CHAPTER 15—MADDIE
***
Mom: Did you already submit your article? The deadline is coming up soon.
I PUSH OPEN THE SHELTER door, my cheek still tingling from Damian's kiss at the library yesterday. The memory sends a flutter through my stomach, a mix of anticipation and nervousness that has nothing to do with the task at hand. Well, maybe a little to do with it.
Sorcha's text from earlier flashes through my mind: "Heads up, Damian's not loving the video idea. Good luck!" Great. Just what I needed after our moment yesterday - another challenge to overcome.
The scent of pine and cinnamon mingles with eau de wet dog as I step inside, nearly clotheslining myself on a string of tinsel. I catch myself just in time, biting back a yelp. No, Maddie. You've got this. You're capable, put-together. A little tinsel isn't going to throw you off your game, especially not after yesterday's library... encounter.
"Watch out for the—" Damian's warning comes a second too late as I step on a squeaky toy. The resulting honk echoes through the shelter, setting off a chorus of barks. "—dog toy," he finishes with a smirk.
I feel heat rush to my cheeks, but I straighten my shoulders, plastering on my best I-meant-to-do-that smile. "Just testing the acoustics," I quip, aiming for confident and missing by a mile. Come on, Maddie. Pull it together. You were so in sync yesterday, don't let a few mishaps derail you now.
Damian's standing by the makeshift Santa backdrop, looking unfairly good in a green sweater that brings out his eyes. Arms crossed over his chest, jaw set in that stubborn line I've come to know so well. It's hard to believe this is the same man who kissed my cheek so tenderly just yesterday.
"Those pictures Sorcha took should be made into a reel," I say, planting my hands on my hips and channeling every ounce of conviction I can muster. "We need to up our game."
Damian's eyes narrow, but there's a softness there that wasn't present before yesterday. These are adoptable pets, not auction items," he says, his voice low and rough. "I've seen too many animals returned because people jumped in for the wrong reasons. They're not just clicks—they're lives."
"Of course they are. I'm sorry, is your goal for these pets to find homes before Christmas?" I counter, stepping closer. My heart's racing, partly from our proximity, partly from the familiar rush of diving into a challenge. "Because a reel would—"
My foot catches on a stray ribbon and I stumble forward. Damian's arms shoot out, catching me against his chest. For a moment, we're pressed together, his warmth seeping into me, his heart thudding beneath my palm. It's like the library all over again—except this time, there's nothing between us. No excuses. Just us.
I want to melt into his embrace, to recapture that moment of connection we shared yesterday. But I can't. Not now. These animals are counting on us.
"I'm fine," I say quickly, pushing away perhaps a bit too forcefully. My voice comes out higher than I'd like, betraying my flustered state. "Just... festive floor hazards. All part of the Christmas charm, right?"
I laugh, the sound a touch too bright, too forced. Inside, I'm a whirlwind of emotions - embarrassment at my clumsiness, frustration at Damian's resistance, confusion about where we stand after yesterday. But outwardly, I maintain my smile—until I notice him rubbing the back of his neck—the way he does when he's anxious.
Instead of arguing back, I force myself to take another deep breath, really looking at Damian. There's something in his eyes, a flicker of... what? Pain? Uncertainty? It's gone in an instant, replaced by his usual mask of irritation, but it's enough to make me pause.
"Okay," I say slowly. "Let's talk this through. Why are you against the idea of a reel?"
Damian runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've come to recognize as a sign of frustration. "Look," he starts, his voice softer now. "I get it. The social media posts, the updates - they help. But a reel? That's... different. More personal."
I nod, encouraging him to continue.
"These animals." He gestures to the kennels around us. "They deserve better than to be reduced to a 15-second clip set to trendy music. Their stories are real, complicated. Not some shiny, perfect narrative."
"I hear you," I say, reaching out to touch his arm. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes under my touch. "You're right. Their stories. They're not meant to be glossed over or prettied up." As the words leave my mouth, a memory I haven't thought about in years crashes over me—reading to that old service dog in elementary school. I used to bury that memory, convincing myself it wasn't important. I didn't want to be seen as the girl who needed help to read, who found solace in the company of a dog when people weren't enough. But now, standing in this shelter, I can't shake the thought that maybe those moments shaped me more than I ever allowed myself to admit.
Sorcha, who's been quietly snapping photos nearby, lets out a low whistle. "You know," she says, a smirk playing at her lips. "If I had some popcorn, this would be better than any rom-com. The tension, the banter... it's like watching foreplay, but with more fur and Santa hats."
