At the threshold, I turn back to her. “Merry Christmas, Chey.”
“Merry Christmas, Dylan.” She grins.
And my heart stutters at the sight.
Something has changed tonight. We both feel it, even if neither of us is brave enough to name it yet. Our almost-kiss hangs in the air, a promise of what might be if we both find the courage to reach for it.
As I walk to my truck, the cold December air clears my head. Tonight didn’t include the dramatic confession I’d half-planned—no grand speech where I admitted my feelings for her—but it’s a start. She’s wearing my bracelet—that has to mean something.
I reach my truck. The cab is cold, the steering wheel colder. I sit for a minute, engine idling, watching my breath cloud up the windshield, and for the first time in years, I think about what it would mean to really want something ... to wantsomeonewho could walk away from me and leave me flat. The thought terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
Tomorrow, at my parents’ house, Chey will be there. We’ll be surrounded by family, food, noise, and all the chaos of a Williamston Christmas. I’ll see her across the table, maybe brush against her in the kitchen, maybe catch her looking at me and not looking away.
Maybe I’ll try again. Maybe I’ll find the courage I lost somewhere between the hockey rink and that couch.
Chapter Twenty-One
Cheyenne
The Williamston family driveway is already filled with vehicles by the time I arrive. I sit in my car for an extra moment, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. My fingers unconsciously find the new bracelet on my wrist. Last night still feels like a dream—Dylan showing up at my door, the bracelet, the way he leaned in...
Was he about to kiss me? Or had he been aiming for my forehead all along?
Despite the uncertainty swirling within me, one thing is clear: I can’t deny the desire I felt when Dylan leaned in. It was raw and immediate, like a magnetic force that nearly drew ustogether. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been yearning for him ever since.
I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the weight on my wrist, of the way my skin tingles remembering Dylan’s hands, of the lingering warmth of his lips on my skin. And I can’t help but wonder what he meant by it all.
Was the bracelet just an apology gift? Or was he trying to tell me something more?
I guess we’ll just have to see what happens today...
I finally kill the engine and reach for the gifts in the passenger seat. I grab the stack of perfectly wrapped and labeled presents—a personalized ornament and cookbook for Mr. and Mrs. Williamston, the fuzzy pink house slippers Genna’s been eyeing for months, and the portable massage gun for Dylan ... which suddenly feels painfully inadequate, given what he got me. I balance them all carefully as I make my way to the front door.
I’ve spent every Christmas with the Williamston family for years, but today feels different.
Everything feels different.
For a brief second, I contemplate turning around, driving home, calling in sick with “holiday existential dread,” but ... that’s not who I am. I square my shoulders, balancing the tower of gifts against my hip, and march up to the front door.
The wreath is the first thing I see. It’s a monstrous thing made of hockey sticks, tinsel, and tiny ornaments in the shapeof skates and pucks. It’s a relic of Dylan and Genna’s childhood that their mother refuses to retire. I smile in spite of myself, the knot in my stomach loosening just a little.
Before I can knock, the door swings open, and Genna stands there in a ridiculous Christmas sweater with actual jingle bells sewn into the fabric.
“You’re late!” she exclaims, pulling me into a one-armed hug that nearly topples my gift tower. “Mom’s been asking where you were for the last twenty minutes.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping into the warmth of the house. “I, uh, overslept.”
That’s a lie. I’ve been awake since five, trying on different outfits, doing and redoing my makeup, and staring at the bracelet on my wrist, wondering what it all means.
“Right.” Genna gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Well, everyone’s in the kitchen. Dad’s famous cinnamon rolls are about to come out of the oven.”
I follow her through the familiar hallways, past the massive Christmas tree in the living room, its lights twinkling against ornaments collected over decades. The smell of cinnamon, coffee, and something distinctly Christmas morning hits me as we approach the kitchen.
And then I see him.
Dylan leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand, laughing at something his father just said. He’s wearing a dark green sweater that makes his eyes look even more intense than usual,and his hair is slightly mussed, as if he just ran his fingers through it—one of his few nervous habits.
He looks up as I enter, and our eyes lock. For a moment, everything else in the room fades away. The corner of his mouth lifts in a small, seemingly private smile that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
