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 pulse of what might happen next. We couldn't keep our hands off each other in the Uber, but now—behind a closed door—it's like we're back on that beach, nervous and unsure. Mostly, I think he's afraid that if he pushes too hard, I'll retreat like a startled turtle.
Jo helped me pack. After a long pep talk, she convinced me to bring one lingerie set "just in case." Baby-pink, plunging lace cups with a tiny bow and an even tinier scrap of matching fabric disguised as underwear. It's gorgeous. I know I'd feel sexy in it. But is that what Greyson expects?
"No," I whisper to myself. "He wants me, not the outfit."
I shove the lingerie back under my clothes and slip into a white satin pajama set instead. At the vanity, I let my updo fall so my soft blonde waves spill over my shoulders. Off come the false lashes, then the heavy makeup, until it's just me again—sun-kissed cheeks, freckles, nerves and all.
When I step out, Greyson is propped against the headboard, sheets pooled low on his hips, the hard plane of his chest bare. The white fabric barely hides the black Calvin Klein briefs I don't have to see to know he's wearing; he modeled for them once, and it still feels like he has a lifetime supply. He smiles and opens his arms with a small nod.
I curl against his warmth, resting my cheek on his chest.
"Thank you for this weekend, Grey."
"Thanks for coming. Did you have fun?"
"So much fun."
"Yeah?" His fingertips drift up and down my arm, slow and teasing. "What was your favorite part?"
"The hotel rooftop. That was amazing."
"What about the ESPYS?"
I bite my lip, searching for a safe answer. "They were great. Definitely an experience."
"You're such a terrible liar." He digs his fingers into my ribs, and I squeal and squirm against him. "You hated it."
"I didn't hate it," I murmur. "I just found it a little boring. Awards shows lose their magic when you're watching them live and see all the behind-the-scenes stuff."
"Why do you think I wanted to leave so badly?"
Silence settles over us, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only sound. My fingernails trace slow, absent-minded patterns over Greyson's chest as the night rewinds through my mind.
"Nick Mount seems nice," I say at last.
"Yeah, he's awesome. Most down-to-earth guy you'll ever meet." He pulls me a little closer and presses a kiss into my hair. "I was pitching to him when my arm blew. He saw the whole thing. Came to the hospital after my surgery, kept in touch all these years. I tried like hell to keep it quiet, so besides my family—and yours—he's the only one who knows the full story. I never even told Mitchell."
