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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The sun slices through the blinds, and pain explodes behind my eyes. I groan into the pillow, head pounding like someone's drilling straight into my skull. My tongue feels like sandpaper. I'd give anything for a glass of water. Sleep did nothing for me – I'm wrung out, body heavy, brain fogged. When I push myself upright, the room tilts, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut until the spinning slows.
The bed beside me is empty, but the comforter's shoved back and the pillow bears the imprint of a head. Delaney. For a second I swear I remember her next to me last night, but that can't be real. Why would she crawl into bed with me after the shit I pulled? If I were her, I wouldn't come near me.
Bits and pieces of last night flicker through the haze. Whiskey burning down my throat straight from the bottle. My voice raised—angry, ugly. Nothing after that. My right hand throbs. When I lift it, the skin is split open again, crusted with dried blood. The cuts from fighting with Will. I flex my fingers, wincing. I don't remember hitting anything else. Christ, what did I do?
One thing I do remember, though. The only thing that matters. My father. The cancer is back. Four words that gutted me, delivered in his calm, steady voice while my chest caved in. Three to six months. Terminal. I couldn't even sit there long enough to let him finish. I'd stood up, body buzzing with panic, skin on fire, and walked out before the walls closed in.
And then Delaney. Standing in the driveway, eyes searching mine, asking if I was okay. She knew something was wrong. She always knows. And what did I do? I shoved her away. Broke up with her instead of just telling her the truth.
She doesn't deserve that. She's been the one asking about my dad every day, dropping off jigsaw puzzles and coconut cream chocolates to keep him happy, checking in with my mom like she's family, offering to drive him to appointments, to run errands. She's been there more than I have. And I told her to leave me.
Now the house is silent. My hand is bleeding, my head is splitting, and my father is dying. And the only person I want next to me is the one I drove out the door.
"Hey," Delaney says softly as she steps into my room.
Her hair's pulled into a messy bun, a few loose tendrils brushing her cheek. She's wearing one of my T-shirts, her pert, rosy nipples poking through the thin white cotton clinging to her skin, hitting mid-thigh on her long, tan legs. She looks like a dream I don't deserve. If I wasn't so hungover, I'd be hard just looking at her.
"Hi," I croak, my voice sandpaper.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I got hit in the head with a fastball." I rake my fingers through my hair, massaging the base of my skull. "My brain hurts."
"You had a lot to drink."
My stomach rolls and I choke down a wave of nausea. "Yeah. Starting to realize that."
