Chapter 1

Cheyenne

"Spread your legs a little, Chey."

The photographer's voice grated on my nerves.

It had already been a long day, even though it was only ten o'clock in the morning, but I was tired.

"Lean forward so we see a little cleavage," he called out.

My body moved effortlessly.

I'd been modeling since I was an infant, winning a contest for the Australian version of the Gerber baby when I was just seven months old. And it had been nonstop my entire life.

I was twenty-four now and on days like today, I reminded myself I was less than six years away from retirement.

Five years and eleven months, to be precise.

"Chey, baby, give me one of those looks that makes men's dicks hard."

Good grief, this guy was killing me.

"I need a break," I said abruptly, standing up and striding over to the sideboard where a variety of drinks and snacks had been set out. I ate like a fucking bird when I was working, so there was water, protein bars, and celery. It was what I always asked for, so it was no one else's fault, but it annoyed me, nonetheless.

As the top earning supermodel in the world, I was at the height of my industry, luxuriating in fame, fortune, and everything that went with it.

And yet, on days like today, I hated my life.

I gulped down a bottle of water, ignoring my makeup artist, who was trying to touch up my lipstick.

"Give me a minute, Anne." I strode into the bathroom and locked the door, pressing my back against it and closing my eyes. I breathed in slowly through my nose, counting to eight. I held the breath for another eight count, and then very slowly blew it out through my mouth.

I repeated this several times until I was more centered.

I wasn't anxious.

I'd been doing this for so long I could take direction in front of a camera all day, every day, without missing a beat.

Instead, I was aggravated.

Hungry.

And maybe a little burned out.

Normally, I loved Paris. It was one of my favorite cities and I had friends here. I lived a wonderful, fulfilling life, I wouldn't deny that, but I'd been burning the candle at both ends for months now.

I needed a change of scenery.

I took a deep breath, steeled my resolve, and strode back out to where the crew was waiting for me.

"Let me fix your lipstick," Anne said, smiling patiently. We worked together all the time, so she understood my moods.

"Thanks." I let her work her magic and then turned to the photographer. "Back in front of the window?"

"Yes, love." He had what sounded like a fake British accent, and when he winked at me, I nearly rolled my eyes.

I didn't understand why all the big magazines loved his work. It was predictable and, in my opinion, boring. I hated shooting with him, but he was popular, and when magazines like Vogue hired him to shoot you, you did what you had to do.

Luckily, we were done within the hour, and I grabbed another bottle of water as I kicked off the heels I was wearing and slipped my feet into my Chucks.

"Hey, Chey, I wanted to ask you a question." Louis Beron, the photographer, approached me with a friendly smile.

Uh oh.

If he asked me out, I was going to puke.

"What's up?" I asked as casually as I could.

"I'm going to be in Vegas next week and heard Nobody's Fool is playing a private gig at Club Inferno…think you could get me on the guest list?"

I stared up at him in frustration.

Was he serious?

I'd been in one of the band's music videos, but Club Inferno was a private sex club. When they played there, it was to test out new music and/or choreography for upcoming tours so the guest list was locked down.

"What makes you think I can get you on the list for an event like that?" I asked, scowling.

"You party with them all the time."

"One time," I corrected.

Okay, maybe two or three, but he didn't need to know that.

"I could be your date. We'd be cute together."

Ew, no.

Why did every man I worked with ask me out?

Well, I was going to nip this in the bud quickly.

"I barely know you."

He must have noticed my snippy attitude because he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, never hurts for a guy to shoot his shot. You don't have to be a bitch about it." He turned on his heel and stalked away.

Great.

I'd probably just made an enemy, but too bad. All I had to do was tell my agent he'd been inappropriate, and she'd get him blackballed from every major event across two continents. I wouldn't do it, not over something like this, but I took solace in knowing that I could.

Everyone wanted something and I was done giving because rarely did anyone give back. And I wasn't talking about monetary things. Usually, it was about time and connections, not to mention sex.

I changed into a lightweight dress since Indian summer was happening in Paris, and it was a thousand degrees outside. I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the exit, putting my sunglasses on my head. It was only eleven thirty and I had the rest of the day off. My friend Stevie was here working as well, so we planned to meet up as soon as she was done.

I got onto the street and put my shades down just as someone called my name.

"Chey! How was the shoot?"

"You look great, Chey—will you turn for a picture? Pretty please?"

"Chey, how's your love life?" Clive Leominster was a photographer I'd known for years, and I liked him.

"That's a little personal, don't you think?" I quipped, chuckling.

"Yeah, but you usually tell me," he protested, laughing.

"Ms. Cheyenne?" My driver had just pulled up and hurried around to open the door of the SUV for me.

"Bye, everyone!" I waved before slipping inside and breathing a sigh of relief. The paparazzi followed me everywhere, so I tried to be on good terms with them. I'd learned which ones were legit and not creepy and tended to gravitate toward them in crowds. There had been an incident in London where the heel of my stiletto caught in a rut in the sidewalk and I'd stumbled, landing on one knee. It was raining and my driver had been caught in traffic, so Clive had immediately stopped shooting and reached out a hand to help me up.

