Cheyenne
Lake Michigan stretches out in front of us, its surface rippling beneath the pale wash of early morning light. Behind us, the city rises in steel and glass, gleaming against a blue sky. Even though the wind coming off the water lashes at my cheeks, I barely notice it.
How can I when the view is this spectacular?
I slow, my lungs burning with the satisfying ache that comes after a hard run, and Knox matches my pace without a word.
It’s strange how easily he falls into step beside me, like it’s nothing, like we haven’t spent the entire morning pretending there isn’t tension crackling between us after last night’s kiss.
For a few seconds, we stand shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, staring out at the water.
The silence isn’t awkward.
And that’s the problem. It would be so much easier if it were.
Instead, it feels charged and far too comfortable. I’m painfully aware of the heat rolling off his body and the rise and fall of his chest. Then there’s the way he jumped into action, tugging me out of the path of an oncoming cyclist before I even realized the guy was about to run me over.
My skin still tingles where he touched me.
I hug my arms around myself, more for something to do than because I’m cold. “It’s gorgeous.”
“It certainly is,” he says, voice low and rough from the run.
I make the mistake of glancing in his direction only to find that he’s not staring at the water but at me. A second later, his gaze flicks away, and I can’t tell if I imagined the entire thing or not.
This man is impossible to read.
I turn back toward the lake before I can embarrass myself. “I like it here.”
The words slip out before I’ve had a chance to fully think them through.
He stills. “You do?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, even though there’s nothing casual about it. “It feels real in a way my life doesn’t back home.”
That’s the only way to describe it. Chicago doesn’t shimmer the way LA does. It doesn’t feel polished within an inch of its life. Out here, nobody seems to care who I am. No one gives me a second glance or stares, trying to place me.
There’s a freedom here I didn’t realize I’d been craving.
Here, I just feel like a person. Not a product or a brand. Or someone who needs to be managed.
Knox looks back out over the water with his hands braced on his hips. “Could you see yourself living here permanently?”
“Yeah, I could.”
What I don’t mention is that it might not be as far-fetched as it sounds. If my plan works out and the audition leads where I hope it does, there’s a real chance I could wind up here for more than a visit. A flicker of hope stirs in me before I can tamp it down.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the wind whistling by and the water slapping against the shoreline. I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to get a read on his expression, but it remains carefully blank.
Does he like the idea of us being in the same city?
Or hate it?
Does it even matter to him?
Probably not.
His jaw flexes once before he says, “That’d be a pretty big move.”
That’s it. There’s no surprise or curiosity. No sign that the possibility of me staying affects him at all. It’s just a careful, neutral observation that gives nothing away.
The tiny spark of hope inside me gutters.
Why do I keep forgetting that what I do doesn’t matter to Knox McNichols?
Last night flashes through my mind. The look in his eyes before he kissed me. The way his hand stroked my jaw. How everything between us shifted for one heated, dizzying second before he pulled back as if he’d touched a live wire.
It’s so tempting to ask if it meant anything.
Or was it just practice?
Did he regret it the second it happened?
Questions climb up my throat, but pride shoves them down as I force my gaze away. If Knox wants to pretend that kiss didn’t scramble the molecules in the air between us, I can do the same.
I force a lightness into my tone I don’t necessarily feel. “We should probably head back. It’s getting late.”
He nods once before we fall into an easy jog again, the lake receding in the distance. The streets are busier now, filled with more cars and pedestrians. The wind carries the scent of coffee, lake water, and the faint bite of exhaust.
Despite the tightness lodged in the center of my chest, I love it.
Unable to help myself, I glance at Knox. He’s all controlled lines and steady strides, and suddenly I can’t stand another second of the quiet, careful strain building between us.
Desperate to break it, I announce, “Last one home cooks breakfast!” Then I take off before the challenge is fully out of my mouth.
There’s no universe where I’ll willingly make breakfast after running five miles.
From behind me, Knox mutters a curse that makes me grin. A second later, his footsteps pound harder against the sidewalk as he surges forward to catch me. I can’t help but laugh as he pulls alongside me, then pushes just enough that I have to work to stay even.
I manage to dig deeper, pumping my arms harder as he does the same.
We’re neck and neck, flying down the sidewalk, and for a few glorious seconds, everything else falls away—the awkwardness, the questions, the ache of wanting something from him that I have no right to expect.
There’s only the race, the rush, and the wild, ridiculous delight of trying to beat him.
We round the corner toward his building, and a prickle slides down my spine when I catch sight of a guy gesturing wildly at the doorman. The harsh edge of a raised voice cuts through the morning air as it carries across the sidewalk, and my pace falters.
