Knox
The elevator ride up to Cheyenne’s hotel suite is made in silence. I can’t stop staring at her reflection in the mirrored wall. Beneath the flush of her cheeks from her run, she’s pale, and her brow is furrowed with concern.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen Chey scrubbed clean of makeup and her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. Somehow, she looks even better like this than when she’s all made up.
I wouldn’t have expected that.
What can’t be denied is that she appears wrung out. Like the roses and note stripped away whatever armor she’d managed to wrap around herself this morning.
She’s unfiltered and real in a way I’m not usually privy to. Raw, tired, and looking much too human. My chest constricts as I continue studying her reflection. Maybe it’s because I’m used to seeing her put together and untouchable. Every inch locked down tight.
When she wraps her arms around herself, it takes every ounce of control not to pull her against me. Although, it’s highly doubtful she’d welcome the comfort.
Especially from me.
It’s a relief when the doors slide open on the sixth floor and Chey steps out. I trail behind her, watching as she fumbles with the keycard against the lock before the light flashes green and the door opens.
“Give me ten minutes,” she mutters, beelining for the bathroom. “I need to shower first. Then I’ll pack everything up.”
The door closes behind her, and a second later, the water starts running.
With her distracting presence gone, I take the opportunity to glance around the room.
For a hotel suite, it already feels like her.
Not because there’s clothing tossed over a chair or a half-zipped makeup bag on the counter.
It’s the light, beachy, and feminine scent that has already permeated the air.
The very same one that’s been fucking with my head for years.
On the vanity sits a small bottle of perfume.
Before I can think better of it, I lift the crystal container to my nose.
It smells exactly like her. Sunshine and salt air, with a hint of floral sweetness underneath.
I love this damn scent. Ever since I met her, it’s been lodged in my head like a splinter I can’t dig out.
The thought hits me a second too late that I’m standing in Cheyenne Benson’s hotel room, sniffing her perfume like some kind of psychopath.
That’s all it takes for me to set the bottle back exactly where I found it and rake a hand through my hair before staring out the window, trying to get a grip on my emotions.
This already feels like too much.
Being in her space, breathing her in, and seeing little signs of her everywhere I turn, is intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. And it’s only going to get worse with her living in my penthouse.
The shower cuts off, and a minute later, the bathroom door opens. Chey steps out wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders in auburn strands. My gaze drags over her before I can stop it. She’s all long legs and bare shoulders as water glistens against her skin.
She freezes. “I, ah, forgot to bring clothes in with me.”
My throat dries, making it impossible to swallow.
Every instinct tells me to look away. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I stare a beat too long before forcing my gaze to her face and then somewhere over her shoulder.
If I keep looking at the way that towel hugs her body, I’m going to close the distance between us and—
That thought is derailed by the ringing of her phone. She glances at the screen on the bed, and her expression tightens.
When she doesn’t make a move to answer it, I blurt, “What’s wrong? Don’t want to talk to your mom?”
“Not really,” she says with a sigh. “Although, I should probably bite the bullet and just get it over with.”
Before I can ask what that means, she picks up the call.
“Hey, Mom.” After a quick glance in my direction, she turns away and lowers her tone.
Even though she’s not on speakerphone, Sharon’s voice booms across the line loud and clear.
“Cheyenne Marie Benson, you need to stop playing games and get your butt home right now,” her mother snaps without preamble.
Chey’s shoulders hunch. “I told you, I need a few weeks.”
“There are contractual commitments to think about. You don’t just get to disappear on a whim like some nobody.”
My jaw clenches.
“It’s not a whim. Dakota—”
“For goodness’ sake, you’re making too big a deal out of that situation. The show comes first. You know that.”
Irritation floods my veins. Only now does it become clear that Cheyenne didn’t come here just to get away from Dakota but everything else as well, including her family.
The woman on the other end of the phone should be worried that her daughter was scared enough to run from her own home. Instead, all she cares about is filming schedules and contracts.
“I need a break. Just for a few weeks,” Chey says, her voice growing thinner and smaller with every word.
It pisses me off that Chey seems to fold in on herself with every clipped response from Sharon. More than that, I hate the way she clutches the phone tighter while wrapped in nothing but a towel, looking young, tired, and cornered in a way I’ve never seen before.
The Cheyenne I know is sharp-tongued, polished, and can hold her own against anyone. Especially me. This version is wilting before my very eyes.
“Mom—”
Without realizing it, I stride across the room. There’s a split second where even I know I’m crossing a line, but that’s not enough to stop me. I hold out my hand, and for a brief moment, Chey’s eyes widen. It’s almost a surprise when she allows me to take the slim device.
“Hey, Mrs. B,” I say smoothly. “It’s Knox McNichols.”
My gaze stays pinned to Cheyenne. Her eyes are huge as her fingers tighten along the edge of the towel wrapped around her chest. A flush rises in her cheeks. I can’t tell if it’s anger, embarrassment, or the aftershock of everything that’s happened in the past hour.
“I just wanted you to know that Chey is with me.”
There’s a moment of silence from the other end before Sharon’s tone does a total one eighty. “Knox, darling. I had no idea you and Chey were even in contact.”
I keep my expression neutral even though disgust crawls down my spine. “Sure, we’ve always been friends. Chey will let you know when she’s ready to return. Sound good?”
“I—”
I don’t give her a chance to respond before ending the call.
Rude?
Probably.
But I’m irritated at how this woman is treating her daughter.
The room is plunged into silence, thick with everything I just set into motion.
Chey stares at me in shock before whispering, “I can’t believe you just did that.”
Honestly? Neither can I.
I glance at the phone in my hand before passing it back to her. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the cell, and I catch the smallest tremor there.
She’s still shaken. But there’s something else in her expression.
Relief. Probably a fair amount of disbelief. And maybe even a little bit of gratitude, although it’s doubtful she’d admit to it.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Looks like there’s no turning back now, Hollywood.”
Still clutching the towel like it’s the only thing holding her together, she lets out a huff that might have passed for a laugh on any other day.
The truth is, Dakota or not, there’s no version of this scenario where I walk out of this hotel suite and leave her here alone.
That should be my first red flag. Instead, all I can think about is how having her sleep just across the hall from me is going to test my restraint in ways I’m not ready for.
Still… I don’t hate the idea.
Not even a little.
If anything, I want this woman closer.
Which is probably the biggest red flag of all.