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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"You okay?" Greyson asks, his palm settling on my thigh, the weight and heat of it a quiet anchor against the swirl of my nerves. "You're spinning your ring again."
"I'm a little nervous," I confess, trying for a smile. "I've never walked a red carpet before. What if they ask me questions and I just... blank?"
He tips his head, eyes soft. "Don't worry about it. This is my first appearance since retiring, so they'll be far more interested in me. And if they start in on you, I'll step in."
His thumb strokes my leg as he squeezes, reassuring but with a faint crease of concern etching between his dark brows.
"People always did prefer talking to you," I say.
He catches my hand, lifts it to his lips and presses a slow kiss to the inside of my wrist, like a private vow. "Only because I'm standing next to you."
Then the door swings open and our quiet little bubble shatters into noise and flashbulbs, a crush of voices calling names, cameras clicking, reporters angling for quotes. Greyson's fingers thread through mine, his glance over his shoulder warm and steady as he draws me out into the chaos and right into a fear I didn't know I had—walking a red carpet.
The carpet is a tide of celebrities—athletes, musicians, actors, Olympians—gliding past in glittering gowns and tuxedos. I've been backstage with Nico at fashion shows, I've sat at tables with world leaders, I even once ran into Adam Sandler in a Tribeca bagel shop, but I've never felt starstruck—until now.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with an easy grin and a luminous blonde at his side steps up to us, his hand already extended.
"Greyson McKinnie."
"Nick!" Greyson's whole face lights up as they clasp hands and pull each other into one of those chest-bumping hugs. "Good to see you."
"You too." Nick slides an arm around the blonde. "You remember my wife, Justine?"
"I do. It's lovely to see you again," Greyson says, lifting our joined hands to his chest, smiling down at me with a warmth that makes my heart tilt. "This is Delaney. My...Delaney. And Del, this is Nick and Justine Mount. Nick plays for the Angels."
I smile and give a small wave. "Nice to meet you both."
Because of my mother's baseball obsession, I know exactly who they are. She'd combust if she were here.
"You look good, McKinnie," Nick says. "How you feeling?"
"Thanks. I'm much better."
"That's what I like to hear." Nick claps him on the shoulder. "If you ever want to get back into it, coaching, call me. The Saints could use you."
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
A woman across the carpet waves Nick over. He grins. "My agent beckons. It was lovely to meet you, Delaney, and really good to see you, Grey. I'm glad you came."
