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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Greyson texted me this morning: Be at my place at seven. Bring an appetite. Just those words had been humming under my skin all day, as if he'd slipped a spark beneath my rib cage.
By mid-afternoon my skin is still tingling from the full-body wax I put myself through and my toes are painted a shade of red I've never dared before. It's ridiculous, I know—spending an entire morning on myself just because Greyson's making dinner tonight—but I couldn't help it. Ever since the fight with Will, Greyson's been this steady, gentle force. He stayed after my diner shift one night, wiping down tables with me while I vented about lawyers. He leaves notes on his pillow for me to wake up to when he leaves before me in the morning. On the nights I don't stay with him, he never forgets to text me goodnight. He's protective without smothering, tender in ways I forgot a man could be.
Tonight isn't just dinner; it feels like a marker in whatever we're building together.
I pull into the driveway and gather my shopping bags from the passenger seat, still thinking about tonight—what he'll cook, what he'll say, how it will feel to sit across from him without the shadow of Will between us. As I climb the front steps a golden blur shoots across the yard. Hercules barrels toward Greyson's work truck parked in front of the McKinnies, and a beat later Greyson himself appears, lagging behind. My heart jumps, and before I can stop it a smile bursts across my face.
"Greyson, hey!" I call, jogging toward him.
He doesn't turn right away, but when he finally does, a strangled sound slips from my throat, and I stop short. Greyson's usually windburned cheeks are chalky, his lips drained of color, sweat glistening on ashen skin. His clear green eyes are bloodshot, lashes wet, and the look he gives me is distant—like he doesn't even know me. A chill snakes up my spine.
"Uh... hi," he says, voice thick and rough, as if he's been crying. "Hey, Delaney."
He never calls me Delaney. Something is wrong.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." He opens the truck's passenger door and whistles for Hercules. "What's up? What do you want?"
His brusqueness knocks me off balance. "I was just checking if you needed me to bring anything tonight."
"What's tonight?"
My stomach flips. "Dinner. You invited me over."
"Sorry. I forgot."
He stares at the pavement, cracking his knuckles—something I've never seen him do—refusing to meet my eyes. Even Hercules stays in the truck instead of tumbling in the grass. My pulse ticks up.
"Are you sure you're all right?" I touch his arm, trying to soothe. "You can talk to me if something's wrong."
"I said I'm fine, Delaney," he snaps, making me flinch and pull my hand back. Heat rises up my neck, a prickle of panic flaring in my chest.
