Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cheyenne
As if on cue, the doors begin to part, forced open by metal tools inserted into the seam. Light from the hallway spills in, harsh after the dim intimacy of the elevator.
By the time the doors are fully open, we’re standing suspiciously far apart, like two teenagers getting caught by parents. A maintenance worker in a gray uniform peers in, flashlight sweeping across the elevator before landing on us.
“Everyone okay in here?” he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly as he takes in our appearance.
“Fine,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just glad to be getting out.”
Dylan clears his throat. “Thanks for the rescue.”
A second worker appears behind the first, extending a hand to help us climb out.
We’re stuck between floors, the elevator doors opening to reveal the hallway about two feet above the elevator floor.
Dylan insists I go first, his hand at the small of my back as I navigate the awkward step up in my heels.
One of the technicians glances at his watch. “You folks trying to make it back for midnight? Because you’ve got about three minutes.”
“Three minutes?” Dylan’s head snaps up, alarm clear on his face. “Until midnight?”
The technician nods. “Power surge knocked out half the building’s systems. We’ve been working on it for almost an hour.”
An hour? We were in that elevator for an hour? It felt like minutes. Like seconds.
“We need to get back to the roof,” I say, reality rushing back in. Genna must be worried sick.
Dylan grabs my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. “Thanks again,” he calls to the maintenance crew and tugs me toward the stairwell. “Happy New Year!”
And then we’re running, his hand warm and solid around mine, our footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The stairwell door bangs open under his push, and we’re confronted with what seems like an endless spiral of stairs leading upward.
“What floor are we on?” I ask, looking up at the daunting climb.
“Tenth,” Dylan says grimly. “Rooftop’s the twentieth.”
We start climbing, taking the stairs two at a time. For the first two flights, adrenaline carries me. By the third, my calves are burning. Halfway through the fourth, the straps of my heels are cutting into my skin so painfully that I have to stop.
“I can’t do this,” I gasp, leaning against the wall. “These shoes are instruments of torture.”
Dylan, who’s a few steps ahead, turns back. Without hesitation, he crouches down in front of me, back presented. “Climb on.”
“What?” I stare at him, convinced I’ve misheard.
“Piggyback,” he says, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “Like when we were kids and you twisted your ankle at the water park.”
I remember that day—fourteen years old, sobbing more from embarrassment than pain as Dylan carried me through the crowded park. But we’re not kids anymore, and I’m not exactly light.
“I’ll crush you,” I protest.
“Please,” he scoffs. “I bench press more than you weigh. Come on, Chey. We’re running out of time.”
I hesitate only a second longer before kicking off my heels. I gather them in one hand and awkwardly climb onto his back, my dress hiking up embarrassingly high in the process. His hands grip under my thighs, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my cheek pressed against his back.
“Ready?” he asks, and I can feel the rumble of his voice against my chest.
“Ready,” I confirm, tightening my grip.
He starts climbing, taking the stairs with surprising ease despite my added weight.
His breathing remains steady, his pace determined.
I close my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to absorb the feeling of being so close to him, of being carried, of being—for once in my life—completely taken care of.
“Almost there,” he says several minutes later, and I open my eyes to see we’ve reached the eighteenth floor. “I can hear the music.”
Sure enough, the bass from the rooftop speakers vibrates through the stairwell walls. As we reach the twentieth floor, voices become clearer—a crowd chanting numbers in unison.
“TEN!”
Dylan sets me down gently, both of us breathing hard now. “Your shoes,” he reminds me.
“NINE!”
I slip the heels back on, wincing as they bite into my already raw skin.
“EIGHT!”
He grabs my hand again, fingers intertwining with mine. “Ready?”
“SEVEN!”
I nod, heart pounding from more than just the climb.
“SIX!”
We push through the door onto the rooftop, the cold air a shock after the stuffy stairwell. The party is in full swing, everyone gathered at the railing, faces turned to the sky where the fireworks will soon appear.
“FIVE!”
We weave through the crowd, Dylan leading the way, never letting go of my hand.
“FOUR!”
I spot Genna and Paul near the same spot where I left them, her face lighting up when she sees us.
