Page 48 of Keep Me Close

I don’t regret a damn thing.

17

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.