Cheyenne
My phone starts ringing before I’m fully awake. For a split second, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me isn’t mine, the sheets smell like laundry detergent instead of the expensive linen spray my mom insists on, and the room is too quiet.
That’s when it all comes rushing back.
Knox’s penthouse.
The Railers event.
Him playing the piano before he pulled me onto his lap and wrapped an arm around me. Then there’s the way he looked at me right before he said we should probably get some sleep.
My stomach flips at the memory.
The phone continues ringing from its spot on the nightstand. With a groan, I grab it without checking the screen.
“Hello?”
“Cheyenne.”
That’s all it takes for my eyes to snap open.
Damn… Mom.
I hate when she catches me early in the morning and I’m too groggy to think clearly.
I push up onto my elbows, wide awake now. “Hi.”
A long, dramatic sigh floats through the speaker. It’s the kind she uses when she thinks I’ve made her life unnecessarily complicated.
“Please tell me you’ve seen what’s going on.”
My stomach tightens. “What are you talking about?”
“The photo, Cheyenne. The one of you and Knox on the red carpet. It’s everywhere.”
I scrub a hand down my face and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, that was all part of the plan, Mom. Dakota needs to see that I’ve moved on.”
There’s a long pause. “Are you sure that’s all this is?”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Of course. What else would it be? He’s helping me out.”
“So there’s nothing to it?”
The question gives me pause. To be honest, I’m not sure what’s going on with Knox. A week ago, I would have snorted and said absolutely nothing, but now…
I’m none too sure.
Is it all one-sided?
I look out the window across the room before forcing the words out. “Nope, nothing to it.”
“Good.” The relief in her voice is obvious. “It’s time to come home, Cheyenne.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“You heard me. Filming starts soon, and we need you here. The network already wants promo shots, and production is asking questions. This little break you took was fine, but it’s over now.”
I stare at the wall, the words sticking in my throat before I force them out. “I’m not sure I want to do the show anymore.”
That comment is met with silence.
When Mom finally speaks, her voice is softer. Which is so much worse.
“Cheyenne… this is how we make our money.”
I swallow.
“You know that, darling.” Her tone shifts into that calm, patient cadence she uses when explaining something obvious to a child. “This is what the fans expect from us. They’ve followed our lives for almost twenty years. They feel like they know you. Like they grew up with you.”
My grip tightens around the phone. I’ve heard versions of this my whole life. The fans. The brand. The business. What sells. Somehow there’s never much room in that conversation for what I actually want out of life.
“Haven’t you learned by now that you need to stick with what works?” she continues. “That’s how our business survives. That’s how we survive.”
My head swims as I remain silent.
She sighs again. “What I’ve learned in the twenty years we’ve been doing this is that you give the fans what they expect. What they want. You don’t pull away when things get uncomfortable. You lean in.”
The familiar words land one after another.
“You’ve worked so hard to get where you are, baby. Don’t ruin it now by taking your foot off the gas pedal. Okay?”
Emotion wells inside me as I stare down at my bare legs. “I’ll think about it.”
It’s the safest answer. The only one I can give at the moment.
There’s a pause, like she’s deciding whether to push harder, before she finally sighs again.
“That’s all I’m asking. For you to think it over.”
“I will.”
“We’ll talk later. And, Chey?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you said there’s nothing between the two of you. But do yourself a favor and don’t fall in love with Knox McNichols. We both know you have terrible taste in men. Hence the Dakota debacle.”
The line goes dead before I can come up with a response. I sit there for a long moment, the phone gripped in my hand, the silence in the room deafening.
I let out a soft laugh that doesn’t feel like a laugh at all.
Well, the woman isn’t wrong. I do have terrible taste in men.
Unfortunately, I suspect her warning in regard to Knox might’ve come a little too late.
I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face before pulling on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt.
My hair goes up in a messy bun, and I don’t bother with makeup.
Going without it the last few days has been nice.
More than nice, actually. It feels like finally being able to breathe.
By the time I open my bedroom door, I’m still scraped raw from the call with my mother.
That’s when the smell hits me.
Coffee. Along with something warm and sweet.
My stomach growls as I step into the hallway and follow the scent into the kitchen, stopping short when I find Knox standing at the stove with his back to me. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low around his hips, and nothing else. His hair is still damp from a shower.
There’s a plate on the counter with French toast.
For a second, I stare in confusion.
Knox knows how to cook?
I definitely didn’t expect that.
He glances over his shoulder. “Morning. How’d you sleep?”
“Um… good.” My brain struggles to catch up with the sight before me. “You made French toast?”
He turns back to the stove and shrugs like it’s nothing. “Not just French toast. But Nutella-stuffed French toast.”
My heart lodges in the middle of my throat. No one has ever made me breakfast before. At least, not someone who wasn’t paid to do it.
I step farther into the kitchen, my gaze drifting over the plate again. “Wow. That’s my favorite.”
“I know.”
I grind to a halt. “I don’t understand. How did you know?”
“You mentioned it to my mom that weekend we were both at the house for Avery’s first birthday.”
It’s hard to believe he remembered something so random after all these years.
I have no idea what to make of that.
I slide onto one of the stools at the island as he sets a mug in front of me. “Can I get sugar and milk?”
“It’s already been added, Hollywood.”
I stare at him, thrown off for the second time in as many minutes. No one’s ever paid attention to me like this. Not in the little ways that matter. That’s all it takes for warmth to spread through my chest. Being here with Knox feels too easy.
Too intimate.
Too real.
How does this man keep surprising me at every turn?
I stare at the coffee for a second before glancing up. “My mom called.”
His expression never falters. “Oh?”
“She saw the photo from last night.”
“Did you get angry Sharon or I-can’t-wait-to-spin-this-in-the-press Sharon?”
I snort. He hasn’t spent much time around my mother, but somehow, he still has her number.
“Neither, really. She wants me to come home.” There’s a pause. “Filming starts soon.”
Instead of jumping in or telling me what he thinks I should do, he merely looks at me and waits. For some reason, that makes it harder. There’s no pressure or expectation in his expression.
Just space.
I pick at the edge of the French toast. “She was kind enough to remind me that this is how we make our money. And it’s what the fans expect from us. From me.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they sound. Kind of like I’m reciting someone else’s script.
Knox leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his bare chest. His biceps bulge in the most distracting way, and it’s hard not to eat him up with my eyes.
“So… What is it that you want?”
The question throws me for a loop. Which seems to be the general theme this morning.
I open my mouth, unsure what to say, before snapping it shut again. Maybe what I want is more time here and mornings like this. More of the woman I get to be when no one is telling me who to become.
Maybe what I really want is more of Knox McNichols.
I stare down at the coffee in my hands, because there’s no way I can say that out loud.