Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Paul

The September air carries the first whisper of fall, crisp and bracing as it drifts through the partially cracked windows of the bakery. Inside, the warmth from the ovens creates a perfect cocoon, tinged with the faint scent of apples and cinnamon—the start of Gran’s fall pie tradition. She insists on baking them early every year, saying it gives people a taste of the season before the leaves begin their slow transformation. I don’t argue. The rhythm of it—mixing, rolling, baking—keeps me tethered, gives me something to focus on besides the gnawing ache I can’t quite shake.

The bell above the door jingles, cutting through the quiet, and I glance up from wiping the counter. My muscles tense, already preparing for another round of polite smiles and pie recommendations for an early customer.

But it’s not a customer.

It’s Damian.

Again.

It’s been almost three weeks of this. Every morning, after the breakfast rush dies down, he shows up. Always with an excuse. Pastries for his staff, a last-minute cake order, some nonsense about needing inspiration for his resort menus. The excuses are flimsy, transparent, and every time, they leave me raw.

This time, he’s holding something—a basket. At first, I think it’s for Gran. It would make sense; she has that way of pulling people into her orbit, even people like Damian. But when he steps closer, his eyes meet mine, and it’s clear the basket is for me.

“Good morning, Paul,” he says, his voice softer than it should be, like he’s trying not to scare me off.

I pause mid-wipe, then toss the cloth onto the counter with deliberate indifference. “What are you doing here?” My tone is clipped, uninterested, but my pulse betrays me, racing as if it hasn’t learned better by now.

He lifts the basket slightly, the red-checkered cloth draped over it brightly against his broad hands. “I brought you something.”

The way he says it, almost sheepishly, throws me. Damian Harris doesn’t do sheepish. Or flirty. Or vulnerable. But lately, he’s been dabbling in all three, and I hate how easily it unsettles me.

“I don’t want anything from you,” I say, forcing my voice to stay flat. But my eyes betray me, flicking to the basket, curiosity betraying my resolve.

“Just hear me out,” he says, setting the basket on the counter between us. “Please.”

He pulls back the cloth, revealing an assortment of baked goods. They’re misshapen, some overcooked and others barely holding their intended form. Cookies, muffins, what looks like a loaf of bread. It’s a mess—one I wouldn’t dare sell here—but it stops me in my tracks. Damian baked. Or at least tried to.

A laugh escapes me, unbidden and sharp-edged, before I can stop it. “You baked?”

“I tried,” he says, and for the first time, I notice the faint flush creeping up his neck. Damian fucking Harris is blushing. “Gran might’ve mentioned how busy you’ve been with the fall menu. I thought maybe I could . . . help.”

“Help?” I arch a brow, my voice dripping with skepticism. “By burning perfectly good ingredients?”

“By showing you I’m trying,” he says, his tone low, raw in a way that pulls at something deep in my chest. “I don’t know how to do this, Paul. I’ve never had to grovel before. But I’m here. And I’m trying. For you.”

The words hit like a physical blow, cutting through my anger with something uncomfortably close to longing. I glance down at the basket, my hands stilling at my sides. One of the cookies calls to me in its lopsided imperfection, so I pick it up and take a bite.

It’s awful. Dry, with too much salt and none of the warmth that comes from knowing what you’re doing.

“This is terrible,” I say, my voice deadpan as I swallow with effort.

“I figured it might be,” he admits, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in something resembling self-deprecation.

“Then why bother?” I ask, setting the rest of the cookie back in the basket.

“Because I miss you,” he says, the words spilling out like they’ve been waiting too long to be spoken. “Because I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, but I want to fix it. I’m tired of running, Paul. Tired of pretending I don’t care. I’m here because I’m trying to show you I’m not the same coward I was before.”

I stare at him, the raw honesty in his words unsettling in its intensity. Anger surges to the forefront, a defense mechanism I know too well. “I don’t know if I can trust you,” I say quietly.

“I know,” he says, holding my gaze like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. But I’m not going anywhere, Paul. I’ll keep showing up, every day if I have to.”

The defiance in his voice is maddening, infuriating. And yet, somewhere in the tangled mess all the anger inside me begins to dissipate.

I reach into the basket again, grabbing a muffin this time. I tear off a piece, pop it into my mouth, and immediately regret it. “You might want to work on your baking skills,” I say, a faint smirk pulling at my lips despite myself.

His shoulders relax just slightly, enough that I notice the way his jaw unclenches, the faintest glimmer of hope in his expression. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“Don’t push your luck, Harris,” I shoot back, but there’s no real venom in my tone.

He smiles then—a real, genuine smile—and for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like a wound reopening in my chest. Maybe Gran was right. Maybe listening doesn’t cost as much as I thought.

But I’m not ready for more, not yet.