Chapter 19 Jaylynn #2
The firmness in her voice makes me pause, but her eyes—flat, tired—say more than she wants to admit.
Something’s wrong, but I don’t press. We reach the café, and the warm, sugary air rushes over us like a blanket, thick with the scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and fresh-baked bread.
Behind the glass case, pastries glisten under the lights.
“My treat,” I say lightly, and Sloane’s gaze locks on a cinnamon roll like she’s been starving for more than just food.
“I shouldn’t,” she whispers, almost guiltily.
“Yeah, you should. I should too,” I tease, trying to coax her into softening. When I reach the counter, I order four cinnamon rolls and four steaming coffees, ignoring the amused look the barista gives me.
When the order’s ready, I busy myself at the little self-serve counter, adding cream and sugar to mine and Dad’s cups, leaving Penn’s black, just the way he likes it. I glance at Sloane out of the corner of my eye. Her cup sits untouched, and she makes no move to change that.
“You know,” she says suddenly, letting out a laugh that tries for casual but breaks in the middle, “I don’t even think Dylan would know how I take my coffee.”
The words are so raw they snag at me. I force a smile anyway. “Oh, I’m sure he would,” I offer, even though I’m not sure at all.
As I balance the cups in a cardboard tray, she takes the bag of cinnamon buns and we head outside. The cold slaps us the second we’re on the sidewalk, our breath puffing into clouds. “They’re just down the road,” I say. “Are you okay to walk?”
She nods, tugging her coat tighter, and we fall into step together, weaving through the crowd on the sidewalk.
“You and Dylan,” she begins after a few steps, her voice tentative. “You dated for a long time?”
The question lands like a stone in my stomach. The last thing I want is to dig up old history with his fiancée. “Yeah, a while ago,” I answer shortly, my tone clipped. Then I pivot. “What’s keeping him so busy that he has to work at Christmas?”
She shrugs, her lashes lifting just enough to meet my gaze. “He doesn’t tell me much about his work. Just the positive things he wants me to post about.”
“You help him with his social media?”
“I don’t have a degree or anything. Not like you.” Her voice cracks on the admission, a flash of vulnerability slipping through. “Maybe if I did, I’d be able to…”
Her words trail off, collapsing into silence. She glances down quickly, lips pressing shut as if she regrets saying even that much.
“Hey,” I say gently, “It’s not too late to get a degree, if PR’s your thing.”
She gives a hollow little laugh. “Yeah, maybe. I guess that would help him.”
Help him what?
The thought circles in my mind, heavy and unsettling. But I don’t ask. I don’t want to peer too closely into Dylan’s life anymore. Not my circus. Not my monkeys.
What I do know is that the polished image Sloane and Dylan broadcast online—the smiling selfies, the champagne toasts—suddenly looks thinner than tissue paper. And I can’t ignore the sting of irony. Here I am in a fake relationship with Penn, yet somehow Sloane’s real one feels just as fragile.
“What about you?” I ask instead. “Is PR something you’d want to do for you?”
Her silence stretches, filled only by the sharp click of her impossibly high heels on the snowy pavement. They’re all wrong for the slick sidewalks, and every step sounds precarious. Finally, she exhales, voice small. “You and Penn are really good together. I see the way he looks at you.”
Her words catch me off guard. “Thanks,” I murmur, because what else can I say? Things suddenly feel awkward and I fill the silence. “You and Dylan are good together too.” She simply nods, and I continue with, “You must be excited about the wedding.”
“I was,” she says, then stops herself. Her voice cracks on the word, and she looks away, eyes shining with something she doesn’t want me to see. “Until…”
The silence she leaves behind is louder than any confession. Something’s unraveling in Sloane’s world, and for the first time, I wonder if she’s standing on the same kind of shaky ground I once was.
“Hey,” a familiar voice calls and I lift my head to see Penn waving at me from beside the nativity set.
“Hey,” I echo, quickening my steps. Sloane keeps pace beside me, her heels clicking against the frozen pavement. My arms are heavy with the cardboard tray, but my chest feels light at the sight of him. “I thought you guys might be hungry after all this work.”
