17. Cheyenne
Cheyenne
For approximately thirty seconds, I miss my glam squad. That’s how long I stand in front of the bathroom mirror with eyeliner in hand, debating whether I should attempt a bolder wing or play it safe.
In LA, there’d be three people in this room with me right now. One would be styling my hair as the other applied my makeup. Another would adjust the fall of my dress while reminding me to stand taller, roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, and angle slightly left when the cameras start flashing.
Armor.
That’s what it always felt like.
At every appearance, red carpet, and publicity event, someone was always there helping build the version of me the world expected to see. But tonight, there’s no team. No one fussing or telling me what image I need to project. It’s just me in the quiet of Knox’s penthouse.
I lower the eyeliner and lean closer to the mirror, studying my reflection.
I can do this.
I’ve been walking red carpets since I was eight years old. I know how to paint on confidence. I know my best angles, which side of my face photographs better, and how to smile with just enough warmth to seem genuine.
Still, this feels different.
Maybe because I’m doing all of it myself and I’m not getting ready for an opening or an awards show or some carefully manufactured reality-TV moment designed to stir up headlines.
Maybe because a few hours ago, Knox stood in his kitchen and told me I was his girl now, and I still haven’t figured out what to do with the way those words lodged deep inside my chest.
I smooth a hand over the emerald gown hugging my body.
It’s fitted and elegant, structured through the bodice before narrowing at the waist and skimming over my hips in a way that feels sophisticated.
It doesn’t hide my curves in the slightest, but the cut is too refined to feel obvious.
The rich green makes my eyes look brighter and my hair more auburn than brown.
I turn slightly, inspecting the silhouette before facing myself again. For a moment, I just breathe.
Tonight is supposed to be about optics. About convincing people Knox and I are together. But the thought of spending the evening with him sends my pulse skittering anyway, and not for the first time, I wish I could separate him from the lie we’re selling.
Was it my imagination, or had his voice been filled with possessiveness once we got back here earlier? Then there was the way his gaze held mine as he said words that shouldn’t have sounded so real yet somehow did.
I press my lips together and set the eyeliner down before I stab myself in the eye with it.
This evening is supposed to be simple. We show up together so Dakota can see that we’re really over and he’ll finally leave me alone.
That’s the plan.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
After the fury on Dakota’s face and the bruise darkening Knox’s eye, none of this feels quite as simple as it did when I first let myself into his home and suggested the arrangement.
If I’m being honest, an unsettling amount of my focus has shifted away from Dakota and toward Knox.
Toward the way he makes me feel when we’re together.
More than that, I feel seen with him. I’m not Cheyenne Benson, reality TV star or a shiny product meant to be paraded around in front of cameras.
I’m just me.
Cheyenne.
And that feeling?
It’s totally new and far more addictive than I could have imagined.
I square my shoulders, take one final look in the mirror, and step out of the bedroom. Knox is waiting in the living room with a drink in hand. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
He’s wearing a black tux tailored so perfectly it looks like it was made for him, with sharp lapels, a crisp white shirt, and a bow tie.
His broad shoulders seem even wider wrapped in formalwear.
The bruise under his eye is darker now, marring the edge of all that polished masculinity in a way that shouldn’t make him more attractive.
And yet… it does.
How’s that even possible?
He catches sight of me while lifting the glass to his mouth. The tumbler pauses for a beat before he lowers it again. His gaze drifts over me. It starts at my heels before moving slowly upward with a deliberate heat that feels more like a physical caress by the time it reaches my face.
I get the sense he’s able to strip away every layer I painstakingly covered myself with in the bathroom, exposing all the cracks I’m careful to keep hidden beneath the surface.
Warmth climbs up my neck.
For one suspended moment, neither of us says a word as his gaze stays pinned to me.
He clears his throat. “You’re absolutely stunning.”
The words hit like a lightning strike. Maybe because there’s no teasing within them. No easy grin or playfulness. Just raw male appreciation that makes my belly swoop.
It’s shocking to realize that some small, foolish part of me is pleased that he likes what he sees.
“Thank you.” I force a smile. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”
His gaze lingers another second before lifting to my eyes. “I understand why he’s upset about losing you.” Before I can figure out a response, he adds quietly, “I would be too.”
Heat blooms beneath my skin as my pulse stumbles, then kicks harder.
The compliment sounds almost as if it slipped out before he could think better of it, and somehow, that almost makes it worse.
Or better.
Maybe more dangerous.
I don’t know at this point.
What I do know is that I can’t allow myself to sit with those words for too long, or I’ll start wanting things I can’t afford to want when it comes to Knox McNichols.
“Luckily,” I say, aiming for light and breezy, and praying it comes across that way, “you don’t have to worry about that since this is all for show.”
His jaw tightens. The shift is slight, but I still catch it.
“Right,” he says, voice flatter now. “For show.”
The comment should settle me. Instead, it only makes the blood thrum even faster through my veins.
He crosses the room before stopping in front of me. My breath catches when he reaches out and adjusts the thin strap of my gown where it rests against my shoulder, his fingers grazing my skin in the process. The touch is light. And yet it manages to send sparks shooting through me.
His gaze meets mine. “Ready to go?”