“THREE!”
“Where have you been?” she mouths, but there’s no time to explain.
“TWO!”
Dylan pulls me to face him, his eyes reflecting the lights of the city behind me. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and in his touch is a promise.
“ONE!”
“I choose you,” he whispers, just for me. “I’ve always chosen you.”
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The sky erupts with fireworks, but I barely notice them. Dylan’s lips find mine again, warm and insistent, and I’m falling, soaring, finally understanding what all those love songs are about.
His strong arms wrap tightly around my waist, calloused fingers pressing through the silky fabric of my dress, hauling me up until my toes barely scuff the concrete.
I don’t hesitate. I wrap around him, fingers tangled in his thick dark hair that feels like silk between my fingertips, gripping him like he’s the only thing keeping me anchored to the world.
His tongue grazes my lower lip, hot and velvet-soft, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
I part my lips for him as he deepens the kiss.
My knees almost buckle as he claims my mouth, the world tilting dangerously beneath me.
I taste the whiskey from earlier and the faint tang of adrenaline, and I want to drown in it, memorize it.
Around us, couples embrace, friends cheer, strangers wish each other Happy New Year, but we exist in our own world, making up for lost time.
I slide my hands down to his broad shoulders, feeling his muscles shift beneath his jacket, digging my fingers in, greedy for every square inch of him.
He breaks away only to kiss across my jaw, down to the sensitive hollow of my neck where my pulse hammers wildly, and I feel him smile against my flushed skin as the crowd around us explodes in cheers.
When we finally break apart, breathless and grinning, we find Genna standing next to us, her expression a mix of shock and elation.
“FINALLY!” she exclaims, loud enough that several heads turn our way. “Do you have ANY idea how long I’ve been waiting for this to happen?”
Dylan laughs, his arm still firmly around my waist. “Probably about as long as I have.”
Paul appears at Genna’s side, champagne glasses in hand. “Congratulations,” he says, offering us each a glass. “Though I have to say, you guys cut it pretty close.”
“Elevator got stuck,” Dylan explains, taking a glass and handing it to me before accepting one for himself.
“For an hour?” Genna raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at my smudged lipstick. “Looks like you found a way to pass the time.”
I feel my face heat, but before I can respond, we’re surrounded by a group of Dylan’s teammates, Blaze leading the charge.
“There he is!” Blaze exclaims, clapping Dylan on the back. “The man finally got his head out of his—”
“Careful,” Addy warns, appearing at his side with a knowing smile. “There are ladies present.”
The guys laugh, congratulating Dylan with back slaps and fist bumps that seem to be some sort of masculine code I’ll never understand.
I expect to feel awkward, out of place in this circle of athletes who’ve known Dylan for years.
Instead, I feel included. Welcomed. Like I belong here, with them. With him.
“So,” Kade says, eyeing us with a smirk. “Does this mean we won’t have to listen to Dylan mope around the locker room anymore? Because that was getting old.”
Dylan groans, but his arm tightens around me. “Thanks for that, man.”
“Anytime,” Kade says.
“To the newest couple on the team,” Cam says cheerfully, holding up his glass. “May your fights be few and your makeups be memorable.”
Everyone laughs and raises their glasses. I look up at Dylan, finding him already watching me, his expression so tender it makes my heart stutter.
“To us,” he says softly, clinking his glass against mine.
“To us,” I repeat, and when I sip the champagne, it tastes like possibilities.
The group disperses eventually, moving back to the railing for a better view of the fireworks that continue to paint the sky. Dylan keeps me close, his arm a constant, comforting weight around my waist.
“I’m never letting you go, Chey. Not ever again.”
And standing here, surrounded by friends, the sky bright with fireworks and the new year spreading before us like an unwritten story, I finally understand what it feels like to be enough—exactly as I am.
To be chosen, not because I made myself smaller or tried to fit some ideal, but because Dylan sees me, really sees me, and chooses me anyway.
No, not anyway.
Because of who I am.
I lean into him, feeling his arm tighten around me, anchoring me to this moment, to him.
To us.
“Good,” I whisper against his lips. “Because I’m never letting you go either.”