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. The cool snap in the air could pass for October, even though the calendar still says August—thank you, hurricane season.
I blink at my phone. Not even eight. Who does heavy labor before coffee? Who does anything before coffee?
With a groan, I fling off the comforter. 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, let it swallow me whole, and barely crawl out in time for my own job.
Today, though, I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and twist my hair into a ponytail. Sports bra, black biker shorts are next. If I'm going outside this early, I'm going to make it worth my while. Greyson devoured me like an all-you-can-eat buffet in L.A. and has barely touched me since. I'm about to combust.
Time to flip the script and tease him back.
I slip out the side door, jog up the driveway, and once I'm sure Greyson's watching, turn my back to him and fold over at the waist, ass in the air as I stretch my hamstrings. My hands slide slowly down the backs of my legs, spreading my feet shoulder-width apart, palms pressed to the pavement for a deeper stretch.
When I glance between my knees, Greyson's frozen mid-task—hammer dangling from one hand, the other dragging over his stubbled jaw as he openly stares.
I straighten, plant my hands on my hips, and face him. A mischievous smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as his eyes travel the length of me. He gives my sports bra and tiny shorts two exaggerated thumbs-up. Then, grinning like a kid, he mimes grabbing his chest in a ridiculous motorboat gesture, bites his bottom lip, points from his groin to mine, and starts humping the air like a bad boy-band backup dancer.
I see my dad coming before he does. One swift smack to the back of Greyson's head sends his baseball cap flying. I clap a hand over my mouth to smother my laughter.
"What are you doing?" my father demands, glaring between us. "Are you – are you dry humping the air? That's my daughter."
Greyson's cheeks flame. "What? No... nope."
"You've always been a terrible liar, son."
"You're right. I'm sorry." Greyson scoops up his hat and ducks his head. "I can't help it. I'm just a man."
My father sighs and waves him off. "Get back to work."
Greyson flips his hat backward and winks at me. "Yes, sir."
Deciding I've caused enough trouble for one morning, I take off on my dreaded five-mile run, laughing when I hear my dad scolding him for looking at me like a steak and he's a starving bear. If only my father knew I'd happily let that hungry bear devour me.
