Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Cheyenne
The Williamston family driveway is already filled with vehicles by the time I arrive.
I sit in my car for an extra moment, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves.
My fingers unconsciously find the new bracelet on my wrist. Last night still feels like a dream—Dylan showing up at my door, the bracelet, the way he leaned in. ..
Was he about to kiss me? Or had he been aiming for my forehead all along?
Despite the uncertainty swirling within me, one thing is clear: I can’t deny the desire I felt when Dylan leaned in. It was raw and immediate, like a magnetic force that nearly drew us together. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been yearning for him ever since.
I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the weight on my wrist, of the way my skin tingles remembering Dylan’s hands, of the lingering warmth of his lips on my skin. And I can’t help but wonder what he meant by it all.
Was the bracelet just an apology gift? Or was he trying to tell me something more?
I guess we’ll just have to see what happens today...
I finally kill the engine and reach for the gifts in the passenger seat.
I grab the stack of perfectly wrapped and labeled presents—a personalized ornament and cookbook for Mr. and Mrs. Williamston, the fuzzy pink house slippers Genna’s been eyeing for months, and the portable massage gun for Dylan .
.. which suddenly feels painfully inadequate, given what he got me.
I balance them all carefully as I make my way to the front door.
I’ve spent every Christmas with the Williamston family for years, but today feels different.
Everything feels different.
For a brief second, I contemplate turning around, driving home, calling in sick with “holiday existential dread,” but ... that’s not who I am. I square my shoulders, balancing the tower of gifts against my hip, and march up to the front door.
The wreath is the first thing I see. It’s a monstrous thing made of hockey sticks, tinsel, and tiny ornaments in the shape of skates and pucks.
It’s a relic of Dylan and Genna’s childhood that their mother refuses to retire.
I smile in spite of myself, the knot in my stomach loosening just a little.
Before I can knock, the door swings open, and Genna stands there in a ridiculous Christmas sweater with actual jingle bells sewn into the fabric.
“You’re late!” she exclaims, pulling me into a one-armed hug that nearly topples my gift tower. “Mom’s been asking where you were for the last twenty minutes.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping into the warmth of the house. “I, uh, overslept.”
That’s a lie. I’ve been awake since five, trying on different outfits, doing and redoing my makeup, and staring at the bracelet on my wrist, wondering what it all means.
“Right.” Genna gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Well, everyone’s in the kitchen. Dad’s famous cinnamon rolls are about to come out of the oven.”
I follow her through the familiar hallways, past the massive Christmas tree in the living room, its lights twinkling against ornaments collected over decades. The smell of cinnamon, coffee, and something distinctly Christmas morning hits me as we approach the kitchen.
And then I see him.
Dylan leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand, laughing at something his father just said. He’s wearing a dark green sweater that makes his eyes look even more intense than usual, and his hair is slightly mussed, as if he just ran his fingers through it—one of his few nervous habits.
He looks up as I enter, and our eyes lock. For a moment, everything else in the room fades away. The corner of his mouth lifts in a small, seemingly private smile that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
“Cheyenne!” Mrs. Williamston breaks the spell, rushing over to envelop me in a hug that smells like vanilla and home. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart! We were starting to worry.”
“Merry Christmas.” I hug her back. “Sorry I’m late. The gifts needed last-minute wrapping.”
“Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything,” she says, though we both know I would. “Come, sit. Greg is about to take the cinnamon rolls out.”
Mr. Williamston—who insists I call him Greg even though it still feels weird after all these years—winks at me from the oven. “I’ll be sure to serve the gooiest one to you, Chey. I know they’re your favorite.”
“You’re the best.” I set my gifts down under the Christmas tree before taking my place at the table.
It’s the same spot I sit every year—across from Dylan, next to Genna.
The familiarity of it all should be comforting, but today it feels charged with new meaning.
I’m painfully aware of Dylan’s presence, the way his knee barely brushes mine under the table as he sits down.
“Coffee?” he asks, already reaching for the pot.
“Please,” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
He pours me a cup, adding exactly the right amount of cream. When he passes it to me, our fingers brush, and I nearly drop the mug.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. “It’s hot.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the coffee or something else entirely.
