Chapter Twelve
Cheyenne
Since when does Dylan Williamston care if I’m comfortable?
I’m sitting perfectly still in the passenger seat while he adjusts the temperature for the third time in the past five minutes. The same guy who used to put ice cubes down my back at summer barbecues is now asking if the temperature is “just right.”
It’s ... weird.
And what’s weirder is how I’m suddenly noticing things about him I’ve never paid attention to before—like the way his jaw clenches slightly when he concentrates on the road, or how his hands grip the steering wheel with a confidence that comes from knowing exactly what he’s doing.
Dylan’s truck smells like him—a mix of cologne, leather, and something distinctly masculine that I can’t quite name. I try not to be obvious as I breathe it in.
“Thanks again for the cookies,” Dylan says, breaking some of the tension. “Seriously, they’re amazing.”
“I can’t take full credit,” I admit. “Genna and I made them together. It was ... an adventure.”
He chuckles. “An adventure, huh?” His eyes flick to mine. “That sounds dangerous.”
“You have no idea. There was flour everywhere. I think Genna still has some in her hair.”
“I noticed.” Dylan grins, and there’s something so genuine about it that catches me off guard. Not the calculated smirk I’ve seen in a hundred Instagram photos with a hundred different women, but something softer. Real.
I shake off the thought and turn my attention to the road ahead. We’re heading downtown, where the coffee shops crowd every corner. It’s strange how comfortable this silence feels—not awkward like I’d expected, but easy. The radio plays some ‘90s rock song softly in the background.
“You sure you’re okay with just hot chocolate?” Dylan asks, stealing another glance my way. “We could grab dinner instead if you’re hungry.”
“Hot chocolate is perfect,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m not really hungry after all those cookies we taste-tested.”
He nods and adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. I notice how his knuckles are slightly red—probably from the game. Hockey is brutal, even with gloves. His right hand has a small bruise forming near the thumb.
“You played really well today,” I say. I’ve always enjoyed the sport, but today, I couldn’t take my eyes off number 26.
But I’m not gonna tell him that...
“Thanks.” His smile turns a little sheepish. “It means a lot that you were there. Both you and Genna.”
“Even though she was clearly there for Paul?”
Dylan barks out a laugh. “Yeah, even then. It’s always nice to have friendly faces in the crowd.”
“It was good to be back.”
He turns down a side street lined with holiday lights. “Are you ready to experience the best hot chocolate of your life?”
“Pretty bold claim.” I raise a brow. “I’ll have you know I’m a hot chocolate connoisseur.”
“Trust me, Chey.” The nickname rolls off his tongue with a warmth that sends a tiny shiver down my spine.
I smile, watching as Dylan slows the truck and parks.
Before I can reach for my door handle, he’s out of the truck and jogging around to my side. The door swings open, and he extends his hand to help me down from the high cab.
“Um, thanks?” I take his hand, trying to ignore the warmth that travels up my arm at the contact. His palm is slightly calloused—hockey hands, as Genna calls them—but his grip is gentle as he helps me down.
“My pleasure,” he says, and there’s that grin again, the one that’s graced countless social media posts. Except it feels ... different tonight.
The chilly December air hits me as we walk the short distance to the café, and I wrap my coat tighter around me.
Without a word, Dylan moves to my right, positioning himself between me and the street, his body blocking the worst of the wind.
It’s such a subtle, protective gesture that I almost miss it. Almost.
“So,” I say, desperate to maintain some semblance of normalcy, “that goal you scored in the final period was pretty impressive today. The way you faked out their defenseman?”
“You noticed that?” He sounds pleased.
“Hard not to. The whole arena went nuts.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. Your ego is big enough already.”
“It’s not ego if it’s earned,” he quips, pulling open the café door and gesturing for me to enter first. The blast of warmth and the rich aroma of chocolate and coffee envelop me immediately.
The café is everything a winter hideaway should be—soft lighting from strings of Edison bulbs hanging from exposed beams, dark wood tables polished to a warm glow, and holiday decorations that manage to be festive without crossing into tacky.
