CHAPTER 2—DAMIAN
***
Mom: Sent your Christmas package today... Oh, wait ... Christmas Package... hmmm... new book idea.
Damian: Really, mom? Please tell me it's not about a Navy SEAL delivering... packages.
"LATER, BUDDY." I CROUCH down to Prancer, who flops over for a belly rub like he's trying to win the damn senior version of the Puppy Bowl MVP. "Prancer, huh? Guess Santa's reindeer names aren't all crap." My fingers sink into his fur, savoring the moment. This lab/boxer's been here since December hit. He needs a family soon, or I'll end up with another four-legged roommate—despite my lease that I already convinced Paul to change.
I haul myself up. One last nod to the other volunteers, and I'm out. Gravel crunches under my boots as I head for Main Street. The December air stings my face, but it beats the hell out of the shelter's wet dog cologne signature scent from this afternoon.
Today's been a complete clusterfuck. The shelter's packed to the gills, every cage filled with furry faces giving me those puppy-dog eyes. It's like they know Santa's sleigh isn't stopping here. I hate this time of year, not just for the memories it dredges up, but for the way it highlights everything I can't fix, everything I can't save.
Despite how much I try.
Sorcha's been snapping pics all day, trying to make all of them look like Instagram models. Now she wants to rope Maddie into presenting them on the Swans Cove Gazette Podcast. The podcast I definitely don't have on my list of favorites. Oh, and she tasked me to write #DearSantaWithLove one-liner about those dogs and cats. Sure. So Maddie (again) can reshare them on both her personal and professional socials.
Maddie. Fuck.
Her face last night, all wide eyes and disappointment, keeps flashing in my head like a neon sign. I shouldn't feel guilty for having friends over, but here I am, feeling like I kicked a puppy. I was only trying to sleep.
Shaking my head like it can stop the images from slamming back in my mind, I check my phone. A group of carolers warble "Silent Night" like they're auditioning for American Idol. Their off-key notes follow me as I cut through Small Street, the scent of Aisling's cinnamon rolls making my stomach growl. Carlos, Ryan, and Jevonte, decked out in sweaters that look like Christmas threw up on them, wave from across the street. I nod back, but my mind is elsewhere.
The bakery's doorbell chime as I duck inside, the warm air and smell of fresh pastries offering a brief respite from the chaos outside. Alessandro, juggling orders and the new espresso machine, glances up and gives me a tired smile.
"Coffee. Extra cream. Pumpkin spice scone," I grunt, my voice rougher than usual.
Alessandro eyes me as he works the fancy new espresso machine. "Who pissed in your eggnog?"
"Nobody. Everything's fan-fucking-tastic." I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension. "Just need #DearSanta to back off."
Speaking of, Maddie left another one of her passive-aggressive Post-its this morning: Dear Damian, did you know that sleep is required for the brain? And you may not need yours. But I need mine.
My reply? Is that because I star in your dreams? I get it, Peach-y. I get it.
Why oh why am I itching to go back home to see if she wrote anything else? I swear I'm not doing that much laundry and yet I end up on that top floor way too often.
Phones start pinging like crazy. Mine, Alessandro's, Aisling's. We share a look.
"Shit," I mutter, scanning the message. "Maddie went and published the wrong letter."
I keep reading, heat spreading within me but also a surge of protectiveness, because Maddie didn't publish this letter on purpose. I used to think she'd do anything for clicks—but admitting she wants more of us? No way. Not to the world, and definitely not to me. Because that has to be about me, right?
I ignore the uneasiness deep within me at the simple thought she may have written that about something else and grunt, "Not PG, that's for sure."
"Crap," Aisling says, her forehead creasing. "Poor Maddie."
I spot said-very-sexy columnist outside, scrambling down the sidewalk like her ass is on fire. And what a fine ass it is in those pants. Without thinking, I'm halfway to the door, coffee and scone in hand.
"Gotta run," I toss over my shoulder. "Later, Alessandro. Tomorrow, Ocean City, right?"
I don't wait for his answer. The bitter cold slaps me in the face again, but I barely notice. My eyes are locked on Maddie, watching the way she moves - all nervous energy and tightly wound tension. There's none of her usual swagger, none of that spark that makes her... her.
I'm pretty sure Aunt Locelli, who was about to head inside the bakery, came scratching to a halt and is trying to read my lips. But I can't focus on her. I focus on Maddie and that determined look in her eyes that she gets when she's trying to keep it together. It hits me right in the gut because I know that look—I've worn it myself.
