I watch as she navigates through the crowd, stopping to hug a few people she knows, laughing at something someone says. Her movements seem different—more assured, less concerned with taking up space. She’s always been beautiful to me, but tonight there’s something more. Something that makes it impossible to look away.
And then, as if feeling my stare, she turns and our eyes meet across the crowded rooftop.
Time seems to slow. The party noise fades to a dull murmur. For a second—just a second—I see something flicker in her gaze. Something that looks like the same longing I feel twisting in my chest.
But then her expression shifts, becoming carefully neutral. She gives me a small, polite nod—the kind you’dgive to an acquaintance or a friend of a friend—before turning away to continue her conversation.
Just friends.
The words echo in my head, mocking me. Is that really what she thinks? That I meant it? That I don’t feel anything more for her than casual friendship?
“Go talk to her,” Blaze says, giving me a gentle push. “Standing here staring at her like a creeper isn’t going to fix anything.”
“I need a drink first,” I mutter, suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is.
“Liquid courage?” Addy teases. “Never thought I’d see the day when Dylan Williamston needed help talking to a woman.”
“She’s not just any woman,” I say without thinking.
Addy’s expression softens. “I know. That’s why you should go talk to her. Now, before you overthink it even more.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But the fear of rejection—of Cheyenne looking me in the eye and telling me she doesn’t feel the same way—is paralyzing in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Give me five minutes,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “I just need to ... prepare.”
“Five minutes,” Blaze agrees. “Then I’m dragging you over there myself.”
I nod and make my way toward the bar, weaving through clusters of people who call out greetings that I can barelyacknowledge. My mind is racing, rehearsing what I’ll say to Cheyenne when I finally get her alone.
I’m sorry about Christmas. I didn’t mean what I said. You’re not just a friend to me. You’re so much more.
The words sound hollow even in my head. How do you tell someone you’re falling in love with them when you’ve spent years convincing the world—and yourself—that you’re incapable of getting attached?
The bar is less crowded than I expected, with only a couple of people waiting for drinks. I step up and catch the eye of the bartender—a pretty blonde who does a double-take when she sees me, her professional smile widening into something more personal.
“Well, look who it is,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “Dylan Williamston himself. What can I get for you tonight?”
Her tone makes it clear she’s offering more than just drinks, but I barely register it. “Whiskey, neat,” I reply automatically.
“Coming right up.” She turns to grab a bottle from the shelf, giving me an extra sway of her hips as she does. “I was at your last home game, you know. That assist in the third period was incredible.”
“Thanks,” I say, my eyes already drifting back to the crowd, searching for Cheyenne.
“I’ve been a fan for years,” the bartender continues as she pours my drink. “Even have your jersey.”
“That’s ... great.” I fish out my wallet, extracting cash for the drink and a generous tip.
The bartender sets my whiskey down, but instead of moving on to the next customer, she lingers, one manicured finger tracing the rim of my glass. “I get off at one,” she says, her voice dropping to what I assume is meant to be a seductive tone. “If you’re looking for somewhere to continue the celebration after midnight.”
A month ago, I might’ve taken her up on it. Or at least flirted back. But now, all I can think about is finding Cheyenne in that incredible dress and fixing the mess I’ve made.
“That’s very flattering, but—”
“Quite the fan club you’ve got,” a familiar voice says from beside me, and my heart nearly stops.
I turn to find Cheyenne standing there, even more stunning up close. The sequins on her dress catch the light, creating little flecks of brightness that dance across her skin. Her eyes are lined with something that makes the gold flecks in them more pronounced, and her lips are painted a shade of pink that matches the sequins to perfection.
“Chey,” I breathe, almost forgetting the bartender’s existence. “You’re here.”
