Chapter Seventeen
Cheyenne
Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
Jhett shifts at my feet, his warm weight anchoring me to the bed even as curiosity begins to override my desire to stay cocooned in my blankets.
Fine.
I blindly reach toward the nightstand, nearly knocking over my water glass, before my fingers close around my phone. The screen is painfully bright in my dim bedroom, forcing me to squint as I unlock it.
Five text messages. Three Instagram notifications. And one alert from that celebrity gossip app I downloaded months ago and keep forgetting to delete.
“Hockey Playboy Spotted Ring Shopping with Mystery Brunette.”
My brain takes a moment to process the words, still muddled with sleep.
Wait. What?
I bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. Jhett lifts his head, alarmed by my sudden movement.
There’s a photo underneath the headline. It’s slightly blurry, taken from a distance, but unmistakably shows Dylan and me standing close together in Meridian Jewelers, looking at something in a display case. My stomach drops as if I’ve just stepped off a cliff.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, my heart rate accelerating.
I tap the notification with a trembling finger, and the full article fills my screen. More photos. One of Dylan holding my hand as I try on a ring. Another of us laughing together, his arm around my waist.
Oh gosh.
My mouth goes dry. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I throw off the covers and race to Genna’s bedroom, Jhett trotting behind me, confused by this deviation from our normal morning routine.
“Genna!” I burst through her door without knocking. “Wake up!”
She groans from beneath her pile of blankets, a tuft of dark hair the only visible part of her. “Go away. It’s too early.”
“Emergency,” I insist, yanking back her comforter. “Major emergency. Look!”
I thrust my phone at her face. She blinks rapidly, trying to focus, then grabs the phone from my hand, suddenly alert.
“What the heck?” She sits up, her hair a tangled mess around her face. “Is this for real?”
“It’s happening right now,” I say, pacing the small space at the foot of her bed. “I just woke up to, like, a million notifications.”
Genna scrolls through the article, her eyes widening.
“Oh my gosh. Listen to this: ‘Sources close to the hockey star reveal that Williamston, known for his playboy lifestyle, has finally found ‘the one’ and is ready to settle down. The couple was spotted at high-end Meridian Jewelers on Saturday evening, where they spent considerable time in the engagement ring section.’”
“Sources close to the hockey star?” I repeat incredulously. “What sources? We were literally just looking at jewelry!”
“There’s more,” Genna continues, her voice rising in pitch. “‘The mystery brunette, who appeared completely smitten with Williamston, tried on several rings before the couple shared a tender moment that onlookers described as ‘definitely pre-proposal.’”
“Pre-proposal?” I grab a pillow from her bed and scream into it. “We were joking around! He was pretending to be my fiancé to mess with the sales clerk!”
Jhett whines at the foot of the bed, picking up on my distress. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down for his sake.
“Let me see,” I say, snatching my phone back from Genna. I scroll further, my heart sinking with each paragraph.
“‘After years of being linked to models and influencers,’” I read aloud, my voice rising in disbelief, “‘it appears the hockey heartthrob is finally ready to hang up his bachelor status.’ ‘Dylan has been different lately,’ says a teammate who wishes to remain anonymous. ‘More settled, less interested in the party scene. Whoever this woman is, she’s changed him.’”
“Anonymous teammate?” Genna scoffs. “Which one of those idiots is talking to gossip blogs?”
But I barely hear her. I’m staring at the largest photo in the article—Dylan and me outside the jewelry store, standing close together under the Christmas lights. The way he’s looking at me in the photo ... it almost seems like...
No.
I can’t go there.
I toss the phone onto Genna’s bed and march back to my room, grabbing my robe from the hook on the door. Jhett follows me, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
“I’m making coffee,” I announce. “I can’t handle this without caffeine.”
In the kitchen, I go through the motions on autopilot—filling the reservoir with water, measuring coffee grounds, pressing the brew button—while my mind races in frantic circles.
The smell of fresh coffee gradually fills the apartment, providing some small comfort in the midst of this unexpected chaos.
Genna appears in the doorway, my phone still in her hand, her expression caught between concern and curiosity. “You want to tell me what actually happened at that jewelry store?”
I grab two mugs from the cabinet with more force than necessary, nearly slamming them onto the counter.
“Nothing happened. It was stupid. We were just walking around downtown after the game, looking at Christmas lights. We passed the jewelry store, and Dylan thought it would be funny to go in and pretend we were engaged.”
“And you went along with it?” Genna raises an eyebrow.
“It seemed harmless at the time!” I defend myself, pouring coffee into both mugs. “He was being all ... Dylan about it. Calling me ‘honey’ and ‘pookie’ and asking to see rings the size of golf balls. We were laughing. The clerk was showing us all these ridiculous diamonds.”
I hand Genna her coffee and wrap my hands around my own mug, the warmth doing little to dispel the chill that’s settled in my bones.
“So, then what happened?” she prompts, sliding onto one of the barstools at our kitchen island.
I take a sip of coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue. “Then it got weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh, leaning against the counter. “I tried on this one ring—just a simple solitaire, nothing fancy—and Dylan got all serious out of nowhere. He said it suited me, but not in his joking voice. In his real voice.”
Genna’s eyes widen.
“And then I freaked out a little,” I continue. “I mean, it felt too real, you know? Like we weren’t pretending anymore. So, I moved to a different section and found this bracelet with a dog charm that looked like Jhett, and it was nice to just ... not be looking at engagement rings anymore.”
At the mention of his name, Jhett pads over to sit at my feet, looking up at me with concerned brown eyes. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, grateful for his steady presence.
“And someone took pictures of all this?” Genna asks, scrolling through the article again.
