# Dear Santa, with love (Damian & Maddie #2)

CHAPTER 1—MADDIE

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@SwansCoveGazette: Twelve Days to Christmas! Loving all the holiday love in the emails/letters/social media posts you've been sending! Keep them coming #DearSantaWithLove

"YOU HATE CHRISTMAS ?" My voice hits a pitch that would make Mariah Carey wince as my infuriating neighbor towers over me—turning the laundry room into a sauna with his broad shoulders blocking off the fluorescent lights and those crinkly green eyes cranking up the heat.

Breaking News: Damian Mack and Maddie Smith are taking their clothes off (again) to avoid heatstroke.

"Yep," he rasps out.

"You're not joking?" Because seriously? I didn't picture Damian as The Grinch.

Not that I'm picturing Mr. Hot and Grumpy at all. Or still have goosebumps remembering his large, warm, calloused hands down my spine, down...

Nope. Not going there.

"You okay?" He asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me, making my toes curl in my fluffy candy cane socks.

"Totally fine," I lie, yanking my clothes from the dryer so he can put in his. A faint scent of pine mingles with the usual laundry smell and his maddening woodsy cologne. Right. My Christmas plug-in diffuser.

The one he wants to unplug.

Because he hates Christmas.

"Not everyone can be Dear Santa." Damian raises an eyebrow.

"You've read my column." I'm pretty sure there's a satisfied smile spreading on my face.

"Everyone's read your column. Plus, Aisling's been sharing it as often as she can."

This time, I'm definitely smiling. The bakery owner Aisling O'Connor and I have gotten closer in the past three months.

"You forgot this one," he tells me as he hands me my favorite Freddy Krueger. The one with a Santa hat. And the words, "He definitely sees you when you're sleeping."

Because, duh, holiday season and all.

He raises an eyebrow without a word and I lift a shoulder. "I have two of those. One large enough for you if you'd like."

"Matching T-shirts? Really?"

"No one has to know. Your secret would be safe with me."

"Hmm-hmm."

And why am I trying to analyze his hmm-hmm? My shoulders tighten slightly. Does he mean I can't keep secrets? Does he still think I'd use him, his mother, his dog for a story?

"Secrets," he whispers, giving me a half-grin that sends my heart racing down my chest on an F1 circuit they might as well call the "Damian Grand Prix of Temptation: A Christmas Special."

This laundry thing has become our weird dance over the past three months.

Maybe it's the cramped space forcing civility, or maybe it's the wall of Post-it notes we've been leaving each other, a paper trail of our complicated non-relationship.

If anyone else ever moves into this building, they'd probably think they've stumbled into some sort of passive-aggressive Post-it art installation.

I clear my throat, needing to change the subject because combustion isn't on my to-do-list for the day. "Do you already have Christmas plans? Is your mom coming here?" I ask, trying to sound casual and not at all like I'm fishing for information.

"Nope," he grunts. Great, we're back to monosyllabic answers. I thought we were past this, but apparently not.

It's his turn to clear his throat. "You?"

"I'm sticking around for the holidays." I shrug, like it's no big deal. "I usually work anyway."

"Working on your Not So Crabby news entry." It's not a question. But hey, at least there's no judgment in his voice anymore. It's not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I'll take "not being crucified" as progress.

I nod and he continues, "You got good chances. Your Dear Santa Letters are very Maddie-like," he says.

"You mean great, wonderful, magical?" I probe, trying to keep my voice light—it makes no sense for my heart to hammer in my chest like that.

He lifts a shoulder. "It hits all the right notes. It's perfect."

And just like that, my heart clenches. Because "perfect" may be what I'm chasing, but said like this? It isn't emotional. It's not grabbing you by the heartstrings and making you smile. It's cold. But then he adds, "And just happy peach-y, you know."

Oh. Please. Him using "peach-y," remembering exactly the last time he said that... with his gaze on my very core before giving me the most earth-shattering orgasm of my life? My breathing goes haywire, zigzagging around my lungs. Forget the sauna. We've entered lava-category.

Is that a chuckle or a wheezing sound coming out of my throat? "Hmm... It's not me writing. It's Santa," I say, trying to sound mysterious and failing miserably. Smooth, real smooth.

Damian's eyes meet mine again, dark green now and intense, and for a moment, I need a manual on how to breathe. He takes a step closer, and the shivers down my spine are singing falalala off-key.

"See you later," he says and when he exits the laundry room, I finally can breathe again. And actually finish putting my dry clothes in my clean laundry basket—even though his words keep resonating in my mind.

After a few minutes, I trudge back to my apartment with clean clothes when my phone buzzes like it's trying to escape my pocket.

