaining some liquid courage for their flight. Parents are trying to wrangle and distract their kids as they run around like this tiny terminal is their home, and men and women dressed in business attire have their laptops and phones plugged into the outlets and charging stations as they frantically type away and make phone calls.
I sit up, rolling my neck and shoulders to ward off the stiffness from the awkward position I fell asleep in, and when I look over my shoulder, I spot Greyson making his way toward me, two large coffees and a pastry bag in his hand, and as I take in the reactions of the people around him, I can't help but shake my head in amazement. It's something I'll never get used to. Crowds separate. Men stare and point in recognition and women of all ages gawk and shamelessly check him out, as if he's fresh off the cover of GQ magazine, and with the way he looks right now he may as well be.
He's flawless. His massive upper body is dressed in a white henley that looks like it's been painted on, and the sleeves are pushed up just enough to expose the thick veins on his forearms. He's wearing a pair of khaki joggers, and they're a little tight on his brawny thighs, causing the wonder that is his ass to look absolutely incredible, and his favorite pair of white, high-top Converse are on his feet. There's a simple black Nike hat on his head, the brim pulled down low over his eyes.
I teased him when he slipped it on, asking if he was so embarrassed to be seen with me he felt the need to cover his face, and he explained what it's like for him to be in public. People bombard him. They shout his name and ask for his autograph. They hold their phones up, sometimes shoving them in his face, taking pictures of him and with him. They hound him with questions like, will he ever play again, what was it like to have to retire so young, and what's he doing now? He said he usually entertains the attention to a certain extent, but since he's with me, he doesn't want to draw a crowd if he can help it.
"Here you go," he says, handing me the coffee I desperately need.
"Thank you." I stick the straw in my cup and take a long sip. "You asked for oat milk, right?"
He sits down and glares at me. "Babe, come on. Do you know who you're talking to? Of course, I asked for oat milk. My balls physically retracted into my body when I placed the order, and I'm pretty sure the strapping lumberjack next to me was judging me super fucking hard, but, baby wants, baby gets."
