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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I'm on a cloud. Something happened last night – we were robbed and held at gunpoint in a dark alley, and I was shot like Patrick Swayze in the opening scene of Ghost, or I died of cardiac arrest in my sleep – because I'm in heaven. I have to be. I'm wrapped in the richest, softest silk atop a bed of the comfiest, most luxurious cotton, and I can feel myself slowly sinking into the cloud as it molds around me, nearly sending me back into the deepest sleep I've ever had.
My eyes flutter open, and I quickly realize I'm in fact not dead, but stretched across the coziest mattress I've ever had the pleasure of sleeping on. I reach across the bed for Greyson, but come up empty, and when I open my eyes completely and lift my head from the pillow, I see that I'm alone. The indent from his head is still on the pillow and the blankets are pulled back, but his side of the bed is cold. He's been awake for a while now.
The sliding door separating the bedroom from the living room is closed over but slightly cracked, and I can hear the faint sound of street traffic in the distance. The people of LA are awake, their day has already started and I'm still in bed, so comfortable I could fall asleep again if I let myself. But sleeping the day away is not the way to spend your time in one of the most exciting cities in the country. I roll over and grab my phone expecting it to be almost noon, and I'm surprised when I see it's barely nine o'clock. With as rested as I feel I assumed it was at least early afternoon.
I throw off the comforter and force myself out of bed, and as I head toward the bathroom, I hear the low hum of Greyson's voice coming from the other room. He's on the balcony, on the phone, and I don't need to see his face to know he's upset about something. I can hear it in his voice. In the gentle lilt as he rattles off question after question. In the way he's trying to be positive and strong for the person on the other line, but if you listen carefully, you can hear the fear behind his reassurance.
I give him his privacy while he finishes up his call, and when he sees me lurking in the doorway he puts down his phone and smiles at me, immediately cheering up.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty."
"Morning. Is there coffee?"
"It's insulting the way you continue to doubt me." He leans down and picks up a tall, plastic cup – a cup with toffee colored liquid and a green straw – and hands it to me. "Of course, there's coffee."
I make grabby hands and eagerly grasp the cup, taking a generous sip. "Mmm. I will never, ever get sick of this liquid gold."
"You know, the fact that you look even more beautiful after just waking up than you do in a full face of make-up and a fancy dress has always amazed me." I put my hand on my hip and tilt my head, arching a brow. "I don't mean that you don't look beautiful wearing make-up and a fancy dress, because last night, baby, you looked incredible. I've just always loved the way you look first thing in the morning." He stands up and closes the small distance between us and takes my face in his hands. "The blue in your eyes is always so vivid right after you wake up, and you get these adorable sleep lines on your face from the pillow. Your hair looks a little like you stuck your finger in an electric socket, but in a really cute way. What I love the most though is that I can see your freckles and your beauty mark. The beauty mark you've always felt insecure about but has always been my favorite feature of yours."