"Hey Trouble," I say, my voice low and rough as I close the distance between us. My heart's pounding in my chest, and I hate how much I want to fix whatever's making her look like that. "Looks like you could use this more than me."
The warmth of the cup seeps into my palm. As she reaches for it, our fingers brush. It's barely a touch, but damn if it doesn't hit me like—fuck, like that night at Plates and Drinks when I touched those piano keys. The memory blindsides me. That spark, that jolt... Where the hell did that come from? I haven't thought about playing in forever. My jaw clenches, fighting the urge to pull her closer, to see what other long-buried not-shit memories she might drag to the surface.
"Speak louder, I can't hear you!" Aunt Locelli calls out from the doorway, squinting at us. "Are you two arguing or planning a date? I have a newsletter to write for the Gazette, too!"
Maddie's cheeks flush, and she quickly steps back, breaking the contact. "Neither," she replies, a touch flustered.
I wave at the older lady with her cane—who can spread rumors around Swans Cove so quickly she's famous in our small-town. "Just catching up, Aunt Locelli. Don't worry, I'll make sure to speak up next time."
"Promises, promises," Aunt Locelli replies before stepping into the bakery—finally out of sight—and most importantly out of earshot.
I turn back to Maddie, my amusement fading into something more serious. "So," I start, my voice huskier than I intended. "That was some letter. You okay?'
She lifts an eyebrow, squaring those shoulders. The look of despair is gone from her eyes, replaced by that familiar defiance. It's so attractive I have to fist my hands to keep from reaching for her.
"Fine." And she narrows her eyes. "Oh, you think it's about you?"
A pang hits deep in my chest again. What if she's calling someone else Vampire? Dreaming about someone else? The thought coils in my gut like a tripwire, and I have to resist the urge to run a threat assessment on my inner turmoil. Jealousy isn't in my playbook. Neither is this... whatever the hell this high-risk situation is.
But her cheeks flush crimson, and I know a liar when I see one. "Come on, we both know you were writing about me..."
There's a pause—like she's about to deny it. But she sighs.
"It's the lack of sleep," she mutters. "I told you it's not good for the brain."
I lean in, lowering my voice. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and intoxicating—fills my nostrils. "I got to say, I'm flattered."
She sputters, nearly choking on her coffee. "I... it wasn't... I mean..."
"Relax," I say, even as every muscle in my body tenses. "Your secret's safe with me. Though really? Vampire 2.0?"
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she accuses, but there's a hint of something else in her voice. Something that makes my blood run hot.
I step closer, unable to resist. "Maybe," I murmur, needing the distraction—that's nothing but a distraction. Plus that Not-So-Crabby-News deadline is soon. She'll be on her way and blood might finally reach other parts of my body than my dick.
Maddie thrives in the spotlight, fueled by every like, comment, and column—whether she's showing her true self or not.
Me? I keep my business my own. I've seen how the public chews you up and spits you out. She doesn't get that yet—or she doesn't care. It's not about being seen for me. It's about staying in control. If people don't know you, they can't use you.
A gust of wind whips her curls across her face, and fuck me if I don't want to reach out and brush them away. She taps her boot on the sidewalk, once, twice, before clearing her throat.
"Maybe you'll bring it up at your next couple's night," she says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
"Couple's night?" I almost laugh, but there's a tinge of hurt behind those hazel eyes that stops me cold. It's like I've memorized every shade of her emotions without even trying. "You mean with Ryan, Sorcha, and Imani? Imani is a friend. She's on her way back to Seattle as we speak."
"I don't know her name. You didn't introduce us... remember? Not that I would have been able to hear you over the music." My music—my lifeline, especially when the demons start howling louder this time of year.
I hesitate, the words I won't say hanging between us. I could tell her the truth—that the music is more than just noise, that it drowns out things she doesn't even know I'm fighting. But instead, I push those thoughts aside, focusing on the way her lips press together in that stubborn way that always gets to me
And I murmur, "I remember how that cardigan kept falling off your shoulder." Because I do remember the way her skin looked, smooth and inviting, making it damn near impossible not to reach out and touch and find another much more pleasurable way to forget.
Her mouth gapes open for a second before she purses it again. "I remember you weren't even wearing a shirt."
"And you remember enjoying the show?" My voice lowers and I'm pretty sure is turning into what romance novels would describe as "a velvet drawl".
"Not the point," she huffs, but her eyes flick down to my chest for a split second.
"You didn't say no." I pause, chuckling. "As I said, Imani is a friend. I've known her for years. Her mom was my lawyer. The one my mom made sure I had representing me when she was trying to adopt me." I tug her away from the gawking tourists, shielding her from the biting wind. "She knows Ryan... it's a small world. So, nope." I pop out the "p," the way she does sometimes. "I wasn't having a couple's party."
