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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When we get back to the room, Greyson disappears into the bathroom, leaving me alone with the strange nervous energy that followed us and now hangs awkwardly in the quiet space between what happened downstairs and whatever comes next.
Less than twenty minutes ago, we could barely keep our hands off each other in the back of the Uber. Now, standing in a hotel room with the door shut and actual privacy surrounding us for the first time tonight, it feels oddly similar to that night on the beach back home – both of us suddenly careful with each other in a way we hadn't been ten minutes earlier.
Mostly, I think Greyson's worried about pushing too hard. Worried that if he reads something wrong, if he moves too quickly, I'll panic or retreat or decide I'm not ready after all.
Jo helped me pack.
After a pep talk that somehow turned into a persuasive speech and a mild threat to "stop overthinking everything for once in my life," she convinced me to bring one lingerie set. You know, "just in case."
White lace. Tiny bow. Miniscule scraps of fabric somehow marketed as underwear.
It's beautiful. I know I'd feel beautiful wearing it.
My fingers trace lightly across the lace cups before my mind drifts back to Greyson standing in that karaoke bar, smiling at me like I'd done something extraordinary simply because I did something I was terrified of.
Not because I looked perfect.
Not because I impressed him.
Because I was me.
Quietly, I tuck it back into my suitcase beneath the rest of my clothes and grab the pair of pink satin pajamas I brought instead. At the vanity, I pull pins from my hair until soft blonde waves tumble over my shoulders. The lashes come off next. Then the makeup, layer by layer disappearing beneath warm water until it's only me staring back in the mirror again.
Sun-kissed skin.
Freckles.
Nerves and all.
When I step back into the room, Greyson's stretched against the headboard with sheets low around his hips, bare chest exposed beneath the soft glow from the lamp beside him. White fabric peeks above the blankets, and despite everything happening inside my nervous system right now, I immediately recognize the waistband.
Calvin Klein. Of course.
The man modeled for them and apparently walked away with a lifetime supply.
His green eyes lift to mine as soon as he hears me approach, then he opens his arms.
I get in bed and curl into him, letting my cheek rest against the warmth of his chest while his arm comes around me like he's been waiting all night to have me there.
"Thank you for this weekend, Grey."
"Thanks for coming." He presses a soft kiss on my forehead as his fingers move lazily along my arm. "Did you have fun?"
