Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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Hercules' collar jingles as he jumps into the air, trying desperately to catch the slow flash of a lightening bug as they float around the back yard. At two years old, he's smaller than most golden retrievers his age, but what he lacks in height and weight, he makes up for in attitude. Big dog syndrome, I think the vet called it. He only gets about five inches off the ground when he jumps and snaps at them, but in his mind, he thinks he's as tall as me.
I watch as he hides his face between his front paws, and sticks his ass in the air, gearing himself up for another attack, but he misses again, and a loud bark erupts from him.
"Hey!" I scold. He turns his head – tail wagging and pink tongue hanging out of his mouth – and it takes everything I have not to laugh. "No barking."
He charges toward me and sits down, resting his head on my knee. His butt wiggling, he looks up at me, blinking in the way he knows I can't resist, and I give in, scratching him behind his ear the way he likes.
"You need a beer?" Mitchell shouts from the kitchen. I hold up my freshly poured glass of scotch and shake it so he can hear the ice ting against the glass. He closes the sliding door behind him and sits down next to me, sighing as he rests his back against the cushioned patio chair. "Where's the Mrs.?"
I chortle at his use of words. "She spent the day with Jo and Hannah at the beach and then they were all going to dinner."
"No wonder you asked me to hang out."
"What's that mean?"
"Don't think I haven't noticed that you've turned Wyatt and I down every time we've asked you to meet us at Jenkin's lately, or that I haven't heard her voice in the background when we're on the phone. Baby, 90 Day Fiancé is starting. Baby, did you remember to buy tampons for me? You're so fucking busted."
I shrug, not giving two shits if Mitchell thinks I'm whipped. "Sorry not sorry."
He laughs and takes a long sip of his beer. "So, how was L.A?"
It's been almost two weeks since Delaney and I got back from our trip, and I've spent nearly every waking moment with her. Hence the reason Mitchell and I are just now catching up. I dropped her off on our way home from the airport, and we spent Sunday apart and with our respective families, but I'm so God damn drawn to her it's impossible to stay away. I texted her and asked if she'd crack her window so I could sneak in – the way I did when we were teenagers – but she told me I needed to be patient, only for her to show up on my doorstep at midnight with an overnight bag in her hand.
We've spent every night together since. My home is now hers.
But Mitchell's question isn't about Delaney and I. It's about the trip in general, and I'd be a liar if I said it was smooth sailing. I was really apprehensive at first. I was afraid what being back in that atmosphere would be like. Would they ask me why I left when I could have pitched in the minors? Would I be shunned by the people I once considered friends? Would I resent Delaney for leaving me when I needed her most? I had a panic attack in the shower the day of the ESPYS, so bad I had to sit on the floor and tuck my head between my legs while I did the exercises my therapist taught me, but Delaney was so excited, and she kept telling me how she couldn't wait to see me in my element, I couldn't tell her how terrified I was. Somehow, I think she knew anyway.
