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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"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 agent's announcement ricochets off the terminal walls, yanking me out of whatever half-dream I'd been clinging to. I'm sprawled across the row of chairs, ankles crossed, arms flung over the empty seats like a ragdoll, mouth dry as paper and eyes heavy and scratchy from too little sleep. There's probably a faint line of drool cooling on my chin, but at this hour I can't even bring myself to care. Dead-body chic at its finest.
I hate mornings.
The sun isn't even up, but the place is buzzing—families herding kids through security, bleary-eyed business travelers hunched over laptops, anxious fliers chasing courage with Bloody Marys. It's chaos wrapped in fluorescent light.
I roll my shoulders, trying to unkink my neck, and glance back just in time to see Greyson heading my way. Two coffees. A paper bag. And that look that makes strangers part like he's royalty. Men whisper his name, women openly drink him in. No matter how many times I see it, it still makes me shake my head.
He's impossible to miss—broad chest in a white henley that clings like paint, sleeves shoved up to reveal veined forearms; khaki joggers stretched over thighs built for highlight reels; white high-tops on his feet. A black Nike cap shields his eyes, but not the jawline that belongs on a magazine cover.
I'd teased him when he tugged the hat on, accused him of being embarrassed to be seen with me. He only laughed and explained: public life. Fans calling his name, shoving phones at him, asking if he'll ever play again. He usually smiles through it, but with me he'd rather fly under the radar.
And yet, even dressed down, he's still the loudest thing in the room.
"Here you go," he says, handing me the coffee I've been dreaming about since the alarm went off.
"Thank you." I jab the straw in and take a long, life-saving 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 lumberjack next to me was judging me super fucking hard, but, baby wants, baby gets."
I arch a brow over my cup. "If I see a headline — Breaking News: Former MLB Pitcher Greyson McKinnie Turns Soft, Orders Oat Milk — I'll write a rebuttal and clarify it was mine."
He smiles at me sarcastically. "You're a saint."
The loudspeaker blares an invitation for first-class passengers to board just as I pull my book from my bag. But Greyson is on his feet, collecting our stuff.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Getting on the plane." He blinks at me like I'm the confused one. "How else are we getting to L.A.?"