I feel heat rush to my cheeks, but Damian rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be the beginning of a smile.
"Okay," I say, turning back to Damian. I take a deep breath, the tension between us palpable. "So maybe instead of a flashy reel, we could do a series of short video interviews?" My voice softens, almost hesitant, as I search his face for a reaction. "You behind the camera, me asking questions about each pet's personality, needs, quirks." I hesitate, the words catching in my throat as the memory of reading to that old service dog resurfaces, unbidden. "We can tell their stories the way they deserve: real, unpolished, honest."
Damian's gaze sharpens, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He's listening, really listening, and it gives me the courage to continue.
"Like how that old service dog helped me find my voice. I was reading to him and it was a happy moment. A it's okay to be who you are moment," I admit, the confession surprising even me. Damian's eyebrows lift slightly, a subtle sign of interest, and I can tell I've caught him off guard. "I used to think those memories didn't matter, that they didn't fit with who I wanted to be, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe that's exactly why this matters so much now."
I watch as Damian processes my words, the furrow between his brows slowly easing. His eyes search mine, and I can see the wheels turning in his head. For a moment, I wonder if I've shared too much, if I've revealed a part of myself that I wasn't ready to confront.
But then, Damian's expression softens. "That... could work," he says finally, his voice steady. "No trendy music, no filters. Just the animals and their stories." His tone carries a note of approval, and I can tell he's not just agreeing for the sake of it.
As he says this, Damian's eyes meet mine, and there's something unspoken between us, a deeper understanding that hadn't been there before. It's like he's seeing me in a new light, and the realization sends a shiver down my spine—not out of fear, but out of the recognition that this moment, this connection, is something real. Something neither of us expected but can't deny anymore.
"Okay. We show the good, the challenging, and everything in between." And maybe, we find a way to make people see the value in the imperfect too—something I need to figure out myself.
Damian's lips quirk into that half-smile that never fails to make my heart skip. "Alright, Princess. Let's tell some stories."
As we start to set up for the first interview, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, seeing a notification from Not-So-Crabby News liking my latest post. A small thrill runs through me, quickly followed by a wave of anxiety as I remember the email I received this morning.
"As you know, this holiday contest is only for past entrants. We're inviting a select few to participate, showcasing the good they're already witnessing in their communities...The deadline is fast approaching, and we wanted to remind you we haven't received yours, yet."
The words echo in my head, a mix of opportunity and pressure. They want to do portraits about the people entering, to reshare the impact we're making, to share their second chance at the contest. It should be exciting, but all I can think about is the fact that I now only have two #DearSantaWithLove letters left in my arsenal. Two letters between me and having to admit that the words just aren't coming.
I swallow hard, trying to push down the panic. No pressure, Maddie. Just need to come up with heartwarming, community-changing content while also helping run this adopt-a-thon and oh, did I mention, not being able to write?
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. One thing at a time. Right now, it's about these animals, their stories. But the deadline's looming, and the blank screen at home isn't going away.
As I watch Damian gently coax a shy terrier into frame, his voice low and soothing, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I'm truly starting to see the real him. Between his defense of me, the talk at his place, the ice rink, at the library, the shelter, his humor and his laughter, all those little moments that add up to so much. And what I see? It takes my breath away. If only I could find the words to describe it.
The spell is broken by a frantic knock at the door. Sorcha bursts back in followed by her husband—former NHL player Ryan Sawyer wearing an elf costume, her cheeks flushed and her camera swinging wildly from her neck. "Not to alarm anyone," she pants, "but the event starts in thirty minutes and Love Me Tender is missing."
"Love Me Tender?" I repeat, a smile tugging at my lips. Leave it to Swans Cove to name their shelter animals after Elvis’s songs.
Damian winces, and I swear I see a flicker of fear in those green eyes. "The tarantula," he mutters.
My smile freezes. "I'm sorry, did you say tarantula?"
"Yep," Damian confirms, already moving towards the door. "Eight legs, furry body, about the size of your hand."
I feel the blood drain from my face. "And it's... loose? In the shelter?"
"Not for long," Damian says grimly. He pauses at the door, looking back at me with a hint of a smirk. "Unless you're afraid of a little spider?"
"Ugh, a poisonous not-so-little spider, Bitey."
As we head out to join the search party, my entire body shivers. Not sure if it's about the spider or Damian—by my side. Because with his arm occasionally brushing against mine as we walk, I realize there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
Even if it means hunting down a furry eight-legged escape artist named after The King.