The fact that he remembers a passing comment from a year ago makes something warm blossom in my chest.
“I did say that,” I say softly. “I just didn’t think anyone was listening.”
“I listen to you.” There’s no flirtation in his tone, just a simple statement of fact that somehow means more than any compliment Garrett ever gave me in four years.
“Well ... thanks.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly feeling shy. “I actually have a whole notebook full of market research ideas in my desk drawer at work so ... maybe I will finally show them to my boss.”
“You should. You’re smart, Chey.” Dylan’s eyes hold mine, and I find I can’t look away. “And creative too. The way your brain works—seeing patterns, understanding why people do things—it’s pretty amazing.”
My cheeks flush at the unexpected praise. “Now you’re just trying to get on my good side so I’ll tell you what I got you for Christmas,” I deflect, uncomfortable with how much his words are affecting me.
“Is it a memory foam mattress? Because if Jhett gets one and I don’t, I’m going to be seriously jealous.”
I laugh. “No, but now I wish it was, just to see your face.”
The music changes to something with a heavier bass, and suddenly it’s harder to hear each other. A cheer goes up from the kitchen, where it sounds like someone has suggested a drinking game.
Dylan leans in closer, his shoulder pressing against mine as he tries to make himself heard over the increasing volume. “Sorry, what was that?”
His face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell the subtle notes of his cologne mixed with whatever he’s drinking. My heart does a strange little stutter-step in my chest.
“I said,” I repeat, turning slightly to better face him, “that I’ll have to up my gift game next year.”
He doesn’t lean back after hearing me. Instead, he stays close, his eyes searching mine for something I’m not sure I want him to find. The party continues around us, but it feels distant, as if we’re in our own little bubble on this couch.
“Assuming you don’t put me on the naughty list before then,” I joke, trying to break whatever this tension is between us.
His lips quirk up at one corner, that half-smile that’s made dozens of women weak in the knees if his Instagram is any indication. “I think you’re pretty firmly on the nice list, Cheyenne Blackwell.”
The way he says my full name, with a softness I rarely hear from him, sends a shiver down my spine.
Pull it together, Chey.
The music gets even louder as someone turns up the volume for “Jingle Bell Rock.” Dylan shifts closer still, his lips nearly brushing my ear as he leans in to be heard.
“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he says, his breath warm against my skin. The simple phrase shouldn’t make my pulse quicken the way it does.
It’s just Dylan being Dylan—charming, easy with words, probably not meaning anything deeper than surface level.
Isn’t it?
As he pulls back, his eyes meet mine, and for a moment—just a moment—I think I see something there. Something that makes me wonder if this flutter in my stomach, this heightened awareness of every point where our bodies connect, isn’t just on my side.
Does he feel this too?
No way. This isDylanwe’re talking about. He’s literally the last person in the world who wouldeverlook at me the way I’m suddenly, terrifyingly aware I might be looking at him...
I take a too-large sip of my eggnog to cover my confusion, emptying the cup. “Me too,” I finally say, and I mean it, despite the strange new undercurrent I don’t know what to do with. “It’s exactly what I needed.”
What I don’t need, however, is Dylan Williamston finding his way under my skin. Although, some reckless part of me can’t help wondering what it might feel like if I let him in.
Chapter Seventeen
Cheyenne
Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
I squint at the clock—6:42 A.M. Who the heck is texting me at this hour? I burrow deeper into my comforter, hoping the buzzing will stop, but it continues, one notification after another.
