CHAPTER 11—MADDIE
***
Maddie: A sparkling dick?
Damian: Twilight-style? Have you ever wondered if his dick sparkles, too?
Maddie: Well, now I am—I think it does.
DAMIAN DEFENDED ME to Mrs. Cooper, then thanked me with jokes about sparkling... parts. Christmas Whiplash, courtesy of Damian Mack. I should be writing, but wow... if this isn't a Christmas miracle. Would he defend me the same way if he knew that, well, my way with words is currently gone, gone, definitely gone?
Damian catches my eye through the window, tilting an imaginary hat, his grin making my stomach flip. Focus on the grin, Maddie. Not the way it makes you feel seen. Especially when being fully, really seen sends an ice storm rumbling through your chest.
As I'm contemplating whether to investigate this newfound gravity pull towards the gym, Aisling's voice cuts through my Damian-induced haze. "Hey!" She's jogging towards me, still wearing her flour-dusted apron, the scent of cinnamon and sugar clinging to her.
"Hi..." I manage, definitely not sneaking one last glance at Mr. Hot-And-Grumpy. "We still on for tonight?"
Aisling winces. "Actually, can we grab a drink now? Family drama just hit Drama Soap Opera."
"Oh no, what happened?" I ask, following her to Plates & Drinks.
Once we're seated, Aisling spills. "My brother just found out he has a twelve-year-old daughter. Only Sophie knew."
"The divorce lawyer? Wait, isn't Sophie your sister's best friend?" I try to keep up. "And didn't your sister realize she was actually still married at Thanksgiving?"
Aisling nods, looking overwhelmed. "Welcome to the O'Connor Reality Show. There's definitely something between Sophie and Liam, and don't get me started on Roisin and Connor."
"Wow," I breathe. "No wonder you need a distraction. Though I'm surprised you're not napping after working since 4am."
"Sleep can wait. Right now, I need..." She trails off.
"To chat about those vibrators?" I suggest, wiggling my eyebrows.
Her laughter bubbles up, infectious, and I find myself grinning. It hits me then – how nice it feels to not just have a friend, but to be one. Here in Swans Cove, I'm discovering parts of myself I never knew existed.
Aisling orders a hot chocolate, and I can't help but raise an eyebrow. "No boozy eggnog? Who are you and what have you done with Aisling O'Connor?"
She fidgets with her napkin, a flush creeping up her neck. "Oh, um... I'm not feeling it today."
I narrow my eyes. "Really? You've got something to spill."
Aisling takes a deep breath. "Okay, but you can't tell anyone. Especially with everything going down with my family." She leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm... pregnant."
"Oh WOW!" I yelp, nearly knocking over my mulled wine. My eyes widen to the size of Christmas ornaments. "Congrats!"
As I'm processing this bombshell, Aisling chuckles. "Thank you. We're excited. Really excited. And Ava is going to be ecstatic. I think. I hope."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, she's been saying she wants a little sibling but crossing my fingers she's going to adapt to the reality of it."
"She's got you, Alessandro, her dad, your entire family and a whole town... I'm sure there'll be some crappy moments. My sister could confirm. You're the second eldest of your siblings, right?"
"Yep. And I do love it. Most of the time."
I smile, but she shakes her head. "Okay, I do want to know. Give me something. Last night? Damian was quite the growly knight in shining jeans, huh?"
Shining. Twinkling. Same difference, right? I feel my cheeks heat up faster than Rudolph's nose on Christmas Eve.
I sigh, fiddling with my necklace. "Well, it was fun. Until... um, it wasn't."
"Fun?" She waggles her eyebrows. "How fun are we talking?"
"Not that kind of fun," I mutter, wishing I could hide behind my mulled wine.
"Was it because of that interview that's going to be published? He must have been pissed." I must make a I-don't-understand face because she raises an eyebrow. "His parents. The interview. I thought for sure you have Google alerts set up on Damian Mack."
I shake my head, wincing. "Nope. I know... it's surprising to me, too. But please, don't tell me whatever is going on. I think I want him to tell me if he wants to."
"I get it." Aisling nods, her expression softening into something that tells me she truly understands.
"Oh, and he wants to help with the Christmas-A-Thon," I add, trying to change the subject.
"Of course he does. That place means so much to him," Aisling says. "I'll help too. And I can rope Sorcha in if you want."
"She already took some pictures for the volunteer firefighter calendar," I explain, grateful for the shift in conversation.
"She's doing the take-a-picture-with-Santa event on Saturday, too. We could have some information about the Christmas-Adopt-thon there... get people to throw out ideas about activities they'd love to see. Like you singing?"
I snort. "Please, they'd donate so I'd stop."
Aisling lifts a shoulder, grinning. "That could work."
I give her another smile, warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the mulled wine. "Thanks... It's been a weird day. I needed this. Like, I didn't know I needed it, but I really did. It's nice to feel like I'm... in. And I can just be. You know?"
