CHAPTER 9—MADDIE
***
Aisling: Thanks for coming over. We need to do this more often. Oh, we could start a book club! I name you "President of the vibrators delegation."
I CAN'T HELP BUT GRIN as I read Aisling's text. The night really was fun, and I'm still chuckling over her attempt to teach me how to bake cookies. Plus, she told me to contact Landon Adams to help with the coffee and baked goods I'm trying to get delivered to the shelter every morning for the staff who's been working overtime.
I glance up to find Damian giving me another one of those looks.
"You do know I only had one Bailey's, right?" I blurt out, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
His hand on my lower back burns through my coat as we enter our building. The scent of him—wood, clean, leather—envelops me, making my head spin more than any alcohol ever could.
"I saw you wobbling," he grumbles, his voice a low rumble that I swear I can feel everywhere: my bones, my very core, my heart.
I'm not drunk. But around him? It's like my inhibitions are racing down an F1 track, no speed limits in sight. We're no longer strangers bickering at each other... it's more like bantering now. And I've seen him naked. More than naked. I've felt him inside me, heard the sounds he makes when he comes.
We're almost friends at this stage. Right? Friends who've had mind-blowing sex and may or may not feature in each other's late-night fantasies. Totally normal. Nothing to see here, Dear People of Swans Cove.
Or maybe I'm imagining things, because right now his jaw is so clenched I'm worried he might crack a tooth.
As we reach our building, I fumble with the door, hyperaware of Damian's proximity. His body heat radiates against my back, and I have to resist the urge to lean into him. Once inside, I move to adjust the little Christmas tree that keeps swaying to one side, my fingers trembling slightly.
"Why do you keep doing that?" he grunts, and I can practically feel his frown.
I turn to face him, my heart racing. "The holidays? The Christmas tree? Getting on your nerves? You have to pick one, Teethy."
"Teethy?" His chuckle surprises us both, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Well, trying to change it from Bitey. But Teethy sounded better in my head," I ramble.
"I sound like a dog toy," he says, his voice dropping an octave.
"Nighty?" I suggest, immediately regretting it as less-than-appropriate images flood my mind.
"Please don't." But his widening smile is downright dangerous.
My eyes drift to his lips, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. I lick my lips, suddenly parched, and watch as his eyes track the movement. We're standing so close now, I could inch forward and end up in his arms or flushed against his chest. One step, that's all it would take...
"Bitey?" I half-murmur, the nickname slipping out before I can stop it. My cheeks warm as Damian raises an eyebrow, his hand moving toward me. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he might actually touch me, but then Barkey's bark cuts through the tension like a knife.
"Saved by the bark," I whisper, trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing. Damian shakes his head, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You're funny," he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like a compliment. I resist the urge to puff my chest like I'm some kind of peacock in a mating ritual. Which this definitely isn't. Nope. Not at all. "Do you want to come over and play F1?" he offers, his voice low and inviting.
"Umm, yes." I blurt out before I can think better of it. What is wrong with me? This is so not the moment to spend more time with Mr. Former Bodyguard. In his place. With the door closed. Just us. And Barkey.
"I can show you how it's done."
"I don't think so," I counter, unable to resist the challenge in his tone. "You should know that I have placed first in a competition of F1 PS4 races." I'm not sure why I feel the need to prove myself to him, but here we are.
"But I have a PS5," he says, and somehow he makes it sound like the dirtiest proposition I've ever heard. My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak again.
"Let's go," I say, not wanting to back from a challenge.
If I crush him in F1, maybe he'll see me as more than some temporary byline. He'll respect me, like me even. Look at me, Damian. I'm not just passing through, I'm lapping you.
Oh great, there goes my approval-seeking meter again. My therapist would have a field day with this Desperate Neighbor Achiever Status.
"I'LL TAKE BARKEY OUT . Make yourself comfortable," Damian tells me as he unlocks his door.
I hesitate at the threshold. Am I really doing this? Stepping into Damian's apartment feels like crossing some invisible line we've drawn between us. This is the man who once thought the worst of me, who accused me of using people for stories. And yet, here I am, heart fluttering and butterflies dancing in my chest, anticipation thrumming through my veins. It's the F1 racing—it will do that to anyone.
"Do you need a formal invitation?" Damian raises an eyebrow as he puts the leash on Barkey. "Are you the vampire in this scenario? Come on, Princess..." He hesitates like he's unsure calling me Princess is okay. But ever since he's on a nickname basis with my vagina, Princess feels like a sweet name.
I take a deep breath and steps inside as he heads out with Barkey who looks so happy to see him. I can relate, dog. I shouldn't. But I can.
I glance around.
Does he mean naked when he says comfortable? He doesn't mean naked, right? I glance around his apartment, still no Christmas cheer. Only a couple of Christmas cards on the counter hint at the season. It's so different from my place, with its fake fireplace draped in garlands and stockings.