A massive Christmas tree stands in one corner.
It’s covered in vintage ornaments and tiny white lights.
Garlands of pine and holly adorn the windows.
The air smells like rich chocolate and freshly ground coffee.
“Wow,” I breathe, taking it all in.
“Told you,” Dylan says, his voice close to my ear. He’s standing right behind me, his chest nearly touching my back, and I can feel the heat radiating from him. “Table or booth?”
“Booth,” I say, spotting a cozy corner one away from the main crowd. “Definitely booth.”
He nods and leads the way, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back as he guides me through the busy café. The light pressure of his fingers through my sweater sends a jolt of awareness through me that I’m not prepared for.
“I’ll order for us,” he says once I’m seated. “The regular menu doesn’t have the special hot chocolate. You have to know to ask for it.”
“Of course you know the secret menu.” I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “Fine, impress me with your insider knowledge.”
He winks before heading to the counter. I watch him as he waits in line, the easy way he chats with the barista when it’s his turn. I can’t help but notice that several women in the café are watching him too.
Dylan has always had that effect—drawing eyes without even trying.
He returns a few minutes later with two enormous mugs topped with whipped cream, chocolate shavings, and what looks like a toasted marshmallow.
“This,” he announces, setting a mug in front of me, “is their signature Winter Wonderland hot chocolate. Dark chocolate, a hint of cinnamon, homemade marshmallow, and they torch it right before serving.”
“It looks like dessert in a mug,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
“Life’s short. Start with dessert.” He slides into the booth across from me, his long legs brushing against mine under the table. “So.”
“So,” I echo, lifting the mug to my lips and taking a cautious sip. The chocolate is rich and velvety, with just enough spice to warm me from the inside out. “Oh my goodness.”
“Good, right?” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
“Okay, fine, you win. It’s the best hot chocolate ever.” I take another sip, closing my eyes to savor it.
When I open them, I find Dylan watching me with an intensity that makes my heart skip. “What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he says, but doesn’t look away. “Just ... it’s good to see you happy, Chey. After everything with Garrett.”
Garrett. Ugh.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, setting down my mug. But seeing his skeptical expression, I amend, “Getting there, anyway. Some days are better than others. But it needed to happen. We wanted different things...”
“You know you don’t have to pretend with me, right?” Dylan’s green eyes are steady, searching. “I was there when it happened, remember?”
I sigh. “It’s just ... embarrassing, honestly. The way he left me there. In front of your family. On Thanksgiving.”
“He’s the one who should be embarrassed,” Dylan says, an edge to his voice. “Not you.”
“Still.” I stare down at my hot chocolate. “I keep replaying it all, wondering what I could’ve done differently.”
“Nothing,” Dylan says firmly. “Absolutely nothing. The guy’s a jerk.”
“Says the man who ruined his expensive sweater,” I point out.
“Please. That sweater was hideous anyway. I did him a favor.” Dylan leans forward, his eyes serious. “You deserve better than him, Chey.”
Something in his directness makes my defenses rise. “What do you know about love, hockey star? Your longest relationship is with your skates.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. But instead of getting offended, Dylan just leans back, a strange smile playing at his lips.
“You know, I wasn’t always this way,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean?”
He stares into his hot chocolate for a moment before answering. “Sophomore year of high school. Jessica Matthews. We dated for almost a year, which is practically marriage at that age.”
“I don’t remember you ever mentioning her,” I say, surprised. I’ve known Dylan since I was in middle school. And while he’s three years older than me and Genna, this is the first time I’m hearing he had a serious high school girlfriend.
“I don’t think I knew you yet when Jessica and I dated.” Dylan shrugs. “And it’s not really something I ever cared to talk about...”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it ended badly.” He takes a long sip of his drink before continuing. “She cheated on me with my teammate. My supposed best friend at the time.”
“Dylan...” I breathe, genuinely shocked. “I had no idea.”