"I know." Aisling smiles at me, a soft smile. "You're allowed to have a life here, you know."
I swallow hard, surprised by the lump in my throat. "Yeah, well... easier said than done."
It's her turn to lean in. "Hmmm...Well, you're coming to our O'Connor White Elephant Gift Exchange in two days right?"
"Yep. Thanks again for the invite."
"Of course. So, how's the big story coming along?" Aisling asks, sliding Plates & Drinks famous fried donuts dessert with vanilla caramel sauce between us.
I force a smile, hoping it doesn't look as strained as it feels. "Oh, you know, slow and steady. Just trying to find that perfect holiday twist."
She gives me that look, the one that says she can see right through me. "Writer's block?"
I let out a laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Yeah, maybe a little. Guess I'm just not feeling the holiday magic as much as I usually do."
Aisling nods, sympathy in her eyes. "Or maybe you're putting too much pressure on yourself. I should know. I'm the Queen of putting too much pressure on myself." She sips her non-alcoholic drink. "My best recipes? They come when I stop trying to force them. Maybe it's the same for you..."
"You're right..." I nod back, but my chest tightens—because pressure is what drives me forward. It's what shows everyone I'm the best at what I do. Without pressure? I don't know who I am. But with that added pressure? I'm lost.
AS I WATCH AISLING leave, her news still buzzing in my head, I doodle something on my notebook. Not contest ideas. Not article ideas. Not even words.
Just a very bad picture of a cat with a Santa hat. Everyone's lives are moving forward, changing, while I'm... what? Treading water? Not writing?
All that comes through my mind are ways to help the shelter. I've asked Carlos for the spreadsheet with information about all the dogs and cats, their quirks, their nicknames, their stories. The #DearSantaWithLove hashtag is no longer trending but it still gets plenty of notifications. Both good and not great.
And there's a way to use that. I'm sure there is.
The door chimes, and I glance up to see Damian stamping snow off his boots. As if sensing my gaze, he looks up, our eyes locking across the room. For a moment, I'm transported back to the gym, to the fire in his eyes as he defended me to Mrs. Cooper. Then his lips quirk into that infuriating half-smile, and I'm snapped back to the present.
"You working on your Pulitzer Prize?" His voice carries across the room as he approaches, and suddenly the bar feels much smaller. There's something in the way his jaw ticks that has me thinking back to Aisling's mentioning an interview. As he gets closer, my heart does this stupid little flip, and I can't decide if it's excitement or anxiety—or both. This is Damian, the guy who once thought I was a heartless journalist, the guy who's seen me at my best and worst.
"Not really..." I manage, trying to ignore the way his presence seems to fill the entire room.
"You okay?" He frowns, like he senses that there's so much wrong with me at this very second. Pulitzer. How the heck am I going to win a Pulitzer if I can't even write a #DearSantaWithLove letter?
"Great," I reply with my practiced smile.
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and I continue, "Thanks for... defending me, you know. Mrs. Cooper..."
"Well, she was wrong about you, so... easy to defend you." He leans back slightly as if weighing his next words. "If you want a break, Trivia night is starting soon over there. You could join me."
My heart skips a beat. Trivia? I should be writing, not opening a door I'm not sure I'm ready to walk through. But maybe a break with Damian will clear my head—or just add to the confusion.
I need to write, to prove to myself that I can still do this. But the thought of spending more time with him, of maybe finding out why he defended me earlier, is too tempting to ignore. Maybe walking through that door is exactly what I need to shake off this block.
I take a breath, trying to steady myself. "On your team?" I tilt my head, trying to keep things light, but my voice betrays me, a little too eager, a little too unsure.
A break. A break sounds perfect. More distraction. Maybe it'll spark an idea too. An idea and the skill to write it?
"Sure."
I tilt my head—taking in his three-day stubble, the scar under his eye, the tattoos peaking from his shirt, letting him ground me in the moment. "Is that because you lost on Halloween, Bitey?"
The nickname slips out before I can stop it, and suddenly I'm back in that moment - his hands on me, his mouth... I bite my lower lip, feeling a flush creep up my neck. Is it hot in here, or is it him?
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, leaning forward. The scent of his cologne washes over me. "I don't remember losing, Princess. Not at all." And the tick in his jaw is replaced by a half-grin. A confident half-grin. Because he's not wrong. There was no winning or losing once we left Plates and Drinks that night.
My gaze drops to his lips, then trails down to the corded muscles visible beneath his buttoned-down shirt. The top two buttons are undone, revealing a mouth-watering glimpse of skin. I swallow hard.
"Were you on a date?" The question bursts out of me, unbidden. Why do I care? I shouldn't care.
Another smile, this one slow and knowing. "Nope. Just took a shower after volunteering at the shelter, where we're making a lot of progress and decided to join the Christmas trivia."
The image of Damian in the shower flashes through my mind, and suddenly I'm parched. I should have ordered some ice water.
