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)
I exhale.
It’s fine.
No big deal.
It’s a temporary situation that’ll be over with before I know it. A couple weeks, tops, and then she’ll be out of my penthouse, out of my head, and everything will go back to normal.
At least that’s the bullshit I keep telling myself.
When I walk back out, I grab my clothes and check my phone, watching her location pop up. Looks like she’s at that boutique Kia mentioned last night.
Which means she’s safe.
My shoulders loosen. It’s as if an invisible hand reached into my chest and untied a knot I didn’t realize was there.
Under normal circumstances, I’d hang around after practice and lift or watch film. Maybe grab something to eat with my teammates. Today, I shove my phone into my pocket and pick up my bag.
“You taking off already?” Steele calls out.
“Yeah.”
“Hot date?” Jax asks.
“Nailed it.”
“At least something’s getting nailed,” he shoots back with a smile.
“It’s gonna be your face if you don’t keep your thoughts to yourself, Wilder.”
He chuckles, not bothered in the least by the threat.
The truth is, I just want to be home when Chey returns.
And I’m nowhere near ready to examine what the hell that means.
Although, if I had to take a guess?
It means I’m screwed.
11
Cheyenne
I hate to admit there’s a small part of me that wonders if I’ll actually hear from Kia. Sure, she was sweet enough last night when we were introduced, but does that really mean anything?
From my experience, people are always nice to your face. It’s all hugs and air kisses until you turn your back and they stab you in it.
So it’s a surprise when my phone buzzes.
Kia: Hey!
If you’re ready to go, I’ll drive. Meet me in the garage.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.
After grabbing my bag from the dresser, I head for the elevator. Without Knox beside me, the ride down feels quieter and far less charged. Still, I’m oddly aware that I’m living in his building, becoming a part of his world in a way I hadn’t expected when I boarded a plane bound for Chicago.
The garage smells faintly of concrete and oil as I step inside and glance around. Kia waves to me from beside a black Escalade.
“Ready to go?” she asks.
“Yup.” I smile, beelining toward her. “Thanks for letting me tag along. I really appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem. I’m glad to have the company. My soon-to-be sister-in-law is going to meet us and one of her friends. They’re also attending the Railers event, so you’ll get a chance to meet them ahead of time.”
I force a smile, a little disappointed this turned into a group activity. “Sounds fun.”
She nods as we settle into the Escalade before starting the engine. “Don’t worry, it will be.”
There’s something about the breezy way she says it that makes me almost believe her.
“Knox mentioned your sister is married to his brother,” she says, pulling onto the busy street and navigating morning traffic.
“Yes, for about six years now.”
She glances over briefly. “Actually, my older brother, Hayes, is friends with Colby. They played on the Wildcats hockey team together. He was there when they got married in Vegas.”
“Apparently, it was one of those woke-up-married-the-next-morning kind of nights,” I say with a laugh. “Two kiddos later with another on the way and they’re still going strong.”
“Relationship goals,” she says with a smile.
I nod. “They really are.”
I’m thrilled my sister found her happily ever after. It just makes me wonder if I’ll get one of my own. Or if I’ve spent so long in front of the cameras with semi-scripted storylines and everyone else’s expectations that I wouldn’t even know what the real thing looked like if it showed up in front of me.
It’s a disturbing thought.
The boutique Kia takes me to is just off the Magnificent Mile. It’s all sparkling glass and understated elegance. There aren’t any obnoxious logos, velvet ropes, or security barring the entrance. Just tall windows, dark wood floors, and muted lighting that makes everything inside glow.
Mannequins are spaced deliberately, dressed in pieces that feel less like trends and more like statements with silk, satin, clean lines, and eye-catching colors.
Inside, it’s quiet in a way that feels intentional. Plush rugs muffle our steps as subtle music hums in the background. Racks of stunning dresses are arranged by color instead of size, each piece looking expensive without announcing it.
It’s the kind of place where no one rushes you or looks twice even if you’re a recognizable face.
In LA, stores like this always come with expectations. The salespeople are haughty or fake-sweet, depending on how much your charge card can handle. Stylists hover. Assistants carry armfuls of curated options no one asked for, offering compliments that feel more like strategy. And for me at least, there was always this sense that shopping wasn’t really about what I wanted. It was about image. Content. Labels. What would photograph best and get talked about the most.