Page 67 of Keep Me Close

Is it all one-sided?

I look out the window across the room before forcing the words out. “Nope, nothing to it.”

“Good.” The relief in her voice is obvious. “It’s time to come home, Cheyenne.”

My head jerks up. “What?”

“You heard me. Filming starts soon, and we need you here. The network already wants promo shots, and production is asking questions. This little break you took was fine, but it’s over now.”

I stare at the wall, the words sticking in my throat before I force them out. “I’m not sure I want to do the show anymore.”

That comment is met with silence.

When Mom finally speaks, her voice is softer. Which is so much worse.

“Cheyenne… this is how we make our money.”

I swallow.

“You know that, darling.” Her tone shifts into that calm, patient cadence she uses when explaining something obvious to a child. “This is what the fans expect from us. They’ve followed our lives for almost twenty years. They feel like they know you. Like they grew up with you.”

My grip tightens around the phone. I’ve heard versions of this my whole life. The fans. The brand. The business. What sells. Somehow there’s never much room in that conversation for what I actually want out of life.

“Haven’t you learned by now that you need to stick with what works?” she continues. “That’s how our business survives. That’s how we survive.”

My head swims as I remain silent.

She sighs again. “What I’ve learned in the twenty years we’ve been doing this is that you give the fans what they expect. What they want. You don’t pull away when things get uncomfortable. You lean in.”

The familiar words land one after another.

“You’ve worked so hard to get where you are, baby. Don’t ruin it now by taking your foot off the gas pedal. Okay?”

Emotion wells inside me as I stare down at my bare legs. “I’ll think about it.”

It’s the safest answer. The only one I can give at the moment.

There’s a pause, like she’s deciding whether to push harder, before she finally sighs again.

“That’s all I’m asking. For you to think it over.”

“I will.”

“We’ll talk later. And, Chey?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you said there’s nothing between the two of you. But do yourself a favor and don’t fall in love with Knox McNichols. We both know you have terrible taste in men. Hence the Dakota debacle.”

The line goes dead before I can come up with a response. I sit there for a long moment, the phone gripped in my hand, the silence in the room deafening.

I let out a soft laugh that doesn’t feel like a laugh at all.

Well, the woman isn’t wrong. I do have terrible taste in men.

Unfortunately, I suspect her warning in regard to Knox might’ve come a little too late.

I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face before pulling on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. My hair goes up in a messy bun, and I don’t bother with makeup. Going without it the last few days has been nice. More than nice, actually. It feels like finally being able to breathe.