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'm on a cloud. That's the only explanation. We must have been robbed at gunpoint in a dark alley, I was shot like Patrick Swayze in the opening scene of Ghost, or I died of cardiac arrest in my sleep—because this has to be heaven. I'm wrapped in the softest bamboo-viscose atop a bed of luxurious cotton, the mattress molding around me until I'm sinking into it, on the edge of drifting off again.
My eyes flutter open and, nope, not dead. Just sprawled across the coziest bed I've ever slept on. I reach across the sheets for Greyson and come up empty. When I lift my head from the pillow his side is cold, the indent of his head still there, the blankets thrown back. He's been up for a while.
The sliding door to the living room is shut, faint street sounds slipping through. I roll over and grab my phone, expecting it to be noon, but it's barely nine. With how rested I feel, I'd have sworn it was later.
I toss off the comforter and pad toward the bathroom, but a low hum stops me—Greyson's voice, muted but intense. He's out on the balcony on the phone, and I don't need to see his face to know something's off. I can hear it in his tone—the gentle lilt as he rattles off question after question, the way he tries to sound steady and reassuring even though there's a thin edge of fear under it.
I give him privacy until he finishes, but when he notices me lingering in the doorway, his expression softens. He sets his phone aside and smiles, bright enough to chase away whatever shadow was there before.
"Good morning."
"Morning. Is there coffee?"
He leans over the arm of his chair and lifts a tall plastic cup. "Baby wants, baby gets."
I make greedy grabby hands until he passes it over, then take a long sip. "God, that's good."
"You look even more beautiful just waking up than you do in a full face of make-up and a fancy dress." I plant a hand on my hip, tilt my head, arch a brow. "That doesn't mean you don't look beautiful in make-up and a dress—because last night, woman, you looked incredible. I've just always loved how you look first thing in the morning."
He closes the small distance between us and takes my face in his hands. "The blue in your eyes is so vivid right after you wake up. You get these little sleep lines from the pillow. Your hair's wild—like you stuck your finger in a socket—but in a cute way," he teases. "And I love seeing your freckles and your beauty mark. The one you've always been insecure about? It's always been my favorite thing about you."
I lean into his palms and look up as he presses his lips to the tiny brown freckles on my cheek. I don't need a mirror to know I'm staring at him like a girl with her first crush. Like a girl in love.
"You're very charming when you want to be."
"I've always been charming. That's how I got you to fall for me in the first place—even with that goofy haircut." He taps the tip of my nose.