"Hmm-hmm," I manage, kicking off my shoes. I pad into the living room, my socks sliding a little on the hardwood floor. His apartment is bigger than mine, or maybe it seems that way without all my festive clutter. The space feels distinctly Damian – minimalist, yet somehow warm. I'm struck by how nervous I feel, like I'm seeing a part of him he doesn't show to many people.
Trying to look casual, I lean against what I think is the wall—only to find myself stumbling backwards into a bookshelf.
Books rain down around me as I flail, desperately trying to regain my balance. Of course, that's the exact moment Damian walks back in.
He freezes in the doorway, taking in the sight of me sprawled among a pile of fallen books, my hair probably resembling a bird's nest.
"I was ... admiring your collection," I manage, holding up a book that, to my horror, turns out to be "Kama Sutra for Dummies."
Damian's eyebrows shoot up, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Interesting choice of reading material, Princess."
I feel my face flame. "I didn't— I mean, I wasn't—"
He chuckles, the sound warming me from the inside out. "Relax. That's an O'Connor White Elephant Gift."
"Aisling mentioned that annual event while we were baking. She invited me." There we go, switching the topic.
"And that's the gift you'd like me to bring...for inspiration?"
I sputter, caught between embarrassment and laughter. "In your dreams."
"Oh, trust me," he says, his voice dropping an octave as he helps me up. "My dreams are much more interesting than that."
I inhale deeply, and the scent of leather and his cologne fills my lungs. It's intoxicating, and I have to remind myself to focus. My fingers trail along the smooth surface of the piano as I sit on the small bench. I can't resist tapping out a few notes, the sound filling the quiet space.
"Be careful, the upstairs neighbor doesn't like too much noise," Damian says, a teasing lilt to his voice.
I know he's joking, but I can't help the way my shoulders tense. "It's not the piano you play..."
"Well, I need to fix it. It's kind of old."
"Oh. And you did have the volume on particularly loud last night... while you had company," I shoot back, trying to keep my tone light.
"Imani and I go way back," he explains. "It's a small world that Ryan and Sorcha know her, too. She was visiting her family in Columbia and passing by."
"Hmm-hmm," I hum noncommittally, tilting my head. But then his arms cage me in, and suddenly breathing seems like an advanced skill I've forgotten. His strong, calloused fingers start playing an off-key tune, and it takes me a moment to recognize it as some of the keys don't work.
"Is that the Halloween soundtrack?" I ask, surprised.
"You are wearing a Michael Myers shirt," he points out, his breath warm against my ear.
I force myself to take a deep breath, willing my heart to slow down. The last thing I need is the headline: "Cove Gazette Journalist Passes Out at Damian's Apartment."
But with him so close, his scent enveloping me and his warmth seeping into my back, passing out is starting to seem like a real possibility.
His fingers continue to dance over the keys, the eerie melody filling the room. I'm hyperaware of every point where our bodies almost touch – the brush of his arm against mine, the heat of his chest near my back. The tension between us is palpable, crackling like electricity in the air.
"I never heard you play," I murmur, my voice sounding breathier than I'd like.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through me. "So much to still discover, Maddie."
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. I turn my head slightly, finding his face inches from mine. His eyes, usually so guarded, are dark with an emotion I can't quite name. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, and I'm not sure if I want him to or if I'm terrified of what it might mean.
"Ready to lose?" He asks, but he looks as if playing is the last thing on his mind.
"Are you asking yourself? Because I don't lose." I follow him to the living room where he has two Formula 1 seats set up.
As we play, I can't help but notice Damian's mood doing a one-eighty. His playful trash talk dries up faster than my aunt's turkey at Thanksgiving.
"Nice move," I say after a particularly close call, trying to salvage the vibe.
"Hmm," is all I get in response.
After our final race, I stretch, my fingers cramping from gripping the controller like my life depended on it. Damian reaches for his water bottle and... knocks over a stack of papers on his desk. "Crap," he mutters—trying to gather them and I bend down to help him.
Among the scattered mess, a photo slips out. It's old, worn around the edges, but the boy staring back at me with a toothy smile has eyes that are all too familiar. My brain connects the dots faster than I can stop my mouth.
"Is that you?"
Damian goes still, like someone hit pause on the Damian Show. His eyes flick to the photo in my hand, then back to me, and for a split second, I can see everything—every emotion, every memory—right there in his eyes. But then it's like a switch flips, and he's back to being Damian, the guy who's impossible to read.
"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. He steps closer, his hand hovering over the photo like he's debating whether to take it from me or let me keep holding it. "That was... a long time ago. Christmas morning, actually."
I glance down at the boy in the picture, noticing the way he's clutching a small toy, his expression a mix of joy and something else, something more fleeting. The air between us thickens, heavy with what's not being said.
"You look happy," I say softly, because it's true. The boy in the photo does look happy—even if it's a happiness that feels fragile, like it's on borrowed time.
Damian nods, his gaze distant. "I was. That was... one of the last times I remember feeling like that. My parents couldn't afford the toy I wanted—money was tight, tighter than I got back then—but they didn't let it ruin the day. They took me out to make snow angels, and then we found this old photo booth—one of those vintage ones. We took this picture." He pauses, his eyes focused on the memory more than the photo now. "It was a good day. The last time Christmas felt... simple. Happy."