He shrugs, but I can see the lingering hurt in his eyes. “It was a long time ago. But when you’re fifteen and think you’re in love, and then find out the girl you’d do anything for has been hooking up with your buddy behind your back ... it does something to you.”
“Is that why you don’t...” I trail off, not sure how to phrase it politely.
“Why I don’t do serious relationships?” he finishes for me. “Yeah, probably. It’s just easier, you know? If I keep things casual, nobody gets hurt.”
“Except that’s not really true, is it?” I reach for my marshmallow, needing something to busy my hands with. “Someone usually ends up hurt in those situations too.”
“Not if everyone’s honest about expectations,” he argues, then reaches across the table and steals my marshmallow right from my fingers.
“Hey!” I protest, laughing despite myself.
“Too slow.” He grins before popping it into his mouth.
I dip my finger into my whipped cream and flick it at him, landing a small dollop on his chin. “Thief.”
“You’re gonna regret that,” he warns, but he’s smiling as he wipes it away.
“I’m terrified,” I deadpan.
For a moment, we’re just grinning at each other across the table, and it feels so comfortable, so familiar, yet somehow entirely new at the same time. His hand rests on the table between us, close enough that I could touch it if I wanted to.
The realization makes my fingers tingle.
“I’ve never told many people about Jessica,” he says suddenly, his voice lower. “Not even the guys on the team.”
“Why me?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He looks at me for a long moment before answering. “Because you’ve always seen through my facade. Even when we were teenagers, you never bought the hockey star persona I give off to the world.”
The honesty catches me off guard. I don’t know what to say, so I try to make a joke. “So, you’re telling me my superpower is seeing through nonsense?”
He laughs, and somehow the tension in his shoulders eases. “Pretty much.”
“My grandma was the same way. She could always tell when I was putting on an act.”
“You miss her,” he says. It’s not a question.
I nod. “Every day. But especially around the holidays. She’s the one who taught me how to bake. When mom would work long hours at the hospital, I’d spend whole weekends in Grandma’s kitchen, flour everywhere, making those Polish cookies I told you about.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was.” I trace the rim of my mug. “She always made me feel like I mattered. Like I was the most important person in her world. After she died when I was eleven, I felt so alone. I mean, I had my mom, sure, but she was always working. Then Mom met that surgeon during my senior year, and now she’s living in Europe with him.
..” I swallow hard, surprised by the emotion welling up.
“It’s like ... once she met him, I stopped mattering.
Mom barely calls anymore. It’s like she got her new life, and I just don’t fit in it. ”
I hadn’t meant to say all that. Certainly not to Dylan, of all people. But something about the quiet way he’s listening, the absence of his usual jokes or deflections, makes it easy to keep talking.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Holiday blues, I guess.”
Dylan doesn’t smile. Instead, he reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a gesture so gentle it makes my throat tight.
“You’re never alone, Chey,” he says, his eyes holding mine with unexpected intensity. “You always have us. You always have me.”
“I know,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears. “Your family has always been there for me.”
“Not just my family,” Dylan says quietly. “Me too.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest constrict. His hand is warm around mine, strong and steady, and I’m suddenly, acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how intimate this corner booth feels despite the bustling café around us.
My pulse quickens, heat rising to my cheeks as I try to process what’s happening.
“We should probably get going,” I say eventually, my voice barely above a whisper.
He nods but doesn’t immediately move to leave. “Yeah, probably should.”
When he finally releases my hand, I miss his touch.
I should probably be relieved that this strange day is coming to an end, but instead, I feel a twinge of disappointment as I gather my purse and coat.
As we stand to leave, Dylan reaches out to brush something from my cheek. His fingers are gentle, barely grazing my skin, but the contact sends a jolt through me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Whipped cream.”
“Thanks,” I manage, suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then Dylan steps back, clearing his throat. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. As I follow him toward the door, I can’t help but wonder what just happened here—and more importantly, why my heart is racing like I’m running a marathon.