I take a sip, letting the rich, spiced sweetness linger on my tongue. Nila has transformed her and Cam’s home into something straight out of a Christmas movie with garlands draped across every surface and hundreds of twinkling lights reflecting off ornaments.
As I scan the room, my eyes land on Dylan across the crowd. He’s leaning against the wall, drink in hand, nodding at something Kade is saying. But his eyes—his eyes are on me.
When our gazes lock, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he lifts his cup in a small toast, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I feel a flutter in my stomach that I immediately blame on the eggnog.
Definitely the eggnog. Not Dylan Williamston.
Though I can’t help but smile at his ridiculous “ugly sweater”—a plain black t-shirt with white block letters reading “THIS IS MY UGLY CHRISTMAS SWEATER.” So typical of him to rebel against the theme while technically still following the rules. I’ve known Dylan long enough to recognize his pattern of walking right up to boundaries without quite crossing them.
“He’s been doing that all night, you know.”
I turn to find Cam’s wife beside me again, her knowing smile making me immediately defensive.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at you like you’re the star on top of the tree.” Nila nods toward Dylan, who’s now fully engaged in conversationwith Kade, though his eyes still flick in my direction every few seconds.
“We’re just friends,” I say automatically. “I’ve known him forever. He’s like family.”
Nila hums noncommittally, but her expression as she walks away to greet other guests says she doesn’t believe me for a second.
I take another sip of eggnog, using the moment to observe Dylan more carefully. Has his jaw always been so defined? And have his forearms always had so many visible veins?
Wait.
Why am I staring at Dylan’s arm veins?
I nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. There must be something in the eggnog.
And yet, I can’t look away from him.
What strikes me most is how everyone around Dylan seems to gravitate in his direction. He has that kind of magnetic confidence that draws people in and makes them want to be in his orbit. But unlike Garrett’s calculated charm, Dylan’s seems effortless, genuine.
When did I start comparing Dylan to Garrett?
I shake the thought away and move toward a group of wives and girlfriends that I’ve met at previous events.
“Chey, it’ssogreat to see you again,” Addy says, practically bouncing in place. Her energy is infectious as always, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the compulsion toplay myself down or curb my enthusiasm into something more palatable for whoever’s watching.
Instead, I let myself match her grin.
“Me too.” The words come out light. And the realization lands again that I don’t have to check with anyone before making plans. I don’t have to gauge my wardrobe against Garrett’s standard of presentability or explain why I’d rather stand in a kitchen with girlfriends than rub shoulders with a tech executive at a networking event.
For once, I’m not responsible for anyone’s happiness but my own.
Addy pulls me into the lopsided circle of women, as if I’ve always been a part of it. “You have to try the spinach dip. Blaze made it, but we told him to double the cheese, so it’s basically just cheese now.”
The friend group crowds around the kitchen island, plates in hand, laughing over gossip and failed dessert recipes. And though I’m the only singleton in the lineup, I don’t feel the least bit out of place.
Before long, Addy has us all in stitches, reenacting her failed attempt at making hockey-stick-shaped cookies for Blaze’s college team bake sale. I laugh so hard I nearly spill my drink. It’s freeing to be here, surrounded by genuine smiles and easy conversations, without the weight of Garrett’s expectations dragging me down.
I feel more myself than I have in years.
Suddenly, Cam’s voice cuts through the chatter, calling everyone over for a group photo. The women around me start to shuffle out of the kitchen, their laughter echoing behind them. As I make my way toward the living room, I feel a presence beside me. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Dylan—I recognize his cologne, a subtle mix of cedar and something distinctly him that I could pick out of a lineup blindfolded.
When did I memorize what Dylan smells like?
“I really like your sweater,” Dylan says, that familiar teasing edge in his delivery. But he’s not making fun of me.
