Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cheyenne
I weave through the crowd, gin and tonic clutched in my hand like it’s a lifeline.
My confident stride is a lie. I’ve been lying all night, starting from the moment I slipped into this too-tight dress that Genna insisted made me look like a goddess. Each sequin feels like it’s digging into my skin now, a thousand sharp reminders that I’m playing a part.
And seeing Dylan at the bar—seeing him with that flirty bartender—just confirms what I’ve always known.
Some things never change.
Especially not Dylan Williamston and his magnetic pull on every woman in his orbit. Including me, apparently.
But we’re ‘just friends.’
The words echo in my head again, mocking me with each step I take across the rooftop.
“If Dylan wants to keep being ‘Hockey’s Hottest Playboy’ and ignoring our connection, then that’s on him,” I mutter to myself. “It’s his loss.”
I’m done waiting around for a man to validate me. I’m done hoping a man will choose me. I’m done trying to find my worth in a relationship.
I am enough. Just as I am.
I spot Genna and Paul near the railing, her red coat now draped over her arm as she leans into him, laughing at something he said. They look so natural together, so right. My chest tightens with an emotion I refuse to name.
“There you are!” Genna calls when she spots me approaching. “I was starting to think you’d been kidnapped by the bartender.”
If only she knew.
“Just a long line,” I lie, forcing my lips into what I hope resembles a smile. “This place is packed.”
Paul nods, his arm casually draped around Genna’s waist. “It’s getting crazy. Everyone is showing up for the countdown.”
I take a long sip of my drink, welcoming the bitter bite of gin. The alcohol burns slightly, but it’s a good burn—something to focus on besides the knot in my stomach and the feeling that I shouldn’t have come tonight.
“Have you seen Dylan?” Genna asks, her eyes scanning the crowd with an innocence that makes me want to laugh. Or maybe cry.
“Briefly. At the bar.” I shrug, aiming for casual indifference. “He seemed ... occupied by the blonde bartender.”
“Oh,” she mutters, exchanging a look with Paul that I can’t quite read. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I take another sip of my drink.
Genna reaches out and rubs my forearm with an embarrassingly sympathetic look on her face. “Why don’t you come meet Michael? He’s been asking about you all night.”
Before I can protest, she’s guiding me toward a tall man with kind eyes and a neatly trimmed beard.
I vaguely remember him from a previous party—he helped me find my coat.
Under normal circumstances, I might be interested.
He’s objectively handsome, with an easy smile and shoulders broad enough to fill out his tailored jacket perfectly.
But tonight, I can barely focus on his extended hand, let alone his words.
“We meet again,” he says, and I realize I’ve been staring blankly.
“Sorry, yes.” I shake his hand, feeling the roughness of calluses. “Michael, right? You helped me find my coat at the Christmas party.”
He looks pleased that I remember. “Good memory. I’m flattered.”
The conversation shifts around me—something about rock climbing, which explains the calluses—but I’m only half listening.
The rooftop seems to grow more crowded by the minute, bodies pressing closer, the air thicker with perfume and cologne and the bite of winter.
The string lights overhead blur into starbursts when I blink, and the champagne glasses on passing trays catch the light, sending prisms dancing across faces, clothing, and the floor.
“Cheyenne?” Genna’s voice breaks through my haze. “You with us?”
“What? Yes, sorry.” I sip my drink again, but it’s mostly melted ice now. “Just ... taking it all in.”
Michael leans closer, his voice pitched lower. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it? All this...” He gestures vaguely to the party around us.
For a moment, I feel a flash of connection—someone else who finds this overwhelming too.
“A bit,” I admit, setting my watered-down drink on a nearby table.
“I know a quieter spot by the west railing,” he offers. “Better view of where they’ll launch the fireworks, too.”
It’s a perfectly innocent invitation. He seems nice. Normal. Safe. But my eyes are already scanning the crowd again, searching for a different silhouette, a different smile.
What is wrong with me?
“That sounds nice, but—” I start, when a server sweeps by with champagne flutes on a tray. Genna grabs two and presses one into my hand.
“Almost midnight,” she says, excitement brightening her eyes. “In just one hour, we say goodbye to this year.”
I take the champagne automatically, the stem cool between my fingers.