“Apparently,” I groan. “I think I remember seeing a woman with her phone out, but I didn’t think anything of it. People are always taking pictures in stores, right?”
“Not usually of other customers,” Genna points out.
I pace the length of our kitchen, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my mug. “This is a nightmare. The article makes it sound like we’re secretly dating and about to be engaged. Like I’m the woman who’s finally ‘tamed’ Dylan Williamston.”
“Would that be so bad?” Genna asks quietly.
I stop pacing and stare at her. “Yes! Of course it would be bad! For one thing, we’re not dating. We’ve never dated. He’s your brother and my friend, and that’s it.”
“But—”
“And another thing,” I continue, not letting her interrupt, “even if—and this is a huge, impossible if—something was to happen between us, it would crash and burn spectacularly, and then where would I be? Just another name on the long list of women Dylan Williamston has dated and discarded.”
I set my mug down, coffee now splashing over the rim onto the counter. “I can’t be that person, Genna. I won’t.”
Genna watches me with an expression I can’t quite read. “The article did kind of emphasize his ‘playboy lifestyle,’” she acknowledges.
“Exactly! And it’s all true. We both know your brother’s dating history.
” I grab a dish towel to mop up the spilled liquid.
“I just got out of a relationship with a guy who made me feel like I wasn’t enough.
You think I want to jump into something with someone who has a documented history of never thinking anyone is enough? ”
“Dylan’s not Garrett,” Genna says softly.
“No, he’s worse,” I snap. “At least Garrett was honest about what he wanted—someone sophisticated and serious who fits into his perfect life plan. Dylan doesn’t even know what he wants, except variety.”
I’m being unfair, and I know it. But the panic is making it hard to think clearly. All I can see is that photo of us, the speculation, the inevitable disappointment when Dylan clarifies to the world that no, he’s not dating his sister’s best friend, that was just a joke taken out of context.
The thought makes my chest ache in a way I’m not ready to examine.
“I have to text him,” I say suddenly. “He’s probably freaking out too.”
I grab my phone from Genna and pull up my conversation with Dylan. The last message is from two days ago—him checking if I need a ride to Cam and Nila’s Ugly Christmas Sweater party.
What do I even say? ‘Sorry the world thinks we’re engaged’? ‘Funny how people jumped to conclusions’? ‘Please tell everyone I’m not your secret girlfriend’?
I type and delete at least five different messages before settling on this one:
Me: Saw the article. Sorry that happened.
Simple. Casual. Like I’m not internally combusting with embarrassment and confusion.
I hit send before I can overthink it any further, then immediately regret my word choice. “Sorry that happened”? It’s like I’m apologizing for a minor inconvenience, not a gossip blog speculating about our nonexistent relationship?
“What did you say?” Genna asks, peering over my shoulder.
“Nothing important,” I mutter, setting my phone face-down on the counter. “Just letting him know I saw it.”
“He’s probably still asleep,” she points out. “It’s not even eight yet.”
“Right.” I nod, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. “Of course.”
I pick up my coffee again, taking a long sip now that it’s cooled to lukewarm. Jhett nudges my leg, sensing my unease, and I reach down to stroke his silky head.
“It’ll blow over,” Genna says with forced confidence. “These things always do. Tomorrow there’ll be a new hockey scandal for people to obsess over.”
“You’re right,” I agree, not believing it for a second. “It’s not a big deal.”
But it is a big deal, at least to me. Because for a brief, unguarded moment, while looking at that simple ring on my finger with Dylan beside me, I felt something shift between us. Something I’ve been trying desperately to ignore ever since.
My phone buzzes against the counter, and I nearly drop my mug to grab it.
Dylan: Not your fault.
Three words. No emoji, no follow-up, no “let’s talk about this.” Just “Not your fault,” like he’s dismissing the whole thing—and me along with it.
“What did he say?” Genna asks.
I wordlessly hand her the phone, my throat suddenly tight.
“Oh,” she says after reading his response. “Well, that’s ... brief.”
“It’s fine.” I take my phone back and stare at those three words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more meaningful if I look hard enough.
“It’s not like we need to have a deep conversation about it.
We were joking around, someone took pictures, people misinterpreted. End of story.”
But even as I say it, I can feel the hurt settling in my chest.
But what was I expecting? For Dylan to say he wishes the article were true? That he’s secretly been harboring feelings for me?
That’s not who he is. That’s not who we are to each other.
“I’m gonna go shower,” I announce, needing to escape this conversation and the knowing look in Genna’s eyes.
I retreat to my bedroom, Jhett following faithfully at my heels. Once inside, I close the door and sink onto my unmade bed, the rumpled sheets still warm from sleep. I read Dylan’s message again.
Dylan: Not your fault.
Of course it’s not my fault. I know that. But something about the brevity, the casualness of his response, makes me feel hollow. Like the whole thing means nothing to him. Like I mean nothing beyond friendship.
And why should that bother me? It’s what I want, isn’t it? To be just friends with Dylan, to maintain the safe, comfortable relationship we’ve always had?
So why does my chest ache like I’ve lost something I never actually had?
I toss my phone onto the pillow and bury my face in my hands, my earlier panic giving way to a different kind of pain. Jhett whines softly, nudging my elbow with his nose until I lower my hands to look at him.
“See?” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “Just a headline to him. Nothing more.”
Jhett tilts his head, his brown eyes fixed on mine with that uncanny canine perception that sometimes makes me wonder if he understands more than I give him credit for.
“It’s better this way,” I tell him, trying to convince myself as much as my dog. “Really, it is.”
But as I glance at my phone again, at those three words glowing on the screen, I’m not sure I believe it.