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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Delaney..."
A low voice pulls me out of the depth of sleep.
"Wake up."
"Five more minutes," I grumble, burrowing deeper into whatever I'm lying on.
A hand slides over my back, warm and slow, nudging me. "Wake up, babe."
"Why?"
His breath brushes my ear. "Because we're in L.A."
That gets one eye open.
Then the other.
It takes a second for everything to click into place – where I am, how I'm positioned – curled on my side, legs tucked into the seat, my head resting in Greyson's lap like it's something I do on a regular basis.
Oh my God.
I push myself up quickly, dragging a hand over my face. "I'm sorry," I say, already wiping at the corner of my mouth. "I hope I wasn't –"
"I was perfectly fine," he cuts in, standing and reaching into the overhead, his shirt pulling tight across his back as he lifts our bags down.
I exhale, relieved.
"Although," he adds casually, "I am gonna have to figure out how to hide the giant drool spot you left on the front of my pants."
I freeze.
Drool? I drooled on him?
Horror hits fast and hard as my eyes drop to his lap – light-colored pants, no hiding anything – and I stare for a second too long, searching.
There's nothing. Not a single spot.
When I look back up, he's watching me, that cocky, satisfied smile sitting perfectly on his face.
"You're kidding," I say, a laugh breaking through despite myself.
"Got you to look," he says, completely unapologetic, jerking his head toward the aisle. "Come on."
We step off the plane, collect the rest of our bags from baggage claim, and walk outside into the bright California light. The sky stretches wide and cloudless, an endless blue, and the air – dry, crisp, seventy-five degrees – feels like a gift after the thick, suffocating heat back home. A breeze catches the ends of my ponytail, brushing across my cheeks, carrying the faint mix of jet fuel and something green and clean I can't place.
Greyson checks his phone as we wait for our Uber.
"The hotel isn't far," he says, his thumb moving across the screen, "but if all that red means anything, we're gonna be sitting for a while."
He wasn't wrong.
Forty-five minutes later, we're still crawling through traffic, boxed in on all sides as horns cut through the air in piercing bursts. Cyclists fly past in flashes of neon, weaving between cars like they're late for something, and a jackhammer rattles the sidewalk beside us, the vibration traveling straight through the car and into my teeth.