I nod, afraid if I try to speak, my voice will come out sounding like a squeak.
When he offers me his arm, I take it. We head down to the lobby where a sleek, black sedan is waiting at the curb.
The driver climbs out and opens the rear door, but I’m far too aware of the way Knox’s hand lingers on the small of my back as he guides me forward.
“After you,” he says.
I slide onto the leather and settle on the far side of the seat, smoothing my dress with shaking fingers. Knox follows seconds later, his bigger body bringing with it a rush of warmth and that woodsy, expensive scent that makes my belly flip.
The door shuts, and the vehicle glides smoothly away from the curb.
I turn toward the window, watching Chicago drift by in streaks of light and steel as I try to refocus my attention.
But it’s no use. I couldn’t be more aware of the man beside me if I tried.
Of the quiet between us and the subtle tension that radiates off him.
Of the fact that if either of us shifted the slightest bit, our knees would brush.
I keep my hands folded carefully in my lap as I continue staring out the window. I’m trying very hard not to focus on the possibility that his mouth will be on mine again before this night is over. That thought alone is enough to make my pulse race.
Have I ever been this attracted to a man?
I stare harder out the window.
It’s probably best not to answer that question.
By the time the sedan pulls up to the venue, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m calm and under control.
Then the door opens and the world detonates with both light and sound.
Flashbulbs explode the second we step out.
Voices crash over us in waves. My body reacts instantly, years of conditioning snapping into place without a second thought.
Shoulders back.
Chin lifted.
Smile ready.
I know how to step onto a carpet and become the version of myself people expect to see. Although, standing beside Knox changes the equation in a way I’m unable to explain.
“Knox!”
“Cheyenne!”
“Over here!”
I slip into publicity mode, but it feels less practiced tonight because his hand is firm at my waist as he guides me forward.
Every flash seems brighter with him next to me.
Every shouted question louder. Every camera more apt to catch the feelings I’m trying to keep buried beneath the surface so I can pretend they don’t exist.
Zane and Gigi are already halfway down the carpet, posing like they’ve rehearsed every angle. The second Knox appears, attention shifts our way. You can see the moment the couple realizes they’ve lost the crowd’s interest.
Gigi frowns at us before stalking away.
A reporter calls, “Knox! Are you dating Cheyenne Benson?”
And there it is. The question we knew was coming.
I turn slightly toward him, my smile fixed in place. The air shifts before I fully understand what it means. His arm tightens around me, drawing me closer until my side is pressed against his.
The crowd erupts as the voices grow more frenzied.
He leans closer, warm breath brushing my ear. “Are you ready, Hollywood?”
This time, I know exactly what he means, and my heart trips. When I look up, he’s already watching me.
Everything slows.
The cameras.
The voices.
The city.
It all fades to the background as I stare into his eyes and realize he’s giving me a choice in the matter. A split second to decide. A chance to pull back and keep this safe, to let tonight stay inside the boundaries we’ve been pretending still exist.
I don’t take it. The most startling part is that I don’t want to.
His hand slides along my waist as he pulls me closer right before his mouth settles over mine. The first brush of his lips sends a hot, electric jolt straight through me.
Nothing about this feels tentative or rehearsed.
The kiss from last night had been explosive in its own way. It was unexpected, intimate, and charged with all the things we hadn’t yet said.
This one is bolder.
More of a claim.
The crowd reacts instantly. There’s shouting as shutters flash in relentless bursts, but the noise disappears the second his mouth moves against mine. I’ve been kissed on camera enough times to know how to fake chemistry when necessary.
This isn’t one of those times.
There’s nothing staged about the way my body lights up beneath his touch. And there’s certainly nothing practiced about how I melt against him. When his tongue sweeps across the seam of my lips, every coherent thought vanishes as I open for him.
A soft sound catches in my throat as his tongue slides against mine, and for one dizzying, impossible moment, it feels like we’re alone despite the hundreds of eyes on us.
It’s like the world has narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his palm at my waist, and the hard line of his body against mine.
By the time he pulls back, my pulse is pounding so hard, it echoes in my ears. He doesn’t move far, his arm staying planted around me, almost as if he has no intention of ever letting go.
We answer a few questions, or rather Knox does most of the talking while keeping me tucked against his side like he’s trying to make a statement out of our proximity alone. Then he guides me toward the entrance, effectively shutting down everything else as we step through the door.
The sounds from outside dull immediately, replaced by music, polite applause, and the buzz of elegant conversation. Crystal chandeliers throw golden light across the room. Servers weave through the crowd with trays of champagne balanced on their palms.
For a second, I stand beside Knox before sneaking a glance up at him, expecting… something.
Some sign that what just happened hit him as hard as it did me.
But his expression gives nothing away.
It’s controlled.
Unreadable.
As if he didn’t just kiss me in front of the world like he meant every single second of it. He maintains his hold on me, and if I’m being honest, it’s what has me unraveling. Not the cameras or the questions. Not even the fact that the internet is probably melting down right now.
It’s the steady weight of his palm and the fact he hasn’t let go.
For the first time tonight, it truly sinks in that, yes, we came here to send Dakota a message.
But whatever that kiss was…
Whatever it meant…
I’m no longer sure it had anything to do with the cameras at all.