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 in a karaoke bar. An actual karaoke bar. On a Saturday night.
The room pulses with noise – people crowded shoulder-to-shoulder around sticky high-top tables, cocktail glasses clinking beneath neon signs while a woman in silver boots absolutely destroys "Buttons" by The Pussycat Dolls like she's headlining Madison Square Garden instead of standing beside a tiny fog machine.
I already hate this. Mostly because I know that determined look on Greyson's face.
"Okay," he says, flipping through the massive binder of songs with alarming concentration. "We need a duet, obviously, but we also need range. Drama. Emotional devastation."
"We need to leave."
"No, no, stay right here." He turns another page. "What about 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart'? It's classic."
"Greyson."
"Yeah, you're right. Too common. How about – oh my God." He straightens suddenly. "I Don't Wanna Live Forever from Fifty Shades."
"Absolutely not."
"I can hit Zayn's part."
"You definitely can't."
His finger plugs dramatically into one ear before he unleashes a falsetto so violent the woman at the next table actually flinches and turns around.
I rip the binder out of his hands and slam it shut.
"We're not singing."
"Yes, we are."
"No, we're not."
He takes the binder back. "You know, your lack of artistic vision is becoming a serious issue in this relationship."
I stare at him as he flips another page. "Greyson Knox."
He finally closes the book and folds his arms across his chest. "Okay. Explain."
"I'm not getting onstage in front of all these people and humiliating myself." I gesture wildly around the room. "Do you understand how many phones are in here? One bad note and suddenly I'm a viral disaster."
"You're catastrophizing at an elite level right now."
"I'm serious." My stomach turns just thinking about it. "What if my voice cracks? What if I panic halfway through? What if I forget the words and just stand there breathing into the microphone like a serial killer?"
Greyson laughs so hard he has to lean forward and rest his hands on his knees.
"It's not funny!"
"It's a little funny."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Maybe."
Then his expression softens enough to pull the air from my lungs a little. He takes a step toward me, placing both hands on my face until my cheeks squish together beneath his palms.
