Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
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.”