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)
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!”