Brendon (3 page)

Not that it ever worked.

When Cheyenne’s breathing evened out and her vomiting ceased, Brendon helped her to her feet and then scooped her up into his arms before carrying her back to her bed. After covering her up once more, he backed out of the room, coming to a halt in the doorway as he watched her sleep.

Funny . . . it didn’t matter that she’d just been puking her guts out—something that wasn’t attractive, he didn’t care who you were—she was still the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

chapter
THREE

D
eath was probably more preferable than the pounding that was going on behind her eyes and the desert that had taken up residence in her mouth, Cheyenne thought as she stumbled out of bed the following morning and managed to make her way to the bathroom. She ended up in front of the mirror, cringing at the image that reflected back at her.

Heavens.
She looked like shit.

It wasn’t going to get any better until she got in the shower, so Cheyenne flipped on the water and while she waited for it to warm, she flossed, brushed her teeth, and then swished mouthwash for the recommended sixty seconds. Oddly, that alone made her feel tons better.

Reaching into the medicine cabinet, she retrieved pain reliever and downed it with water from the spout before yanking off her clothes and climbing into the bathtub/shower combination.

God, she would be so happy when the remodel was finished. Technically it was her own fault for the delay, but after Kate was born, Cheyenne had purposely pushed Kylie off so that the new mother could spend time with her precious baby, using the excuse that she wanted to be present for the big jobs. Truthfully, Cheyenne had trusted Kylie implicitly, but it had been the only thing she could think of to get Travis’s hardworking wife to take a break.

Now, though, she was eager for a nice, big shower. Something with more showerheads and significantly better water pressure. Kylie had promised that her bedroom and bathroom were next on the list of rooms to get completed. She fully intended to hold her to that.

Cheyenne knew that it wasn’t Kylie’s fault that she’d moved in ahead of schedule either, but now that she was no longer on tour, she was looking forward to some downtime. This was going to be it. A few months of working on her house, out of the limelight . . . It seemed like the right thing to do. Actually, it was the
only
thing she could do with that damn stalker making his presence known every time she went to a new city to perform.

Allowing the warm water to rain down over her head, she fought the thoughts away. She was safe at the moment. No one knew where she was, which meant she didn’t have to worry about some stranger with a fixation showing up on her doorstep.

After shampooing and washing up, Cheyenne shut off the water and toweled off, piling her hair on top of her head and wrapping it with another dry towel. As she passed the small, foggy mirror above the ancient sink, she was grateful she couldn’t see her appearance. She felt like shit and she’d already seen how pitiful she looked. A little water and soap hadn’t helped that much, no matter how much she wished it had.

Cheyenne pulled on her bra and panties, then slipped into a tank top and shorts before venturing downstairs. She was halfway down when she stopped suddenly, nearly tumbling the rest of the way as her brain registered the sinfully sexy man asleep on the small love seat she’d put in the living room so that she could have something to sit on until she bought furniture.

Having never owned a house before, Cheyenne didn’t have any furniture. What she’d had prior to the official move had been . . . well, it had been destroyed, to put it simply. And since she’d only been in Coyote Ridge for a few days and because her house was still being remodeled, she hadn’t taken the time to purchase anything. But seriously . . . how in the world had he managed to cram himself on that tiny couch?

Realizing she still had the towel on her head, she briefly considered running back upstairs and doing something to make herself presentable. Before she could get her feet to respond to the command, intense blue-gray eyes popped open and pinned her in place from across the room.

“Mornin’,” Brendon said gruffly.

“Mornin’,” she replied. “I . . . uh . . . I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I was on my way out,” he said quickly, practically jumping to his feet.

Cheyenne giggled when he stumbled before grabbing the back of the sofa to keep from going headfirst into the wood floor. She couldn’t help finding humor in the blunder, although her amusement came with a price: a sharp, blinding pain ricocheted behind her eyes.