When the group chat goes nuclear, it's never good news. I take a deep breath. The warmth of my Christmas lights and the scent of pine fill the room, but it does little to calm the growing anxiety in my chest. Normally, this space is my refuge, but tonight it feels almost suffocating. Swiping open my phone, I brace for impact. And there it is, splashed across my screen like the plot twist in one of my true crime podcasts: Chase Finn Parker, my ex, is engaged.

I wait for the gut punch, the sting of failure, the 'why-not-me' montage. But... nothing. Only a weird pang, not because I want Chase back, but because I'm still here in Swans Cove, watching my ex's happiness go viral.

When I packed my suitcase for Maryland's Eastern Shore, I had a plan: get my career back on track. But what if I can't? What if I'm forever the girl who made a fool of herself in front of millions, proposing to a football star and Reddit's top athlete—only for him to say no?

Winning the Not So Crabby-News Award is supposed to be my redemption, my proof that I'm more than a viral joke.

Without that win, I'm stuck. Stuck in Swans Cove, stuck being "that girl from the video", stuck feeling like I'll never escape my past mistakes.

Because it's not just about my career, clinching first place is about proving to myself, and everyone else, that I'm not a failure.

That's why I'm here - to work and turn my life back to what it's supposed to be, not to make friends or fall for infuriatingly attractive neighbors. Our hookups had rules. Our rules had rules. Focus, Maddie.

But focus is hard to come by when my phone won't stop pinging with notifications. Great. People are even reposting that old video of Buttercup licking my head with the fireworks in the background. As if I needed a reminder.

I try to distract myself by sifting through #DearSantaWithLove emails, but my mind keeps wandering. First to Damian, then to Chase, and then back to the emails. My focus is shot—too many distractions, too many unresolved feelings.

Too much loud music.

Even with my headphones on, I can't concentrate. Damian's Johnny Cash album is drilling into my skull. That, and the sound of laughter floating up from downstairs. Maybe he's having a party I wasn't invited to. Which is fine. Totally cool.

I'm convinced that under that rugged look and easy smile, the man's a vampire. He never sleeps, that music is on almost all the time—I've never seen him sparkle during the day like Edward from Twilight, but maybe he hides it.

Great, now I'm analyzing fictional vampires. I need to get out of my head. As if on cue, my therapist's voice echoes in my mind: "How about writing a letter to yourself?"

You know what? That actually sounds better than another social media deep dive of what other people think What-Went-Wrong-In-My-Life. I take a deep breath and start typing:

Dear Santa,

They say "fake it till you make it," but I'm running out of filter options for my "living my best life" selfies. Can you gift wrap some actual success this year? My five-year plan didn't include "hide in small town" or "lust after the Grinch's hotter, grumpier cousin."

My vibrator (Vampire 2.0) doesn't compare and is filing a complaint for neglect.

All I want for Christmas is... well, not him. Definitely not him. Maybe one more round. For closure.

With Love,

Your Confused Columnist

Yep. That'll do it. My therapist is right. Sometimes, writing your feelings does help. I go back to my inbox and click on an Dear Santa email from "Lonely in Swans Cove."

As I type a response, the thumping from downstairs intensifies. Damian's foster dog's bark turns into a howl, reverberating through the floor. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding as the noise drowns out my thoughts.

I purse my lips, squaring my shoulders. Time for action.

Swapping Santa slippers for fake Ugg Boots, I march downstairs. The music vibrates in my chest as I pound on Damian's door.

He opens it, and I hate that I have to look up. But looking straight ahead isn't an option—not with that hard chest filled with scars and stories and sexy tattoos... I glance down and snap my gaze back up. Gray sweatpants. Seriously, was there a BuzzFeed article on gray sweatpants I missed writing?

"Are you going to the North Pole?" He raises an eyebrow and then gestures like I'm supposed to stroll in.

I inch forward, my breath catching as muffled laughter drifts out. A party I wasn't invited to? Of course. This isn't New York where I had entries to all social events.

But as I peek past Damian, my gut twists. It's not a party. It's... a couple's night. Of course, it is. The twisting in my stomach intensifies to a sickening drop, and my chest does this weird tightening thing, jealousy creeping in even though I tell myself it's ridiculous. It doesn't matter who Damian spends his time with—except, apparently, it does.

Aisling's sister and her husband cuddle on one end of the couch, a gorgeous stranger on the other. All wear headphones, eyes glued to a Formula 1 game on the massive screen. The room is a Christmas desert—no tree, no lights, not even a sad sprig of mistletoe. It's the complete opposite of my own place, where every corner is draped in holiday cheer. Maybe that's why I feel so out of place here, like I don't belong in Damian's world at all.

Which is fine.

I clench my fists, snowflake-painted nails digging into my palms. I definitely don't care that someone—who is not me—is in there with my infuriating neighbor, laughing at his stupid jokes and admiring his stupidly perfect jawline. Nope. Not me.

