I move to the window, looking out at the city lights blinking in the darkness. Arms wrapped around myself, I try to quiet the doubts spinning through my mind.
What is wrong with my judgment when it comes to men? First Garrett, who made me feel like I wasn’t enough, who had me constantly trying to prove my worth. And now these complicated feelings for Dylan—a man whose dating history reads like a who’s who of beautiful, perfect women. Who hasnever shown any real interest in me beyond friendship. Who was just playing another one of his games in that jewelry store.
Wasn’t he?
The memory of his arm around my waist, the softness in his expression as he looked at me ... was that all part of the act? It felt real in a way that makes my heart ache to recall it. But Dylan’s good at playing roles. It’s what he does—on the ice, on social media, in life.
My eyes drift to the corkboard above my desk, where I pinned the ticket stubs from recent hockey games. I quickly look away, not wanting to think about the next game, about whether I’ll go, about how I’ll face Dylan after all this.
I pick up my phone again, thumb hovering over Dylan’s contact information. I could text him. Clear the air. Figure out where we stand. But what would I even say?
“Hey, sorry about that gossip article making people think we’re engaged.”
“My ex just texted me about us, isn’t that hilarious?”
“Are we okay? Are we still friends? Did I imagine the way you looked at me in that jewelry store?”
I put my phone down on the table. This is ridiculous. I’m overanalyzing everything because of one stupid article, a few photos taken out of context.
Christmas is in two days. I’ll be spending it with the Williamston family, like I do every year. Dylan will be there. Genna will be there. It will be normal and fine, and I need tofigure out how to go back to being friends with Dylan before I mess everything up.
Or maybe I need to figure out where we stand before I see him again. Before I walk into that house unprepared for whatever this new tension between us means.
But tonight, I don’t have the courage to find out.
Tonight, I just want to stop feeling like my life has spun out of control because of one moment captured in a jewelry store window.
Chapter Twenty
Dylan
I stand outside Cheyenne’s front door, the small gift box feeling heavier in my hand than it should. My heart is doing that weird stutter-step thing again—the same one that’s been happening every time I think about her lately.
I take a deep breath, trying to settle the butterflies in my stomach. Since when do I get nervous about giving a woman a gift?
Since it’s Cheyenne. Since it matters.
Muffled Christmas music drifts through the door—Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” The irony isn’t lost on me. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly hyper-aware of my jeans and the button-down shirt I decided on after changing three times.
It’s Christmas Eve. I should be at home, wrapping last-minute gifts for tomorrow’s family gathering, not standing on Chey’s doorstep like some lovesick teenager. But I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see her.
I rehearse what I’m going to say for the hundredth time. I texted Genna earlier, and she’s out celebrating with Paul tonight, which is perfect. What I need to say to Chey, I need to say without an audience.
My finger hovers over the doorbell. I could still walk away. Pretend this never happened. Go back to how things were before—before that stupid stunt at the jewelry store, before that photo, before I realized what’s been right in front of me for years.
But I don’t want to go back.
I ring the doorbell.
The few seconds before I hear movement on the other side of the door feel like an eternity. I run my free hand through my hair, suddenly wishing I’d done more. Maybe I should’ve brought flowers? No, that would have been too much. Too date-like. And this isn’t a date. It’s just ... I don’t know what it is.
The door swings open, and there she is. Cheyenne. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a cozy Christmas sweater. No makeup, fuzzy socks on her feet. She’s so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Dylan?” Her eyes widen in surprise, then dart past me like she’s expecting to see Genna. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey,” I say, my voice coming out slightly rougher than I intended. I clear my throat. “I, uh, was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”
Her expression shifts from surprise to something more cautious. A small smile plays at the corners of her lips. “At nine o’clock at night on Christmas Eve?”
