I toss the phone onto Genna’s bed and march back to my room, grabbing my robe from the hook on the door. Jhett follows me, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
“I’m making coffee,” I announce. “I can’t handle this without caffeine.”
In the kitchen, I go through the motions on autopilot—filling the reservoir with water, measuring coffee grounds, pressing the brew button—while my mind races in frantic circles. The smell of fresh coffee gradually fills the apartment, providing some small comfort in the midst of this unexpected chaos.
Genna appears in the doorway, my phone still in her hand, her expression caught between concern and curiosity. “You want to tell me what actually happened at that jewelry store?”
I grab two mugs from the cabinet with more force than necessary, nearly slamming them onto the counter. “Nothing happened. It was stupid. We were just walking around downtown after the game, looking at Christmas lights. We passed the jewelry store, and Dylan thought it would be funny to go in and pretend we were engaged.”
“And you went along with it?” Genna raises an eyebrow.
“It seemed harmless at the time!” I defend myself, pouring coffee into both mugs. “He was being all ... Dylan about it. Calling me ‘honey’ and ‘pookie’ and asking to see rings the size of golf balls. We were laughing. The clerk was showing us all these ridiculous diamonds.”
I hand Genna her coffee and wrap my hands around my own mug, the warmth doing little to dispel the chill that’s settled in my bones.
“So, then what happened?” she prompts, sliding onto one of the barstools at our kitchen island.
I take a sip of coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue. “Then it got weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh, leaning against the counter. “I tried on this one ring—just a simple solitaire, nothing fancy—and Dylan got all serious out of nowhere. He said it suited me, but not in his joking voice. In his real voice.”
Genna’s eyes widen.
“And then I freaked out a little,” I continue. “I mean, it felt too real, you know? Like we weren’t pretending anymore. So, I moved to a different section and found this bracelet with a dog charm that looked like Jhett, and it was nice to just ... not be looking at engagement rings anymore.”
At the mention of his name, Jhett pads over to sit at my feet, looking up at me with concerned brown eyes. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, grateful for his steady presence.
“And someone took pictures of all this?” Genna asks, scrolling through the article again.
“Apparently,” I groan. “I think I remember seeing a woman with her phone out, but I didn’t think anything of it. People are always taking pictures in stores, right?”
“Not usually of other customers,” Genna points out.
I pace the length of our kitchen, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my mug. “This is a nightmare. The article makes it sound like we’re secretly dating and about tobe engaged. Like I’m the woman who’s finally ‘tamed’ Dylan Williamston.”
“Would that be so bad?” Genna asks quietly.
I stop pacing and stare at her. “Yes! Of course it would be bad! For one thing, we’re not dating. We’ve never dated. He’s your brother and my friend, and that’s it.”
“But—”
“And another thing,” I continue, not letting her interrupt, “evenif—and this is a huge, impossibleif—something was to happen between us, it would crash and burn spectacularly, and then where would I be? Just another name on the long list of women Dylan Williamston has dated and discarded.”
I set my mug down, coffee now splashing over the rim onto the counter. “I can’t be that person, Genna. I won’t.”
Genna watches me with an expression I can’t quite read. “The article did kind of emphasize his ‘playboy lifestyle,’” she acknowledges.
“Exactly! And it’s all true. We both know your brother’s dating history.” I grab a dish towel to mop up the spilled liquid. “I just got out of a relationship with a guy who made me feel like I wasn’t enough. You think I want to jump into something with someone who has a documented history of never thinking anyone is enough?”
“Dylan’s not Garrett,” Genna says softly.
“No, he’s worse,” I snap. “At least Garrett was honest about what he wanted—someone sophisticated and serious who fits into hisperfect life plan. Dylan doesn’t even know what he wants, except variety.”
I’m being unfair, and I know it. But the panic is making it hard to think clearly. All I can see is that photo of us, the speculation, the inevitable disappointment when Dylan clarifies to the world that no, he’s not dating his sister’s best friend, that was just a joke taken out of context.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way I’m not ready to examine.