The golden liquid fizzes and pops, tiny bubbles racing to the surface like all the anxious thoughts I can’t seem to contain.
The dress that felt empowering in the store is now suffocating.
I shift my weight, tugging subtly at the hemline.
Paul says something that makes the group laugh, but the sound reaches me as if through water—distorted and distant.
The city lights spread below us in a glittering expanse, buildings outlined against the night sky like a geometry problem I can’t solve.
My ears ring with the buzz of a hundred conversations, glasses clinking, music pulsing through speakers.
I need to get out of here.
“Excuse me,” I say, setting my untouched champagne on a nearby table. “I just need some air.”
Genna’s forehead creases with concern. “We’re already outside, Chey.”
“I know, I just—” I gesture vaguely toward the elevator. “Bathroom. I’ll be right back.”
“Want me to come with?” she offers, already detaching herself from Paul’s side.
“No!” The word comes out too forcefully. I soften it with a smile. “No, stay with Paul. I’ll be back before midnight, I promise.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she nods. “Okay. We’ll stay right here until you get back.”
“Deal.” I squeeze her hand quickly, then turn to Michael. “It was nice talking to you again.”
He smiles, disappointment flickering briefly across his face. “The offer for the quieter spot stands, if you change your mind.”
I nod, already backing away. “Thanks.”
The journey to the elevator feels like navigating an obstacle course.
Bodies press against me from all sides, the music grows louder as I pass the DJ booth, and every breath brings a new cloud of cologne or perfume that makes my head spin.
By the time I reach the elevator bank, my heart is racing, and sweat prickles along my hairline despite the December chill.
I jab the down button repeatedly, willing the doors to open. When they finally slide apart, revealing an empty car, I nearly sob with relief.
I step inside, pressing the lobby button before leaning against the cool metal wall. The doors begin to close, and I exhale slowly, relishing the approaching silence.
“Hold the door!”
No. No, no, no.
But my body reacts instinctively, my hand shooting out to stop the doors before my brain can override the response. The doors slide back open, and there he is.
Dylan.
He slips into the elevator slightly out of breath, his hair charmingly disheveled as always. Our eyes meet, and something electric passes between us—a current I feel all the way to my fingertips.
“There you are,” he says, his voice a mixture of relief and determination. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
The doors slide shut behind him, trapping us together in this small metal box. I cross my arms over my chest, a defensive posture I’m too agitated to disguise.
“Just needed some space,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to tense. “It’s a bit much up there.”
He steps closer, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and familiar that makes my traitor heart skip. “Chey, we need to talk about what happened at Christmas—”
The elevator lurches violently, cutting off his words. My body pitches forward, and Dylan’s hands shoot out to steady me, gripping my upper arms firmly. For a split second, we’re pressed together, his face inches from mine, his eyes wide with surprise.
Then the elevator shudders to a complete stop, and the lights flicker once, twice, before going out entirely.
“What the—” Dylan’s voice is swallowed by darkness.
A moment later, dim emergency lights click on, casting harsh shadows across his face. The warm, golden man from the party is transformed into something sharper, all angles and intensity.
“Are we stuck?” My voice sounds scared even to my own ears.
“Looks like it.” He releases me slowly, making sure I’m steady before stepping away. “Let me try the emergency button.”
I watch as he presses the red button on the control panel. Nothing happens. No sound, no voice, nothing. He tries again, holding it down longer this time. Still nothing.
“Great,” I mutter, digging in my small clutch for my phone. “Let me call...”
The words die on my lips as I stare at the screen. No service.
Dylan pulls out his phone as well, grimacing at what he sees. “Same. No bars.”
The reality of our situation settles over me like a physical weight. We’re trapped. In a tiny metal box. Suspended who knows how many floors above the ground.
My chest tightens, and suddenly the air seems too thin. The walls of the elevator, already close, appear to inch inward with each breath I take. My hands begin to tremble, and I press them against the cool metal wall behind me to hide them.
“Hey.” Dylan’s voice comes from what seems like far away. “You okay?”
I try to nod, but my head feels disconnected from my body. My breathing grows shallow, coming in quick gasps that don’t seem to bring any oxygen to my lungs.
“Chey,” he says, more firmly this time. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes to focus on his face. In the harsh emergency lighting, his concern is etched in sharp relief.