Page 33 of Keep Me Close

It’s almost a surprise to hear Chey’s voice as I step into the entryway. I pause for a moment and listen. It almost sounds like she’s talking on the phone.

Every muscle tenses.

It better not be with her ex.

Just as I get ready to stalk inside, I realize she’s not talking so much as projecting her voice. It’s steady and controlled, a little breathless at the end of each phrase. There’s something different about the way she’s speaking. It’s not casual or one of those playful tones she uses when she’s trying to get a rise out of me. There’s a structure to it. Emotion layered carefully beneath the words.

A few seconds later, she finishes with an exhale before attempting it again, stronger this time.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was running lines.

But why would she do that?

From what Zane has inundated me with about filming his show—trust me, I haven’t asked—he just kind of ad-libs in front of the cameras, saying whatever shit comes to mind. Sure, there might be a direction or topic, but that’s about it.

So, if this isn’t for her reality show, what’s it for?

I carefully round the corner, peek into the living room, and find Chey standing near the windows in black leggings and another cropped sweater. This one is fuzzy and pink. The hem rides up every time she gestures with her arms, revealing that same maddening strip of bare skin above her waistband.

Those damned cropped tops will be the death of me.

Her long auburn hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a few strands have escaped to frame her face. Her lips are pursed as she studies the papers in her hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Chey look so focused. It doesn’t take long to realize I could stand here in the shadows, soaking in the sight of her. I don’t care if she’s staring at a paper or reciting lines.

When I take a step closer, the wood creaks beneath my feet and she startles. Her head whips in my direction, and she quickly tucks the papers behind her.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you’d gotten back.”

“Yeah, you seemed pretty involved in what you were doing.”

She shifts as her gaze flits away and color rises in her cheeks. “Um, yeah. Guess I was.”

There’s something in the clipped way she says it that makes it clear she has no intention of telling me what she was doing. The fact that it chafes my ass as much as it does is just one more blaring warning sign I choose to ignore.

“So, what were you doing?”

She hesitates for a second before shrugging. “Just something for the show.”

I lean one shoulder against the wall and study her. Even though I don’t know Cheyenne well, I get the feeling she’s lying. Or at least not telling me the whole truth.

I don’t like it.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” She pops the P at the end of the word before crossing her arms, trying to play it casual.

I nod once, disappointed when she refuses to divulge anything more.

Instead of pushing, I ask, “How’d shopping go this morning?”

Relief flickers across her face, so swiftly I almost miss it.

“It was good.” There’s a brief pause before she tacks on, “Different.”

“Different how? Isn’t shopping for clothes the same wherever you are?”

Her lips twitch as she huffs out a quiet laugh. “In LA, shopping with women could be considered a competitive sport. Everyone’s pretending to compliment you while mentally tearing you apart.”

That sounds terrible.