I don't tease her about it. Because if she had a couple's party upstairs, there'd be a burning inside of me that would be more than jealousy. It'd be like missing out.
We stare at each other for a moment too long, the air between us thick with unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. Maybe even with regrets and remorse. Regrets and remorse? They're for people who had something real to begin with. What I had was a pretty lie, shattered the day I started asking questions. That's when I learned the truth cuts deep, but lies destroy everything. And I need to remember that.
She steps away, almost slipping on a patch of ice, and my hand finds the crook of her elbow instinctively. "Easy there, Peachy," I whisper. "Or maybe Pinky?"
"Like Pinky and the Brain? And I should call you the Brain?" She gives me a look that says "in your dreams."
I chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. "I thought you'd call me Dracula?"
"You're impossible, Bitey."
"Bitey?"
She nods, her gaze dropping to my volunteer shelter badge. "It fits." Her fingers reach out, toying with it, and suddenly I can't breathe. The light brush of her fingertips against my chest, even through layers of clothing, sends sparks shooting through my body.
I want to grab her hand, to pull her close and show her exactly how "bitey" I can be. To press her up against the nearest wall and create new memories. But I hold back, the weight of everything unsaid between us keeping me rooted in place. For now.
"I'm so sorry," she says, cringing. "I never meant to publish it. I know how much you value your privacy." Her eyes meet mine, filled with genuine remorse before she quickly looks away, taking a sip of coffee to hide her expression.
I shake my head. "Don't beat yourself up about it."
Her head snaps up, surprise etched across her face. "You're not mad?"
"I know it was an accident."
"How can you be so sure?" she challenges, a hint of her usual fire returning. "Not too long ago, you were convinced I'd exploit anything for clicks."
I wince, remembering how I'd accused her of using my mother's romance writing career as a stepping stone. I'd been wrong then, but old habits die hard.
"Look," I say, running a hand through my hair. "After that whole Chase fiasco, I know going viral for your... um, romantic or whatever life, isn't exactly on your Christmas list."
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Thanks, I think." She pauses, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "Can we change the subject? Sorcha texted about some shelter event,” she continues, "and you said something a while back about the senior animals struggling to find homes."
"Yeah," I manage, my jaw clenching. Those old dogs with their ways already set—they don't find homes as often. Not that the puppies sometimes have it any easier. Oh, they're cuter but can be a handful and get sent back like yesterday's news. They get adopted more often, though."
"You want them to find homes, don't you?" she presses.
I shrug, aiming for indifference, but probably missing by a mile. " I think I can help with that." A slow smile spreads across her face, and man, it does things to me. "You will need to cooperate. It might be..." she winces but continues, "...perfect for the Not So Crabby News entry. I need to find an angle." Her eyebrow arches, daring me to accuse her of using this for her own agenda. But there's something else there, a spark of genuine interest that catches me off guard. Plus, let's face it, I'd do pretty much anything to get those older pets a home.
"Okay," I reply.
"Good," she says, her voice low and teasing. "Oh, and just so you know, I'm putting Vampire 2.0 out of retirement. A girl needs her stress relief."
The image slams into my brain like a nitro boost at Monaco—Maddie sprawled on my bed, naked, wild curls everywhere. That vibrator's buzz is nothing compared to what I could do to her, and I ache to replace it, to feel her come apart and put herself back together around me.
I swipe my hand on the back of my neck. Where did this come from? Maybe she's onto something with the lack of sleep.
"That so?" I rumble. "Well, if you need any... hands-on help, you know where to find me."
Her breath catches, and for a second, I think she might take me up on it right here in the street. But then she steps back.
"I'll keep that in mind," she purrs before strolling away.
I watch her go, my body thrumming with unresolved tension. I'm standing in the middle of the street with a hard-on that could cut diamond, fighting the urge to grab her and make this real.
We agreed: those moments were one-offs. So why am I itching for a repeat performance? Memories of her laughter, her touch, invade my thoughts, making me question if one-offs are really enough. Or if we could turn this thing into a friends-with-benefits situation. Friends? Ha. Three months ago, I'd have never thought about that with her. Now? I'm not so sure.
Letting people in? It's just inviting them to walk out, leaving you with the cold truth that you were never worth staying for. My first real girlfriend—the one I stupidly said "I love you" to at twenty-three—spat that I'd never be more than a lost boy too scared to let anyone in when I told her I wanted to enlist. She wasn't wrong.
But damn if that logic doesn't start to slip whenever Maddie's around.