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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"Delaney..." A deep, masculine voice cuts through the dark edge of my dream. "Wake up."
"Five more minutes," I mumble into something warm.
A hand slides over my back, rocking me gently. "Wake up, babe."
"Why?"
His breath grazes the shell of my ear. "Because we're here."
My eyelids feel glued shut, but I force them open and blink up at Greyson leaning over me, a soft smile curving his mouth. It takes a second for the world to come into focus—my body curled on my side, legs tucked into the seat, head pillowed on his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, embarrassed. "I hope you weren't too uncomfortable."
"I was perfectly fine." He stands and flips open the overhead, muscles flexing as he lifts down our suitcases. "But I am gonna have to figure out how to hide the giant drool spot you left on my pants."
All the color drains from my face. Drool? If I was that far gone, what else did he witness? My gaze drops automatically to his lap—light pants, easy to see if he's telling the truth—and finds nothing. Dry as a bone. When I look back up, his lips are pressed into a thin line, fighting a smile.
"Seriously?" I ask, already biting back a laugh.
"Got you to look, didn't I?" His smirk breaks free, and he tilts his head toward the exit. "Come on."
We step off the plane, collect the rest of our bags from baggage claim, and walk outside into California light. The sky is a flawless blue, the air crisp and dry, a cool seventy-five degrees that feels like a blessing after North Carolina's heavy heat. The breeze lifts the ends of my ponytail and brushes my cheeks, carrying the faint smell of jet fuel and eucalyptus.
Greyson glances down at his phone as we wait for our ride. "The hotel isn't far," he says, thumb flicking over the screen, "but if all this red is any indication, it might take a while."
We've been trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic for forty-five minutes, horns blaring like some angry brass section. Cyclists weave past our window in streaks of neon, and a jackhammer pounds the sidewalk beside us, rattling my teeth. I glance at the driver's phone—according to the navigation we're only halfway there—and my bladder is begging for mercy.
When my stomach growls loud enough to compete with the construction, Greyson's head swivels toward me. "Hungry?"
"I could eat you right now."
He arches a brow at me, amused, then leans forward between the seats. "Excuse me, sir? There's a parking lot about two blocks up. Can you pull in?"
It takes another twenty minutes to crawl that far, but when we finally reach the lot Greyson pulls out his wallet and hands the driver a thick stack of bills. "Wait for us?"
