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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I'd forgotten how much I like this city. I'm a Carolina boy through and through, but L.A. has always felt like a second home. Maybe it's the energy, maybe it's the anonymity—celebrities everywhere and I'm just another guy in the crowd. Or maybe it's because when I got called up we were playing the Condors, and even though the Archers won, their fans gave me a standing ovation when I left the mound in the seventh. Hell, maybe it's just the tacos. There's no faster way to my heart than good food.
Whatever it is, I'm glad to be back. And this time I get to take it in slow, with Delaney beside me.
I close the door behind her while she chats up the driver in that sweet, Disney-princess voice of hers. I walk around the car, slide into my seat, and buckle up as we pull away from the curb. She's turned toward me, twisting the ring on her finger—the one I mowed a hundred lawns to buy.
Seeing it on her hand again hit me square in the chest. When I gave it to her, it wasn't just a ring; it was a promise, a flash of the life I wanted for us. If she's wearing it now, it's not because she needs "time." It's because she's scared—of me, of us, of something good actually sticking. But she still came to L.A. with me.
So I need to be patient. Show her I'm not going anywhere. No big speeches, no pressure—just steady proof that I won't hurt her again. It has to be her choice.
I clear my throat, aiming for casual. "So...how was the spa?"
"It was amazing! Thank you so much." Her eyes light up, and a smile breaks across her face. "I had an exfoliation treatment that made my skin feel like silk." She stretches her arm across my lap and rests her hand on my thigh, looking up at me from beneath those long black lashes. "Wanna feel?"
I start at her slightly sunburnt shoulder and trail my fingertips down her arm, stopping just above her wrist. "You're right. Feels like silk."
She smiles, turns toward the window, and watches the city slide by while I study her, wondering if the rest of her feels as smooth as her arm. My jeans tighten as my mind goes exactly where it shouldn't—how soft the insides of her thighs would be against my cheeks with my head between her legs.
She's stunning. That pale-pink dress clings like it was made for her. The scalloped neckline plunges nearly to her belly button, framing her round, flawless breasts. It skims a few inches above her knees, backless all the way down to the dimples at her spine, exposing tan skin and sculpted muscle. Her thick golden hair falls in waves, and the copper-brown shadows on her lids make her blue eyes almost electric.
And her ass—God, that perfect ass. I've never appreciated pink so much in my life.
"Were you able to make all of your phone calls?" she asks.
"I was." Not a total lie. I called Mitchell about the Winston-Salem job. The other calls were about her—lining up tonight, and a surprise for tomorrow. "Got them all done."
