Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Dylan
I stand outside Cheyenne’s front door, the small gift box feeling heavier in my hand than it should. My heart is doing that weird stutter-step thing again—the same one that’s been happening every time I think about her lately.
I take a deep breath, trying to settle the butterflies in my stomach. Since when do I get nervous about giving a woman a gift?
Since it’s Cheyenne. Since it matters.
Muffled Christmas music drifts through the door—Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” The irony isn’t lost on me. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly hyper-aware of my jeans and the button-down shirt I decided on after changing three times.
It’s Christmas Eve. I should be at home, wrapping last-minute gifts for tomorrow’s family gathering, not standing on Chey’s doorstep like some lovesick teenager. But I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see her.
I rehearse what I’m going to say for the hundredth time. I texted Genna earlier, and she’s out celebrating with Paul tonight, which is perfect. What I need to say to Chey, I need to say without an audience.
My finger hovers over the doorbell. I could still walk away. Pretend this never happened. Go back to how things were before—before that stupid stunt at the jewelry store, before that photo, before I realized what’s been right in front of me for years.
But I don’t want to go back.
I ring the doorbell.
The few seconds before I hear movement on the other side of the door feel like an eternity.
I run my free hand through my hair, suddenly wishing I’d done more.
Maybe I should’ve brought flowers? No, that would have been too much.
Too date-like. And this isn’t a date. It’s just . .. I don’t know what it is.
The door swings open, and there she is. Cheyenne. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a cozy Christmas sweater. No makeup, fuzzy socks on her feet. She’s so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Dylan?” Her eyes widen in surprise, then dart past me like she’s expecting to see Genna. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey,” I say, my voice coming out slightly rougher than I intended. I clear my throat. “I, uh, was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d drop by.”
Her expression shifts from surprise to something more cautious. A small smile plays at the corners of her lips. “At nine o’clock at night on Christmas Eve?”
I shrug, trying for nonchalance even though my heart is racing. “Is there a better time?”
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine, then steps back. “You want to come in?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I follow her inside, and the apartment envelops me in warmth and the smell of cinnamon and pine. Christmas lights twinkle along the walls, casting a soft, multicolored glow across the living room. The tree we decorated together stands in the corner, the star on top just like we left it.
Jhett pads over from his bed to greet me, his tail wagging.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. “Keeping an eye on things?”
“He’s been my only company tonight,” Cheyenne says, closing the door. “Genna’s out with Paul.”
“I know.” I straighten, and meet her eyes. “I checked with her before coming over.”
“You did?” Her eyebrows rise slightly. “Why?”
I glance down at the box in my hand. It’s not much—just a simple silver package with a red ribbon. But it’s what’s inside ... that matters.
“I wanted to talk to you. Alone.” I take a deep breath. “And I wanted to give you this.”
I hold out the box, and she looks at it for a moment before taking it. Her fingers brush against mine, and even that slight contact sends a jolt through me.
“What is it?” she asks, looking confused.
“An early Christmas present.” I shove my hands in my pockets, suddenly feeling awkward. “And kind of an apology. For the article and all the trouble it’s caused you.”
She looks up, her expression softening. “Dylan, you don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Kind of was, though.” I gesture toward the couch. “Can we sit?”
She nods, and we sit down—me at one end of the couch, she at the other, the gift between us. Jhett follows, settling at Cheyenne’s feet with a contented sigh.
“I should’ve thought about what would happen,” I continue, watching her face in the soft glow of the Christmas lights. “Going into that jewelry store, pretending we were engaged ... I didn’t think about how it might look to other people. How it might affect you.”
“It’s fine, really,” she says, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, hear the slight strain in her voice. “I mean, yes, it’s been weird. My mom called. And Garrett texted.”
“Garrett?” I feel a surge of something hot and unpleasant. “What did he want?”
“Just to make me feel bad.” She shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite pulling it off. “He said I didn’t waste any time replacing him.”
“That jerk,” I mutter, my hands clenching in my pockets. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.” She looks down at the gift. “I didn’t respond.”