He'd ushered me into the nearest shop and got someone to grab a towel since my knee was bleeding. It wasn't a big deal, but he'd been kind and thoughtful, without giving a thought to whether or not he could take my picture, so now I always let him get as many photos of me as possible when he was around.

My phone buzzed and I grabbed it. "Hey, Stevie. Where are you?"

"Just finished shooting. We're over by Notre Dame. You want to hit the Shakespeare bookstore and then get coffee at the cafe?"

The Shakespeare and Company bookstore was one of our favorite hangouts in Paris, and I happily agreed.

"I have news!" she said with a giggle.

"Oh no," I moaned. "What did you do?"

"Damien and I are engaged!"

I grimaced.

Damien was such an asshole.

"I know you don't like him," she continued, "but I promise you'll warm up to him. He's British—he doesn't show his emotions that well. He's learning, though."

I had so many things to say but opted to keep them to myself. I'd wait until Damien did something specific to point out what an ass he was. She was too high on the romance of getting engaged right now, and that was the problem: Stevie was perpetually engaged. This was her third or fourth time. And each time it ended in a mess.

Watching her disaster of a love life was one of many reasons I stayed single.

"I'll see you in about thirty minutes," I told her. "And we'll talk."

I was just about to put my phone down when my friend Harper Barrowman texted me.

HARPER: Good morning! How was the shoot?

CHEYENNE: It's the middle of the bloody night in L.A. What are you doing up?

HARPER: I'm in New York, and I'm up at the ass crack of dawn so I have time to work out, shower, and have breakfast with a bunch of NHL bigwigs before my flight.

CHEYENNE: Oh, lucky you. How's things?

HARPER: Crazy busy, but I thought I'd say hi. You've been all over the news. That event at the Louvre looks like it was incredible.

CHEYENNE: It was. I had a great time. Sadly, I had to shoot with Louis Beron this morning. He wanted to know if I could get him into the Nobody's Fool show at Club Inferno.

HARPER: Did you tell him to fuck off?

CHEYENNE: Absolutely.

HARPER: Good for you.

CHEYENNE: It's fucking exhausting. And guess what? Stevie's engaged again.

HARPER: To that Damien creep?

I laughed.

Harper knew all about Stevie's romantic shenanigans.

CHEYENNE: Sadly.

HARPER: Pretend to like him! The more we resist, the harder she falls!

CHEYENNE: I'm on it.

HARPER: Listen, I have to go, but do you want to go to opening night with me?

CHEYENNE: Of course! I've been watching hockey videos on YouTube so I can learn more about it. I plan to be at as many games as possible this season!

Harper was the owner of the Los Angeles Phantoms professional hockey team, and this was her first season as owner. She'd taken control late last spring and there were a lot of eyes on everything she did right now.

HARPER: Thank God. I'm a nervous wreck.

CHEYENNE: Don't be. You've got a great group of players and surrounded yourself with a strong, loyal management team.

HARPER: Gabe says the same thing, but still. The whole hockey world will be watching.

CHEYENNE: I'll be home in three days to hold your hand.

HARPER: Game is Wednesday night.

CHEYENNE: I get home Tuesday, don't worry.

HARPER: Ivan asked about you.

I paused, chewing the inside of my cheek.

Ivan Rochenko was six-feet-three-inches of Russian hockey hotness. All broody good looks and smokey blue eyes and a six-pack that made my—I shook my head abruptly. What the hell was I doing?

Fantasizing about Ivan was a no-no.

No relationships.

Especially not with nice guys.

CHEYENNE: He's a good guy. He texted me last week. I've just been too busy to respond.

HARPER: That's bullshit if I ever heard it. You're avoiding him because you like him.

Harper knew about my plan.

Five years and eleven months to ice cream and retirement and maybe doing something behind the camera instead of in front of it.

CHEYENNE: And that's why I'm protecting him from my soulless heart.

HARPER: Do you see me rolling my eyes?

CHEYENNE: Nope. Gotta go. Love you! See you Wednesday.

I closed the texting app but then opened it again.

I scrolled down to Ivan's name and opened his last text.

The one I pretended I hadn't had time to read.

IVAN: Hey, just wanted to say hello and show you this. Interested?

He'd attached a link to a video about a special event the Phantoms had planned for women. A ladies night type thing where you got a thirty-minute skating lesson with one of the Phantoms, champagne and hors d'oeuvres, and of course, photo ops with the team.

I spent my life in front of a camera.

The last thing I wanted to do was pose with the Phantoms.

A skating lesson with Ivan would be fun, though.

No, no, no.

I quickly closed the app and stuffed it into my purse.

There was no time to think about Ivan.

I had a plan, and I was going to stick to it.