"You and Christmas? Do they allow you in knowing you knocked off my Christmas tree?" I tease, trying to regain my composure.
"I didn't."
"Hmm-hmm."
"So, you coming?"
I flip through my notebook, stopping at the page with scribbled ideas for the shelter crisis. Communication strategies, fundraising tactics, even a rough outline for a social media campaign. My mind drifts back to that independent study on nonprofit communications I took in grad school. The one I abandoned after a C+ threatened my perfect GPA.
"Journalism is your path," I'd told myself then, shelving those nonprofit dreams alongside my worn copy of "Fundraising for Dummies." But now, faced with real animals needing real help, those old lessons are bubbling up, demanding attention. Maybe this is my way back to the words. Telling the stories of these animals, of the people working so hard to find them homes—maybe that's where I'll find the heart I've been missing. The passion that got me into journalism in the first place. Maybe helping the shelter could help me too.
"Earth to Maddie," Damian's voice cuts through my thoughts "You coming?"
I blink, realizing I've been lost in thought. "Sorry, just... brainstorming for the shelter."
Something in his expression softens. "Anything good?"
"Maybe," I hedge, suddenly self-conscious. This isn't my usual beat. But the way he's looking at me, like what I have to say matters... "I'll tell you over trivia?"
He grins, and for a moment, I forget about grades and career paths. "Deal."
As we head to the trivia room, my notebook clutched to my chest, I'm caught between two worlds. One where I'm crafting the perfect shelter campaign, and another where I'm about to play trivia with the town's most eligible grumpy bachelor. Both feel equally surreal.
I spot a table of familiar faces near the front. Aunt Locelli, Lady Grey, and Paul are huddled together, probably plotting world domination via trivia.
"Well, well, if it isn't our favorite columnist," Aunt Locelli calls out, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "We're down a player for the 'Swans Cove Seniors.' Want to lend us your millennial wisdom, Maddie?"
For a split second, I'm tempted. These people, with their warmth and their quirks, they're becoming... something. Not quite family, but more than just people and lives I write about.
"Sorry, folks," Damian cuts in, his hand finding the small of my back. The touch sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with static electricity. "We're joining forces tonight."
Lady Grey's eyebrows shoot up so fast I'm worried they might fly off her face. "Is that so? I thought after the Halloween incident, you two were banned from competing together."
Oh god. Halloween. The Great Trivia Debacle. Who knew Damian and I could get so heated over the chemical composition of candy corn?
"We're not competing against each other this time," I explain, feeling my cheeks heat up. "Figured it's safer for everyone if we're on the same team."
"Safer, or more dangerous?" Paul mutters, earning him an elbow from Aunt Locelli.
I can feel the eyes of the room on us, hear the whispers starting already, something about a bet is going through the room, a mix of excitement and judgment that I'm all too familiar with. Part of me wants to bask in the attention - after all, isn't this what I've always worked for? To be noticed, to matter? But another part feels a twinge of anxiety. These aren't faceless readers or viewers. These are people I see every day, people whose opinions suddenly matter more than I'd like to admit.
I plaster on my best camera-ready smile, the one that's gotten me through countless interviews and awkward social situations.
"Rain check on joining your team of terror?" I offer to Aunt Locelli, surprised by how much I mean it. "Maybe when I'm wise enough to keep up?"
Aunt Locelli winks. "Oh honey, you're fitting in just fine. Now go show these whippersnappers how it's done."
Lady Grey catches my eye, her smile warm but with a hint of concern as she glances at Damian. "It's good to see you both out tonight even if you don't join our team," she says, her tone light but meaningful.
Damian nods, a silent exchange passing between them. I remember his struggle from yesterday, the way he asked me to leave. There's clearly more going on, but I know better than to pry.
"It's good to see you, too," I say before Damian guides us to our table.
Mr. Fitzgerald clears his throat, ready to begin, and I push the thoughts aside. For now, I have a trivia game to win and a town to impress. But as I open my notebook, my hastily scribbled shelter ideas peek out from beneath trivia answers. A reminder that maybe, just maybe, there's more than one way to make a mark in this town.
"Ready to show them what we've got?" Damian asks, his voice low and just for me.
I meet his gaze, feeling a flutter of something that has nothing to do with competition. It's a mix of excitement and anxiety—a tug-of-war between the part of me that wants to jump in and the part that's not sure I can handle what comes next. His confident smile holds me in place, and I can't help but wonder if I'm stepping into a game I'm not ready to play—or one I've been playing all along without even realizing it.
"Absolutely," I reply, but the word feels heavy, loaded with more questions than answers. I glance at my notebook, the unfinished ideas heavy in my hands. Maybe this is where I find my footing again—not just in trivia, but in the bigger picture. But a knot tightens in my stomach, reminding me that success isn't guaranteed, and neither is knowing what winning even looks like anymore.
Or even if those ideas I have will indeed translate to me actually writing.