Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Paul

The bakery glows in the late afternoon light, warm and golden, casting everything in a soft haze that almost feels like a memory. Sunlight filters through the wide front windows, pooling on the polished wood floors and highlighting rows of pastries that look almost too perfect to eat. The hum of the ovens blends with the rhythmic tick of the wall clock, a quiet symphony of life in this place my grandmother built with her hands, her heart. The air carries a depth that isn’t just sweetness or spice but something intangible—years of stories, of labor, of love baked into every corner.

I’m wiping down the counter, the cloth gliding in slow, deliberate strokes. The motion keeps me tethered, reminds me to breathe. Then the door swings open. The bell above it chimes, the sound crisp and intrusive in the stillness, and I glance up out of habit, expecting one of the regulars—Mrs. Beckett with her gossip or Mr. Taylor with his long-winded stories.

But it’s not them.

My hand stills mid-swipe, the cloth forgotten in my grasp.

It’s him.

Damian.

He stands framed in the doorway. My stomach twists, my pulse jumping before I can stop it. He looks like the Damian I remember, but there’s a difference that steals the air from my lungs.

“Paul,” he says, his voice low, deliberate, but carrying an edge I don’t recognize. Damian Harris doesn’t do tentatively, but here he is, standing in my grandmother’s bakery like the ground beneath him isn’t as sure as it once was.

A storm of emotions rises in me before I can stop it. Anger, longing, betrayal—feelings I thought I’d locked away months ago break free all at once, colliding in my chest. I force my gaze back to the counter, dragging the cloth across the surface with more force than necessary, willing my hands to be steady even as my mind reels.

“Can we talk?” he asks, stepping inside. The bell above the door chimes again as it swings shut, and it feels like he’s closed off from the rest of the world, leaving me trapped in here with him.

“No.” The word snaps out before I can soften it, but I don’t care. I toss the cloth into the sink and turn to face him fully, meeting his gaze head-on. “We have nothing to talk about.”

His jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration crossing his face, but he doesn’t retreat. Damian Harris doesn’t retreat. “I think we do.”

“Well, I don’t,” I bite back, the words spilling out faster now, fueled by months of buried hurt. “You made it pretty damn clear where we stood back in January. So why the fuck are you here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, a familiar gesture that once made him look composed but now feels like a stall. He’s choosing his words, trying to gauge how to break through the walls I’ve rebuilt since he left.

“Paul,” he starts again, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I just . . . We need to figure out the partnership.”

The laugh that escapes me is cold, bitter, and louder than I intend. It echoes in the bakery, a stark contrast to the intimate quiet we shared once upon a time. “Is that what this is about? The businesses? Of course it is. Figures.” I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter as if to put more space between us. “Fine. Let’s dissolve it. Send over the paperwork. I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign. But you didn’t need to come here for that.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He takes a step closer, the tension in his shoulders giving away what his face tries to hide. This isn’t about the resort. It never was.

“Just leave, Damian,” I say, my voice low and cold. “Whatever you think this is, whatever you think you’re going to fix—it’s not happening. So do us both a favor and leave me the fuck alone.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His mouth opens as if he’s about to argue, to push back like he always does, but then he closes it again, his lips pressing into a hard line. The silence stretches taut between us, thick with all the words we aren’t saying. Then, with a single nod, he turns and walks to the door.

The bell jingles one last time as he steps outside, the sound cutting through me like a knife. I force myself to look away, grabbing the cloth from the sink and scrubbing the counter with unnecessary force, as if I can scrub away the memory of him standing here.

“Paul,” my grandmother’s voice pulls me back to the present. She’s near the ovens, her hands dusted with flour, her gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts.

“What?” I snap, the word harsher than I intend, but I don’t apologize.

Her brow lifts in a way only she can manage, the quiet reprimand of someone who’s seen too much life to put up with excuses. “You could have listened to him.”

“There’s nothing to listen to,” I say, gripping the cloth like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. “He made his choice, Gran. I’m just respecting it.”

She steps closer, her presence steady and unshakable, like the heartbeat of this bakery. “But it’s okay to reconsider. What would it cost you to hear him out?”

I laugh, short and bitter, shaking my head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” she says, her voice gentle but carrying the weight of a truth I don’t want to hear. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. Listening doesn’t cost you anything, Paul. And you might gain something you didn’t expect.”

Her words linger, a quiet challenge I can’t bring myself to answer. I stand there, the cloth limp in my hand, staring at the door Damian walked out of. Listening doesn’t cost anything, she said. But what if it costs everything?