Chapter Fourteen
Cheyenne
“I’m going to look over here,” I say, not waiting for a response as I drift toward another display case across the store.
My heart is hammering in my chest for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely. Our little act was fine when it was just silly, when we were looking at rings so enormous they bordered on comical. But that last one—the simple solitaire that fit my finger perfectly—hit too close to home.
The clerk looks disappointed, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I need space. Space from the diamond rings and their promises.
Space from Dylan’s arm around my waist, which felt both foreign and somehow right.
Space from the memory of Garrett telling me I wasn’t marriage material.
That I was “too childish” for a serious commitment.
The worst part is, being in this store, surrounded by symbols of adult commitment, I can almost see his point.
Maybe I am too childish. Maybe that’s why, at twenty-seven years old, I still haven’t found someone who wants to build a life with me.
Maybe that’s why my mom left me behind for her new sophisticated European life with her surgeon husband.
“Hey, you okay?” Dylan asks, making his way over to me. He sounds genuinely concerned, our playful charade from earlier long gone.
“Fine,” I say automatically.
“We can leave,” he offers.
“In a minute,” I say, needing a moment to compose myself. “Just ... give me a second.”
His eyes study my face for a moment before he nods, understanding without pushing. It’s a side of Dylan I’m still getting used to—this perceptiveness, this ability to read me. Has he always been like this? Have I just never noticed?
I continue walking, trying to put more distance between myself and those rings, when something catches my eye in a display case near the back of the store.
I pause, leaning closer to the glass.
Inside, there are several charm bracelets. They’re nothing like the gaudy, blinged-out pieces from the front of the store. These are subtle, feminine, with carefully chosen charms that tell stories rather than scream wealth.
And there, right in the center, is a silver bracelet with a tiny dog charm that makes my heart skip. The little silver dog is poised mid-run, one paw lifted, ears perked forward in a way that reminds me so much of Jhett when he’s excited that I can’t help but smile.
“Find something?” Dylan asks, coming to stand beside me. His shoulder brushes against mine as he leans in to see what’s caught my attention, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of his proximity, of the subtle scent of his cologne.
“That bracelet,” I say, pointing to the one with the dog charm. “The charm looks just like Jhett when he’s about to pounce on his favorite toy.”
Dylan studies it for a moment, then smiles. “Yeah, it does. It’s even got that same goofy ear tilt.”
The fact that he’s noticed Jhett’s ear tilt, that he knows my dog well enough to recognize his mannerisms in a silver charm, does something strange to my insides.
“That’s much more you,” he says, his voice warm and genuine.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not trying too hard,” he explains. “It’s beautiful because it means something, not because it’s expensive or showy. It’s authentic. Like you.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless. When did Dylan become so observant? So thoughtful?
“Would you like to try it on?” The clerk has materialized beside us, sensing potential interest.
“Oh, I’m just looking,” I start to say, but Dylan cuts in.
“She’d love to see it,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes me nod in agreement.
The clerk smiles and unlocks the case, carefully lifting the bracelet from its display. “This is one of our artisan pieces,” she explains, holding it out to me. “Each charm is hand-crafted in sterling silver. The dog charm is particularly detailed—see the tiny collar?”
I do see it, a minuscule band around the dog’s neck that I hadn’t noticed from behind the glass. The craftsmanship is stunning.
“May I?” the clerk asks, gesturing to my wrist.
I nod and hold out my arm, watching as she clasps the bracelet around my wrist. The silver links catch the store’s lighting, giving off a soft glow against my skin. The dog charm dangles at the perfect spot, the details even more impressive up close.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, turning my wrist to see how the charms move.
“It looks perfect on you,” Dylan says quietly, and when I glance up, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
I look back down at the bracelet, absently running my finger over the dog charm. “Jhett would approve,” I say with a small laugh.
“There’s space to add more charms over time,” the clerk points out. “Many of our clients build their collection to commemorate special moments or relationships.”
As I admire the bracelet, I become hyperaware of Dylan standing close beside me, of the way his presence seems to fill up the space around us. Of how, from an outsider’s perspective, we must look like a couple—him watching fondly as I try on jewelry.
The thought sends a flutter through my stomach that I’m not prepared for. For a brief moment, I find myself leaning toward him, drawn by some invisible pull that I don’t want to examine too closely.
Then reality crashes back in.
This is Dylan Williamston. Genna’s brother. Professional athlete with a different woman on his arm every weekend. The guy who doesn’t do serious. The literal definition of a player.
I take a small step sideways, creating space between us. Then I notice the price tag dangling from the clasp and nearly choke. The bracelet costs more than my last paycheck. Way more.
“It’s lovely,” I say to the clerk, already unclasping it. “But I’m afraid it’s not in my budget right now.”
“We do have layaway options,” she offers hopefully.
“Maybe another time.” I slide the bracelet off and place it carefully in her outstretched hand. It feels strangely sad to let it go, like saying goodbye to something that could have been mine in another life.
“We should probably get going,” I suggest to Dylan, suddenly needing to be out of this store.
“Sure,” he agrees easily, though I catch a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. Is he disappointed about leaving, or about me not getting the bracelet? I can’t tell.
As we walk toward the exit, I find myself intensely aware of him beside me—the casual confidence in his stride, the way he automatically positions himself between me and other shoppers, the slight brush of his fingers against mine as we navigate through a narrow aisle.
And I can’t deny the way my body responds to him—the warmth that spreads through me at his proximity and the way my pulse jumps when he smiles.
It would be so easy to fall for him.
So easy, and so dangerous.
Because I know how this story ends. I’ve seen the Instagram posts, the tabloid photos, and the seemingly endless string of gorgeous women who briefly orbit Dylan Williamston before disappearing. I know his reputation.
And I’ve just had my heart broken by a man who, for all his faults, at least took relationships seriously. How much worse would it be to fall for someone who doesn’t even believe in them?
No. Whatever this strange new awareness is between us, I need to keep it firmly in the friendship zone. Dylan and I are friends. Good friends.
And that’s all we can ever be.
As we step back onto the street, the cold air smacks me in the face, clearing my head. The holiday lights still twinkle overhead, but they seem dimmer now, less magical.
“That was fun,” Dylan says from beside me. “Well, except for the part where I nearly gave that saleswoman a heart attack with my fake proposal plans.”
I laugh, grateful for the return to our normal, teasing dynamic. “I thought she was going to pass out when you said you wanted something ‘big enough to see from space.’”
“I was just getting into character.” He grins.
“It was an Oscar-worthy performance.”
He chuckles, and we slip back into the easy rhythm we’ve always had. This is good. This is safe. This is what we should be—friends who can laugh together, who can cheer each other up after bad breakups, who can wander downtown looking at Christmas lights without it meaning anything more.
No matter what my treacherous heart might want.