“Thanks,” I manage, taking a sip to hide my flushed cheeks.
“So,” Mrs. Williamston says as she sets a platter of bacon on the table, “who’s ready for presents after breakfast?”
“Mom, we’re not ten anymore.” Genna laughs, but her eyes gleam with excitement. Some traditions never get old.
“Speak for yourself.” Dylan grins, reaching for a cinnamon roll. “I’ve been up since six thinking about what’s under the tree.”
“You have not,” his mother scoffs. “You were still in bed when I called you at seven-thirty.”
“I was awake,” he insists. “Just strategizing.”
“Strategizing what? How to unwrap gifts the fastest?” Genna teases.
“Exactly,” Dylan deadpans with such seriousness that we all laugh.
It’s so normal, so familiar. The Williamston family banter has been the backdrop to so many meals I’ve shared with them. And yet, there’s an undercurrent of something new. Dylan’s gaze keeps finding mine across the table, lingering a beat too long.
“Can someone please pass the orange juice?” Mrs. Williamston asks, breaking my train of thought.
I reach for the pitcher, accidentally bumping Dylan’s arm as he reaches for it too. The contact sends a jolt through me.
“Sorry,” we both say at the same time, then laugh awkwardly.
“I’ve got it,” he says, taking the pitcher and filling his mother’s glass before offering it to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, hyperaware of every movement.
Under the table, our knees touch as he shifts in his seat.
Neither of us moves away. The contact, slight as it is, is electric.
I stare intently at my plate, unable to look at him, though, I’m sure my face is betraying every confusing feeling running through me.
Six weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice if Dylan’s knee touched mine under a table, but now it feels .
.. intentional. Significant. Everything does.
But is it intentional? Or am I reading into a simple moment of contact?
“Oh, what a lovely bracelet!”
I look up to find Mrs. Williamston staring at my wrist. In reaching for my coffee, my sleeve has pulled back, revealing Dylan’s gift.
“It’s beautiful,” she continues, leaning closer to get a better look. “Is that a dog charm? It looks just like Jhett!”
I nod, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “It is.”
“Where did you get it?” she asks, her eyes still on the silver bracelet.
I hesitate, glancing at Dylan. It’s his gift to explain if he wants to.
“I got it for her,” he says, his voice casual. A little too casual. “Just an early Christmas present.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” his mother remarks, giving him an approving look before turning back to me. “It’s perfect for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, not sure if I’m thanking her or Dylan. Maybe both.
“Speaking of thoughtful gifts...” Mr. Williamston says, reaching for the bacon. “We saw that article about you two. Shopping for something a bit more permanent, were you?”
There’s a teasing note in his voice, but the question still hangs in the air, requiring a response.
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. Everyone at the table is looking at us now with varying degrees of curiosity. Even Genna, who knows the truth, seems interested in how we’ll handle this.
“Dad,” Dylan groans, running a hand through his hair. “That was nothing but a stupid misunderstanding.”
“We were just walking around after getting hot chocolate,” I add quickly. “We weren’t actually shopping for ... for anything like that.”
Dylan shifts awkwardly. “Yeah. We were messing around. It wasn’t serious.” He hesitates, then quickly adds, “We’re just friends.”
The words land like a slap back to reality.
Just friends.
Right.
Of course we are.
Except ... that’s not at all what it felt like last night.
“Well, you two had a lot of people fooled,” Mrs. Williamston says, her eyes twinkling. “I got three calls from friends asking when the wedding was.”
Dylan laughs, and the sound cuts through me. “Sorry to disappoint.”
The words echo in my head as I force a smile. After last night, after the way he looked at me when he gave me the bracelet, I thought...
What did I think? That one gift meant that years of treating me like his sister’s best friend would change overnight?
I touch the bracelet on my wrist, feeling foolish now. It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was an apology. For dragging me into his world, for the gossip, for the trouble.
Nothing more.
We’re just friends.
“Well, I think you two would make a lovely couple,” Mrs. Williamston comments, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “Don’t you think, Greg?”
“Leave the kids alone, Macy,” Mr. Williamston says, but he’s smiling too. “Though I have to say, Chey, you’ve always been the only person who could keep this one in line.” He nods toward Dylan.