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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A chorus of drills, saws, and hammers rattles me awake, the sound pouring through my open window like a construction-site alarm clock. Somewhere beneath it, I catch the low murmur of voices and the scrape of lumber across concrete. The smell of fresh-cut wood drifts into my room on a breeze cool enough to pass for October, even though the calendar says August.
Thank you, hurricane season.
I look at my phone.
Not even eight o'clock.
With a groan, I fling off the comforter and sit up. Another hammer cracks outside, followed by the sharp whine of a saw, making it abundantly clear there won't be any falling back asleep this morning.
Since L.A., I haven't logged a single run. Greyson's custom mattress has been too good to leave. Every morning after he goes to work, I sprawl into the middle and let it swallow me whole, barely crawling out in time to start my day.
Today, though, my brain is already moving faster than the rest of me.
Maybe it's the noise outside. Maybe it's the list of things I want to get done before the day is over. Whatever the reason, lying here staring at the ceiling feels impossible.
I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and twist my hair into a ponytail. Sports bra and shorts are next. By the time I lace up my sneakers, the restless energy that followed me out of bed is still there, pressing against my ribs.
A few miles along the water should take care of that.
I slip out the side door and jog up the driveway, slowing when I spot Greyson standing beside what remains of the old deck. He's in a thin T-shirt despite the cool morning air; a tape measure clipped to his jeans and a tool belt hanging low on his hips as he and my father debate over something involving measurements.
My father points at a board. Greyson points at the level. Neither looks particularly convinced by the other's opinion.
The second Greyson notices me, his attention wavers.
Which is exactly the opening I was hoping for.
I turn my back to him and fold at the waist to stretch my hamstrings, taking my time as my hands slowly slide down my legs. The stretch itself isn't unusual. Holding it a little longer than necessary while fully aware of who's watching probably is.
When I glance between my knees, I find him staring.
The board he'd been carrying hangs forgotten at his side, and whatever my father is saying clearly stopped registering somewhere around the moment I bent over.
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Got him.
I straighten slowly and plant my hands on my hips.
Greyson's gaze drifts the length of me without an ounce of shame before he drags a hand across his jaw and exhales toward the sky like a man carrying an impossible burden. Then, because apparently we're both fourteen years old again, he presses a hand dramatically over his heart and mouths something that looks suspiciously like fuck me.