Those stomach swirls are indigestion from too much hot chocolate. Or lack of sleep. That's all.

Barkey rushes towards me, his excited barks cutting through my spiraling thoughts. His tail wags so hard his whole body shakes, and for a moment, I almost forget the knot in my stomach.

The woman I've never met before tears her eyes away from the screen, noticing me for the first time. She smiles, almost making me want to smile back.

"I'm so sorry about this," she tells me with an apologetic look as she jumps up to corral Barkey. "I told you the volume was too loud," she adds, nudging Damian. Familiar. Acting like a couple would.

My attempt to swallow the sharp lump in my throat isn't successful. I need to whirl around. I need to tell the snowstorm building a snowman in my chest to get lost. I need to say something.

"I got this," Damian tells her, his voice commanding, brooking no argument. She nods, leading Barkey back to the couch.

"I need you to turn down the volume," I say, trying not to peek inside again.

He glances at his watch. "It's nine pm."

"So?" I croak and narrow my eyes at his tousled hair. "Were you sleeping through that concert?"

He doesn't move, vulnerability flashing across his face before vanishing. For a second, I wonder what that look was about—what's buried under that gruff exterior? But no, I won't let myself go there. I've got enough complications without trying to figure out Damian Mack. He's not the topic of my next article. I don't need to know anything about him. I can't.

"Just turn it down, please."

He lifts a shoulder. "Sure thing."

He's calm. Infuriatingly calm. And I'm not. The pressure of the upcoming deadline for the Not-So-Crabby-News award entry, Chase's engagement dragging that proposal video back up, the expectations that I need to succeed...well, they add up. I can feel my carefully crafted image slipping, my usual poise crumbling. What if everyone sees how close I am to falling apart? What if I let down all the people counting on me?

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself, to be the person everyone expects me to be. But instead of composure, what comes out is me snapping, "And stop knocking down the Christmas tree in the entrance."

"What?" The confusion in his voice makes me realize how random that sounded.

My fingers absently play with my heart necklace, but when I catch his gaze lingering on it, I freeze, dropping my hand. "You heard me. It's only you and me in this building. And I'm not the one knocking it down."

"I'm not either."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"And don't turn the music back up." I sound more like a wannabee Grinch than I'd like to admit, but I refuse to let him see how rattled I am.

"Sure thing. Goodnight." His tone is icy cool as he shuts the door in my face.

I spin on my heel, lifting my chin and squaring my shoulders—reminding myself I'm not just an extra in someone else's story—I'm the star of my own. Even if, right now, it feels more like a low-budget, late-night rerun than a blockbuster.

Fluffy's soft paws pad across the floor as I retreat back to my place. I scoop the one that many people passed up on because of his half-tail, missing eye and all, nuzzling his fur. "Another productive day, right buddy?" His purr rumbles against my chest.

I settle at my desk, fingers flying across the keyboard—losing myself in work isn't always avoidance, right? My latest Dear Santa, With Love column practically writes itself. It's amazing what I can achieve even as my mind keeps on going back to all the things I need to do. My phone continues beeping with notifications and I scroll down with my hand as I schedule the post with the other.

With a decisive click, I close my laptop, stepping away from my phone, too. Freddy Krueger's soundtrack plays in the background as I ready myself for bed. As I drift off, I'm not thinking about grumpy neighbors or quiet apartments. I'm visualizing my byline on the front page. Success is coming, and I'm going to grab it with both hands.

The next afternoon, as I'm heading out for an interview, my phone blares "Jingle Bells" - Mom's ringtone. I brace for the usual interrogation, but what comes next nearly makes me drop my phone. "Oh honey, you have a boyfriend? That's the perfect feel-good comeback Christmas love story!"

My stomach plummets, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin as I see the notifications: I published the wrong letter—now all Swans Cove and beyond know about the vibrator I named Vampire 2.0 and oh.... "I'll call you back, Mom." I sound like I'm not bothered, but my throat must have turned into a scratching pole. The first comment appears: "Guess we know what Maddie really wants for Christmas. Another viral moment? At least this time you're not proposing to a football star with a heart of gold on camera for clicks." My heart races as more comments flood in, each one a blow to my plan to show everyone I'm a professional who can win awards.

The Not-So-Crabby-News social media team already unfollowed me.

Ed—my boss—texted me he wanted to see me in his office tomorrow.

This mistake could cost me everything.

And I-love-my-privacy-Damian is probably going to give me that scowl when he finds out. The I'm-disappointed one. Because he'll know it's about him. And he'll think I did that on purpose. For views and what not. Heck, everyone in this small-town will figure out it's him and will think I'm chasing fame again.

*Ping*

Another DM catches me off-guard. My heart skips a beat as I see the name—someone I never expected to hear from again. "We need to talk." My stomach drops, dread pooling in my gut. Whatever they want, it can't be good.