Good. He doesn’t deserve a response.
But I keep that thought to myself and just nod instead.
“Well,” I say, picking up the box and handing it to her. “This is the least I could do for all the trouble I caused you.”
She gives me a small smile and begins unwrapping the gift, carefully removing the ribbon and lifting the lid. I watch her intently, my eyes never leaving her face as she peers inside.
For a moment, she just stares at the contents. Then her lips part in surprise, and she looks up at me with those wide hazel eyes.
“Dylan,” she breathes, lifting the silver bracelet from its velvet cushion. The dog charm catches the Christmas lights, sending little sparkles across her face. “This is ... this is the bracelet from the jewelry store.”
I nod, suddenly unable to form words. The look on her face—genuine surprise and something else, something warmer—makes my chest tight in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“You remembered,” she says softly, her fingers tracing the tiny dog charm delicately.
“Of course I remembered.” My voice comes out quieter than I expected. “I went back for it the next day.”
She turns the bracelet in her hands, examining it from all angles, and I can see the moment she notices the engraving on the collar.
“J,” she reads aloud, looking up at me. “For Jhett?”
I nod. “They said they could engrave it. Seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Wow...” She shakes her head slightly, as if she can’t quite believe it. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”
She holds out her wrist and the bracelet, a silent request for help.
I scoot closer on the couch, taking the delicate silver chain from her fingers.
Our hands brush again, and this time the contact lingers.
I fumble with the clasp—me, the guy who can handle a hockey stick with precision in a high-intensity game, suddenly all thumbs.
“Sorry,” I mutter, focusing on the tiny mechanism. “These things are tricky.”
“No rush,” she says softly.
I finally manage to secure the bracelet around her wrist, but I don’t immediately pull away.
My fingers rest lightly against her pulse point, and I can feel her heartbeat, quick and steady.
When I look up, her face is much closer than I expected, those eyes watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“There. Looks good on you.”
She turns her wrist. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
I open my mouth to tell her she’s beautiful, but my throat closes around the words like a fist. The compliment is one I’ve tossed at countless women across dimly lit bars. And now, when I actually mean it, it sits heavy on my tongue.
“You’re welcome,” I say instead and sit back slightly, but not all the way to my end of the couch. “Consider it my way of saying sorry for you becoming gossip column fodder.”
A small smile plays on her lips. “It has been a weird week.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “Though, you gotta admit, we look kind of good together. In that photo, I mean.”
She laughs. “Is that what you tell all the ‘mystery brunettes’ you get paired with in tabloids?”
“No,” I say seriously. “Just you.”
She looks down at the bracelet again and fiddles with the charm. The Christmas lights reflect in her eyes, making them shimmer with flecks of gold and green.
This is my opening. The perfect moment to tell her how I feel. How I can’t stop thinking about her. How the idea of her with someone else makes me crazy with jealousy. How I want to be worthy of her, even though I have no idea how to be the kind of man who deserves someone like her.
Every cell in my body is screaming to say something—something real that would crack open my chest and let her see inside. It’s what I came here to do, isn’t it? To finally admit what I’ve been denying for months?
But the words won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth, trapped by years of keeping my feelings surface-level, by the armor I’ve built around myself since high school, since I was fifteen and learned how much loving someone could hurt.
Suddenly, all the things I came here to tell Cheyenne feel like jumping off a cliff without knowing how deep the water is below.
“I played like garbage in the game after that article came out...” I say instead, hoping that, somehow, she can read between the lines. That she figures out the reason I played so terribly is because I couldn’t stop thinking about her ... about us.
Her eyes dart up to meet mine. “I know.” She smirks. “I watched your game.”
“You watched?” It shouldn’t make me happy that she saw how terrible I played, but it does. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.
She nods. “I always do.”
“Always?”
“Well, when I can. It’s not like I have my TV set to the Dylan Williamston channel or anything.”
I laugh, genuinely laugh, and some of the tension eases from my shoulders. “That would be pretty weird.”
“Very weird,” she agrees, smiling back.