I let my gaze sweep over the nativity scene. The carved wooden figures stand tall against the frosted backdrop, halos of light catching on their sanded edges. “It looks great.”
Penn practically beams under my praise, that boyish grin of his tugging at something deep in me.
When Dad rests a firm hand on Penn’s shoulder, giving it a fatherly squeeze, I swear I can hear the pounding of Penn’s heart in the space between us.
His chest lifts, just a little, like the weight of that touch means more than he can say.
“Penn was a great help,” Dad says proudly.
I catch the subtle flicker of Penn’s eyes toward Sloane, just a brief acknowledgment before he refocuses. “I ran into Sloane at the craft fair,” I explain. “She helped me carry these treats for you guys.”
“Thanks,” Penn says, his voice low, and I hand out the steaming coffees while Sloane passes me the bag. One by one, I dole out cinnamon buns still warm in their wax paper sleeves.
“Damn, that’s good,” Penn says around a mouthful, his lips curling into a laugh.
“You know, Roman Marinelli loves these things. He’s constantly sneaking them during the season.
” He shoots Dad a playful look, eyes glinting.
“Wait, you’re not going to tell on me, are you? I know you and Coach are tight.”
Dad waves him off, already chewing, crumbs catching in his mustache. “Nope, too busy stuffing my face.”
The laughter that follows rises into the crisp air, and something swells in my chest—big and warm and aching.
I love the way Dad has taken Penn under his wing, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I love the way Penn is opening up, piece by piece, like a door that’s been locked for too long finally easing on its hinges.
If there’s ever been a man in desperate need of a family, it’s Penn.
And somehow, without fanfare, mine is becoming his.
I sip my coffee and step aside, nudging a life-size wooden sheep closer to the manger.
The wood is cold beneath my palms, but when I stand back, the scene feels fuller, more complete.
Penn and Dad’s conversation drifts back to me—hockey talk, tomorrow night’s game, who’s watching where.
Apparently, Penn, along with Jaxon—who is arriving back home today—will be catching it with my brothers.
That’s good. It gives me the perfect window to slip out later, to make the drive to The Memory Chest, an eclectic shop over in Rutledge.
It’s a big store where you can find old treasures stacked floor to ceiling, things you didn’t even know you needed until they called to you.
I’m not sure I’ll find what I’m looking for, but I’ll try. For Penn, I’ll try.
“I’d better get going,” Sloane says suddenly, her voice cutting into my thoughts.
Since the guys are knee-deep in sports stats and don’t need me hovering, I nod. “I’ll go with you. I have a couple of things to check on anyway.”
I turn back to Penn, my heart tugging. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I promise, sliding into his arms for a quick hug.
His warmth lingers, but with Dad standing right there, a kiss feels too exposed, too intimate.
So, I let go, and Sloane and I head back down the sidewalk, the cold nipping at our cheeks.
Snow crunches beneath our boots and for a stretch we walk in silence.
But I notice the way she keeps glancing sideways at me, her teeth catching her lip, like she’s working up the courage to speak.
“Everything okay?” I finally ask.
“It’s just… strange.”
“What’s strange?”
She exhales, a foggy plume dissolving into the air. “Dylan thinks you’re up to something with Penn.”
My blood runs cold, sinking straight to my toes.
Up to something. The words coil tight in my gut.
Why did I ever concoct a fake dating plan?
It had seemed so harmless, so controlled.
Now it feels like a snowball rolling downhill, gathering speed, impossible to stop.
If Dylan knows—if Dylan suspects—we could both end up crushed beneath it.
“He just thought it was rather strange that you two were suddenly engaged,” Sloane continues, her voice softer now. Then her eyes flick to mine, steady. “But I can see it. I can see how good you are together.”
My laugh comes out sharper than I intend, more defense than amusement. “Why does Dylan care anything about me anyway?” I huff, trying to brush it off, even as unease claws at me.
Her steps slow, and she lifts her left hand, the diamond catching in the glow of winter sun. Her voice hitches. “Because I think…” She swallows hard, gaze fixed on the ring that suddenly seems too heavy for her finger. “…he might still have feelings for you.”