Chapter Twelve
Cheyenne
Since when does Dylan Williamston care if I’m comfortable?
I’m sitting perfectly still in the passenger seat while he adjusts the temperature for the third time in the past five minutes. The same guy who used to put ice cubes down my back at summer barbecues is now asking if the temperature is “just right.”
It’s ... weird.
And what’s weirder is how I’m suddenly noticing things about him I’ve never paid attention to before—like the way his jaw clenches slightly when he concentrates on the road, or how his hands grip the steering wheel with a confidence that comes from knowing exactly what he’s doing.
Dylan’s truck smells like him—a mix of cologne, leather, and something distinctly masculine that I can’t quite name. I try not to be obvious as I breathe it in.
“Thanks again for the cookies,” Dylan says, breaking some of the tension. “Seriously, they’re amazing.”
“I can’t take full credit,” I admit. “Genna and I made them together. It was ... an adventure.”
He chuckles. “An adventure, huh?” His eyes flick to mine. “That sounds dangerous.”
“You have no idea. There was flour everywhere. I think Genna still has some in her hair.”
“I noticed.” Dylan grins, and there’s something so genuine about it that catches me off guard. Not the calculated smirk I’ve seen in a hundred Instagram photos with a hundred different women, but something softer. Real.
I shake off the thought and turn my attention to the road ahead. We’re heading downtown, where the coffee shops crowd every corner. It’s strange how comfortable this silence feels—not awkward like I’d expected, but easy. The radio plays some ‘90s rock song softly in the background.
“You sure you’re okay with just hot chocolate?” Dylan asks, stealing another glance my way. “We could grab dinner instead if you’re hungry.”
“Hot chocolate is perfect,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m not really hungry after all those cookies we taste-tested.”
He nods and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. I notice how his knuckles are slightly red—probably from the game. Hockey is brutal, even with gloves. His right hand has a small bruise forming near the thumb.
“You played really well today,” I say. I’ve always enjoyed the sport, but today, I couldn’t take my eyes off number 26.
But I’m not gonna tell him that...
“Thanks.” His smile turns a little sheepish. “It means a lot that you were there. Both you and Genna.”
“Even though she was clearly there for Paul?”
Dylan barks out a laugh. “Yeah, even then. It’s always nice to have friendly faces in the crowd.”
“It was good to be back.”
He turns down a side street lined with holiday lights. “Are you ready to experience the best hot chocolate of your life?”
“Pretty bold claim.” I raise a brow. “I’ll have you know I’m a hot chocolate connoisseur.”
“Trust me, Chey.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with a warmth that sends a tiny shiver down my spine.
I smile, watching as Dylan slows the truck and parks.
Before I can reach for my door handle, he’s out of the truck and jogging around to my side. The door swings open, and he extends his hand to help me down from the high cab.
“Um, thanks?” I take his hand, trying to ignore the warmth that travels up my arm at the contact. His palm is slightlycalloused—hockey hands, as Genna calls them—but his grip is gentle as he helps me down.
“My pleasure,” he says, and there’s that grin again, the one that’s graced countless social media posts. Except it feels ... different tonight.
The chilly December air hits me as we walk the short distance to the café, and I wrap my coat tighter around me. Without a word, Dylan moves to my right, positioning himself between me and the street, his body blocking the worst of the wind. It’s such a subtle, protective gesture that I almost miss it. Almost.