Of all the men in all the world, Cheyenne had found herself attracted to the one who wanted nothing to do with her. And when he was around her, he looked . . . well, kind of similar to the way she’d looked when she saw herself in the mirror a short time ago, recoiling with revulsion.

It wasn’t pretty.

Remembering that image, Cheyenne snatched the towel from her head, then attempted to finger comb the long, wet strands as they tumbled over her shoulders.

Brendon smiled, and once again she was mesmerized by how that tiny movement of his facial muscles transformed him from good-looking to downright beautiful.

“I was just gonna make some coffee,” she told him, still raking her fingers through her damp hair.

“I’ll start it if you want to go back up and brush your hair.”

Cheyenne nodded. Apparently she did look as bad as she thought if he was encouraging her to go upstairs and fix herself. But she wasn’t going to argue.

SURELY HE HAD
not
just told her to go upstairs and brush her hair, sounding as though she needed to.

That couldn’t have been him.

Fucking hell.

Squeezing his eyes shut as he shook his head in disbelief, Brendon exhaled deeply. He was pathetic.

Why was it that all his brothers were smooth talkers but when he opened his mouth around this one particular woman, he just sounded like a fucking moron?

Brendon opened his eyes in time to see Cheyenne bolting back up the stairs, clutching the dark blue towel to her chest as though it was her one and only lifeline. For half a second, he considered going after her. He wanted to tell her she looked so damn pretty just the way she’d been. In fact, she’d looked like she recently crawled out of bed after a night of wild, passionate . . .

Nope.

Not fucking going there.

Forcing his feet to move, Brendon headed to the kitchen to make coffee, as he said he would. At least that way he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. For a few minutes anyway.

Those few minutes didn’t last nearly long enough, because as the coffee started to brew, the gurgle and hiss filling the silence of the open, airy room, Cheyenne joined him in the kitchen looking just as beautiful as she had when she disappeared upstairs. He tried not to stare, but it was pretty damn hard to do.

Never, in all his thirty-one years, had he ever seen a woman as breathtaking as Cheyenne Montgomery. Never.

She’d captivated him from the first time he saw her back when Travis surprised them all by bringing Cheyenne to their Mother’s Day get-together as a gift to their mom, who happened to be a huge fan of the country music sensation. He remembered that day like it was yesterday, how mesmerized he’d been watching her approach with her guitar in hand. Of course he’d known who she was because he was a fan as well, not that he’d ever told a soul.

He also remembered every single painful day since. The woman had turned his world upside fucking down without even knowing it, and he hadn’t coped well with it, either.

“How’re you feelin’?” he asked when she headed for the stainless steel refrigerator—one of the many new appliances in the recently updated kitchen. When he’d arrived last night, he’d admired Kylie’s vision. The old Victorian still held the appeal of a historic home, even with the updates that had brought the house into the twenty-first century.

“Like warmed-over dog shit,” Cheyenne replied in that sexy, sassy tone he’d been captivated by and, as of two years ago, started hearing in his dreams.

“I would’ve had you take some aspirin last night, but you weren’t holdin’ anything down. Didn’t figure it would do much good.”

“I’m sorry you had to babysit me,” Cheyenne retorted, pulling a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and heading for the cabinet without making eye contact with him.

“It wasn’t a hardship, trust me,” he mumbled beneath his breath.

Cheyenne turned to look at him then, skepticism etched on her lovely features. Yep, just as he feared, she’d heard him.

“Well, then, I’m sorry you had to sleep on that tiny couch. One of these days I’ll get the guest room fixed up.”

Brendon nodded. If he ever spent the night at Cheyenne’s house willingly again, he damn sure didn’t intend to spend it in the guest room. Which meant he’d never be sleeping over, because that was the last damn thing she wanted from him.

“You should add a shot of tequila to that,” he informed her, nodding toward the glass of juice sitting on the black granite countertop. “You know, hair of the dog and all that.”

“Nah, won’t help. I’m feelin’ a little better already anyhow.”