I swallow, trying to digest what he's telling me. "What happened after that?"
He meets my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I see something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that makes my chest feel too tight. His hand twitches slightly, as if he's about to reach out to me, but then he pulls it back, clenching his fist. "They started planning their first robbery that day," he says, his voice strained. "I overheard them talking about it. My mom... she said I could distract everyone because people loved me. That was the start of everything. The beginning of who they became."
For a second, it's like he's going to say more, to let me in just a little further. But then I see it—the moment he catches himself, the moment the wall goes back up. He straightens, pulling away emotionally even as he stands right in front of me. "Some things are better left in the past," he adds, his tone colder now, more distant.
His phone buzzes, and whatever he sees on the screen makes his shoulders tense, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The Damian I was just starting to see is gone, replaced by the guy who keeps everything locked up tight.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"It's fine," he grunts, but there's an edge to his voice that betrays him.
"Damian, if you need—"
"I said it's fine," he cuts me off, his tone sharp. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I... I'm not good at this. Talking about the past. Or... letting people in."
I stand, feeling the shift in the air. "If there's anything I can do—"
"There isn't," he says firmly, but then adds, softer, "Not right now, anyway. I need... I need to handle this on my own."
As I move to leave, he catches my eye. "Maddie, I... " He pauses, struggling with the words. "Thank you. For trying. But some battles, I have to fight alone."
I nod, understanding that this admission is huge for him—even as I wish he'd let me help him.
As I close the door behind me, I catch one last glimpse of him. He's standing tall, shoulders back, every inch the fighter. But there's a weariness in his stance, a heaviness that wasn't there before. It's clear he's facing some internal demon, and while he's determined to face it alone, for the first time, I see how much that costs him.
Trying to sleep after that weird evening with Damian? As if. I settle at my desk instead, determined to be productive. I've got #DearSantaWithLove to answer, a column to write, and NotSoCrabbyNews plan B and C to brainstorm. Time to shine, Maddie.
Fluffy jumps on my lap, ready to "help." "Not now, Fluff Ball," I murmur, gently nudging him aside. But as I open my laptop, I can't stop replaying our conversation. The way his voice softened when he talked about that photo, the vulnerability in his eyes... My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the words won't come. Every time I start to type, my mind drifts back to him. To the way he shared that memory, then pulled away, leaving me with more questions than answers. I need to focus, not think about Damian.
I stare at the blank screen. The cursor blinks expectantly. Any time now, words.
I type a sentence about community spirit. Ugh, no. Delete. Try again, this time about holiday traditions. Even worse. Delete. Why does everything suddenly feel so... superficial?
The Christmas Adopt-a-thon plans flow easily enough. Look at me, nailing the community engagement angle! But my column? It's like I've forgotten how to string words together.
Everything I write sounds... off. Not impactful enough. Not clever enough. Not... genuine enough? There's this nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I'm missing something important but I can't figure out what.
The usual voices of doubt creep in: "Not enough heart." "Not talented." "You'll never measure up." But there's a new, sharper edge to the anxiety tonight—like I'm not just failing at my work, but at being the person I'm supposed to be. Why does this feel so much harder?
Maybe it's the weight of what Damian told me, or the way I'm realizing I care more than I thought I did. Either way, the words just aren't coming.
Nothing's good enough. The pressure builds, my chest tightening. I'm better than this. I have to be.
Frustration bubbling over, I push back from the desk and start pacing the room, trying to burn off the restless energy that's twisting me up inside. My heart pounds, the need to prove myself eating at me. I'm Maddie Smith. I get things done. I don't freeze. I don't fail. So why does it feel like everything's slipping through my fingers?
I stop at the window, staring out at the Christmas-lit street below. I tell myself I'm just taking a break, giving myself a moment to regroup. But the truth is, I'm avoiding the blank screen, the blinking cursor that feels like it's mocking me. I'm avoiding the fact that tonight, I don't feel like I measure up—to my own standards, or anyone else's.
With a deep breath, I force myself back to the desk. I sit down, set my fingers on the keys, and try to will something—anything—into existence. But my fingers freeze over the keyboard, trembling slightly as the pressure and the doubts close in. I need to write this. I need to prove I can still do this.
But the words won't come.
The tightness in my chest grows until I can't take it anymore, and with a frustrated huff, I slam the laptop shut. The sound is loud in the quiet room, echoing the frustration I feel inside. I sit there for a moment, my hands hovering over the closed laptop, the sting of failure burning hot and sharp.
It's just one night, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I'll get it right. I have to. I'll let Christmas inspire me for the Dear Santa I need to write and the Not-So-Crabby News Entry that's looming closer. Christmas is in—I check my watch, it's after midnight—eight days now.
But as I stare at the laptop, the usual holiday spark I rely on feels more distant than ever, like it's slipping through my fingers. And that thought? It only makes the weight on my chest feel heavier.