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.
I wake up so comfortable it takes me a second to remember where I am. The sateen sheets are cool against my skin, the mattress soft enough that every part of me feels heavy with sleep, and for one selfish moment, I consider rolling over and spending the rest of the day buried right here.
Then my hand reaches across the bed and finds nothing.
I crack my eyes open slowly, still foggy from sleep, and find Greyson's side empty except for the impression he left behind in the pillow and the tangled blankets at the edge of the mattress. The space beside me has already lost its warmth.
He's been up awhile.
Muted city noise filters through the suite, muffled by glass and distance, and when I grab my phone from the nightstand, I'm surprised to see it's barely after nine. My body feels far more rested than that should allow.
I shove the comforter aside and head toward the bathroom, still half asleep, but the low sound of Greyson's voice stops me before I make it halfway there. The balcony door is closed, though his voice carries faintly through the glass.
I can't make out the words themselves, only the cadence of them, and that's enough to tell me something's wrong.
He's speaking carefully, one question following another without much space in between, like he's trying to keep whoever's on the other end calm while forcing himself to stay there too. Every now and then his hand drags through his hair before landing on his hip, his shoulders tightening briefly beneath the thin gray T-shirt stretched across his wide back.
I stay where I am instead of interrupting, lingering near the doorway while morning light spills across the hardwood floors. A few more minutes pass before he finally ends the call with a visual sigh and lowers his phone.
It's only when he lifts his head does he notice me.
Something changes in his face immediately. The tension eases out of his mouth first, followed by his shoulders, and by the time he slides the balcony doors open, there's already a smile waiting for me like whatever conversation he just had never happened at all.
"Morning, gorgeous."
I linger in the doorway, watching him for a second while I decide whether to bring up the phone call or let him come to it himself. "Hey. Please tell me there's coffee."
He hooks an arm over the back of the chair and lifts a large iced coffee toward me, condensation dripping down the side of the cup. "Baby wants; baby gets."
I reach for it immediately, making impatient grabby hands until he finally gives it over, and the first sip nearly makes me emotional. "God, I love coffee."
Greyson watches me over the rim of his own cup, amusement pulling at his mouth. "You know, you somehow look even better like that than you did last night."
I lower the coffee slowly. "That feels like a dangerous thing to say to a woman."
His laugh slips out quietly. "I'm serious. Last night you looked..." He wipes a hand over his mouth, searching for the right word before giving up entirely. "Fuck, Delaney."