If it weren’t for the tension lines on her forehead, he might’ve believed her. Not that he had any plans to push her. It was evident Cheyenne knew how to take care of herself and she wouldn’t benefit from his two cents.

“So, why’d you move in so quickly?” Brendon motioned past the kitchen, toward the living room that was still in need of repairs and a lot of cosmetic work. “It looks like you’ve got months of work ahead of you before this place’ll be ready to be inhabited.”

“I ran out of options,” Cheyenne told him, turning away again as she poured more juice in her glass, downing it quickly before holding the carton up in the air. “Want some?”

Brendon shook his head when she peered at him over her shoulder, her dark eyebrow quirked in question. “No. Thanks.”

Cheyenne nodded and then resumed pouring more juice before returning the carton to the refrigerator.

“What do you mean you ran out of options?”

When Cheyenne turned around to face him, casually leaning up against the counter, one arm pressed across her abdomen beneath her breasts, the other elbow resting on her hand as she held her glass near her lips, he did his best not to stare at all the smooth, golden skin he could see. Or how the position of her arms thrust her impressive tits upward, offering a spectacular view of cleavage. That tiny tank top and those barely-there shorts weren’t helping his desire to not want her.

“I’ve been on the road so much since I got my big break that I haven’t bothered to buy a house. It was easier just to rent an apartment. I . . . uh . . .”

Brendon watched her, waiting for her to finish. She’d been forthright with the first part of that statement, but seemed to have realized what she was about to say.

“You
what
, Chey?”

“It wasn’t a big deal, really. It seemed that my address was leaked. Not enough security in that particular complex, so I had no choice but to move. I figured it was time to get a place of my own. And I wanted somewhere I could bring my grandmother. A place where I knew we’d both be safe.”

“Leaked? Are you fucking kidding me?” How the hell could someone leak Cheyenne’s address? And why the hell didn’t she live in a secured complex? Who the hell was taking care—or in this case,
not
taking care—of this woman? This . . .
celebrity
.

Cheyenne shook her head as though it was a normal occurrence.

Brendon crossed his arms over his chest before turning his head and looking into the living room. “What happened to the furniture you had in your apartment?”

Cheyenne didn’t make eye contact with him and that bothered him. Something was definitely up.

“Cheyenne?” he implored.

“It was damaged, so I had it all tossed out.”

“Damaged?”
Brendon could feel his protective instincts kicking in, warning bells clanging loudly in his head, telling him there was something really wrong here. She’d said her address had been leaked, her furniture damaged . . . which probably meant . . .

“It’s nothin’ for you to worry about, Bren. Really. I’m sorry I brought it up,” Cheyenne stated firmly before turning and placing her empty glass in the sink. She retrieved two mugs from the cabinet and moved to the coffeepot.

Brendon couldn’t help it. He had to know more and it was apparent she wasn’t going to share unless he encouraged her. Moving to stand beside her, he ducked his head in front of her face while she held the coffee carafe above one of the mugs. When her emerald green eyes met his, he saw something he’d never seen before in her gaze.

Fear.

“What’s going on, Cheyenne?”

She sighed as she twisted to look around him, pouring the coffee. “It really is nothin’. Just a crazed fan. He got into my apartment, destroyed my stuff. The police took my statement, my insurance issued me a check to cover the cost of the damage.”

“A crazed fan?” Fucking hell. He noticed that she’d heedlessly mentioned that as though it was something she’d been warned about in the “How to Be a Celebrity” handbook.

“Yeah,” she answered, a forced smile forming on her lips as she set the carafe back on the warmer. “Like I said. No big deal.”

Brendon’s muscles tightened. “Cheyenne, that’s a
big
fucking deal.”

Cheyenne handed him one of the mugs, so he took it from her, still eyeing her carefully.

“No one knows where I am now,” she explained, taking a sip of her coffee. “The house is in a different name, so there’s no chance anyone’ll find me. I didn’t even bother givin’ my agent or my record label my address. I got a post office box in Round Rock.”