Page 62 of Keep Me Close

I toss the phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. I was just helping her out.

That’s it.

I was never supposed to get obsessed.

All right, maybe I’ve always been a little obsessed with the woman. Her living in my penthouse has just made it impossible to ignore.

I roll onto one side, then my back before flipping onto the other, but sleep refuses to come. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her against me all over again. The way she fit in my arms, turning pliant when I touched her. The way she looked standing in my living room with gratitude radiating from her, and that goddamn dress wrapped around her body like temptation.

My brain takes a turn for the worse, picturing her across the hall, curled up under the covers with her long auburn hair spread out across the pillow.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

That’s exactly the image I don’t need in my head right now. Eventually, I give up pretending there’s any chance I’m going to fall asleep, and shove the covers back, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool beneath my feet as I move down the hall, keeping the lights dim.

The baby grand sits near the wall of windows, black and glossy against the Chicago skyline. I stop in front of it for a second before settling on the bench. Playing the piano is something I learned as a kid when hockey wasn’t enough to burn off the restless energy building inside me. Dad claimed it was good for discipline.

For control.

I let my fingers move over the keys without thought or plan.

Just instinct.

The first notes are low and steady. Simple chords that fill the room and float through the quiet of the penthouse. After a few minutes, my shoulders begin to loosen. The tightness in my chest eases as the melody builds, and for a few minutes it almost takes my mind off her.

Even as the music carries through the dark, there’s one thought I can’t outrun.

Chey is here, in my home, filling a space I’m no longer sure I want to live alone in. My hands continue moving over the keys, but the pressure building inside me is too much to pass off as simple lust.

This isn’t just about wanting her.

It’s about wanting more.

More time.

More moments.

More of this closeness that was never supposed to exist between us in the first place.

And I’ve never wanted anything to feel less temporary than Chey Benson.

21

Cheyenne

I roll from one side of the bed to the other until the sheets are twisted around my legs like restraints. Every time I close my eyes, Knox’s face flashes in my mind. The bruise blooming beneath his eye. The way his jaw flexed when he told me he was fine, like he could will the whole encounter into nothingness if he said it firmly enough.

This was supposed to be simple. Instead, the man now has a black eye because of me.

And the worst part?

I’m not just lying here feeling guilty; I’m thinking about him and wondering if he’s awake. I’m wondering if his eye hurts, and if he’s replaying tonight in his head the same way I am.

When faint strains of music drift through the quiet, I still. At first, I think I’m imagining it. Until I hear it again.