“Don’t you know who I am? I’m Dakota Fleming! I want to see Cheyenne right now! I know she’s here! Let me in!”
I stutter to a stop so abruptly, my shoes skid on the pavement and I almost trip. It takes half a second for my brain to catch up with what I’m seeing.
Dakota.
He’s standing at the entrance to Knox’s building, arguing with the doorman.
My stomach drops until it feels like the ground has disappeared beneath my feet.
Beside me, Knox stops too. Without hesitation, he slips an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
His gaze stays locked on my ex. “Is that him?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
As if sensing our presence, Dakota’s head snaps toward us. His gaze lands on Knox first before darkening. Then it shifts to me, and something feverish flares in his expression.
My muscles freeze as he stalks toward us. There are shadows under his eyes, and his hair is sticking up in every direction, as if he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours. He looks rumpled and wild. Not at all like the polished version of himself he normally presents to the world.
My skin crawls at the fact that he was once again able to figure out where I am so quickly.
“Cheyenne!” he yells. “Why are you ignoring me?”
Knox’s arm tightens around my shoulders, his strength steadying me just enough to allow me to breathe. As tempting as it is to stay tucked against him, I force myself to step away.
“Dakota,” I say, relieved my voice comes out sounding steady when my pulse continues to riot. “You need to stop doing this. We’re not together anymore.”
His expression crumbles. “Chey, I love you. Whatever happened between us, we can fix it. Just give me another chance.”
My stomach twists.
What started as attention became expectation and then pressure. There was guilt every time I wanted space or didn’t answer the phone quickly enough. Boundaries weren’t something he understood. Instead, he just kept pushing until it felt like I was suffocating.
And now, even after the breakup, he’s still doing it. Still trying to force his way into a life I no longer want him in.
“I’m sorry,” I say, tone firm. “It’s not going to work between us. You need to find a way to move on without me.”
He shakes his head, as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “There’s no way for me to do that. Don’t you understand how much I love you? How much I’ve given up for you?”
There it is again.
The guilt and obligation.
The same old trick of making me responsible for his choices, his feelings, his spiraling.
“I didn’t ask you to give up anything for me.”
Before the conversation can continue, Knox steps forward. Not enough to completely block me but enough that his bigger body becomes a barrier between us.
“Look, man,” he says. “Cheyenne already told you she’s not interested in reconciling. You need to accept her decision.”
Dakota doesn’t spare him a glance, and it unnerves me more than if he’d started shouting.
Gaze pinned to me, he jerks a thumb toward Knox. “Did you dump me so you could hook up with some meathead hockey player?”
“Dakota,” I warn.
His eyes flash. “Were you cheating on me? Is that what happened?”
“No. Of course not.”
His breathing turns ragged as his gaze shifts to Knox. The hatred in his expression is enough to make my blood run cold. “You’ll last a week,” he snaps. “Maybe two.”
“It’s time for you to go,” Knox says. Even though his voice remains calm, I hear the danger simmering beneath it.
Dakota gives a strange, slow nod. “You’re right. I should go.”
Relief flickers through me when he turns as if he’s going to leave before quickly pivoting and taking a swing. It all happens too quickly for my brain to process as his fist slams into Knox’s face with a sickening thud that echoes in the crisp morning air.
I gasp as Knox stumbles back a step. “Dakota!”
Without another word, my ex takes off down the sidewalk without so much as a backward glance, disappearing around the corner before anyone can stop him.
For one stunned second, the world goes silent before sound rushes back in all at once. There’s the pounding of my heart, the distant blare of a horn, and the doorman shouting behind us.
I’m on the move before I realize it, rushing to Knox’s side. “Oh my God.” My voice quivers. “A-are you okay?”
He straightens slowly, pressing his fingers to the darkening skin beneath his eye. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” My hands shake as I reach for him. “You were just sucker punched in the face.”
Knox catches my wrists gently before I can fuss too much. “I’m okay. Really.”
I can’t help but stare at the bruise already forming beneath his eye, and guilt slams into me so hard I can barely breathe.
This happened because my ex followed me to Chicago and I didn’t realize how serious the situation had become.
Some part of me kept telling myself he was heartbroken and struggling to let go.
I glance down the street in the direction where he disappeared, and the last of my denial shatters.
Heartbroken men don’t show up at apartment buildings and scream at doormen. They don’t ignore every boundary you set and blame you for their choices. And they sure as hell don’t throw punches when they don’t get their way.
A chill skates over my skin, colder than the wind off the lake.
Dakota isn’t devastated. And he isn’t just too intense or overly emotional.
For the first time, the reality of my situation sinks in.
Dakota isn’t heartbroken. He’s unhinged.