Chapter 1

Chapter One

Damian

The conference room is all glass, perched high above the pristine slopes of the resort. It’s designed to impress—panoramic views, sunlight bouncing off the snow like diamonds—but right now, it feels like a goddamn fishbowl. No walls to hide behind, no curtains to pull, just wide-open exposure. Anyone walking past can see everything, though thankfully, the soundproofing keeps them from hearing a word.

Not that it matters. The real problem isn’t the room—it’s him.

Paul McFolley showed up this morning to discuss business , or at least that’s what my assistant said. I didn’t retain a word of it. The second I walked into the conference room and saw him leaning against the table, looking far too relaxed in that perfectly tailored coat and dark jeans, my brain short-circuited. He looked edible. Every line of his body practically dared me to throw him onto the table and take what I wanted.

God, if only this were my private office. I wouldn’t have to pretend. I’d lock the door, sweep those ridiculous pastries off the table, and bend him over it. Or better yet, I’d sit him in my chair, straddle his lap, and ride him until we both forgot why he showed up in the first place.

Instead, I’m stuck nursing a coffee I don’t even want, pretending to care about the pastries he brought, and trying like hell not to stare at his mouth for too long.

“Great,” I snap, slamming my mug onto the counter hard enough to make the coffee slosh over the rim. “Another fucking McFolley is coming to town. Just what this place needs—a fresh crop of them crawling out of the woodwork like weeds. Persistent, invasive, and impossible to get rid of.”

“McFolleys. We are the McFolleys,” Paul corrects from where he’s sitting across from me, his voice low and sharp like gravel underfoot. “Not McCay people, nor weeds.”

I whip my head toward him, caught off guard by the sudden edge in his tone. He leans back, arms crossed, his dark eyes narrowing as tension ripples through his shoulders. He looks irritated as ruck—and it’s all directed at me.

“Same difference,” I shoot back. “You’re multiplying like rabbits and acting like you own the fucking town. My town .”

His laugh is short, humorless—a sound that twists something low in my stomach. “Maybe we wouldn’t bother you so much if you weren’t so goddamn uptight all the time,” he mutters, his gaze pinning me in place.

“You think I’m uptight?” I shoot back, my voice lowering instinctively, like the tension between us demands it.

I scoff, crossing my arms. “One moment, your little sister arrived, and the next, it seems like all of you decided to move in. When is the new one leaving? Or is he staying here for the rest of his natural life too?”

His jaw tight, and I swear there’s a flash of something feral in his eyes. “You’ve got a real way with words, don’t you? Always running that mouth.” He leans in, his voice dropping, rough and low. “Bet it’d be a whole lot quieter if I fucked the attitude out of you.”

My pulse races, because fuck, I do want him to fuck me right now. It’s been . . . well, long enough since the last time. And that’s exactly why I’m so goddamn irritated about another one of his siblings rolling into town. Fucking Barnaby McFolley—or Barny, as they call him, because he’s family.

Family. The word grates. Barny is staying at Paul’s place, which makes sneaking around harder and forces us to act cool, like we’re nothing more than acquaintances when all I want is for him to lose control. For once, I want him to forget how to keep it together and give in—right here, right now.

But no. Instead, I’m left nursing a cup of coffee filled with resentment while yet another McFolley invades my town, turning my life upside down.

That’s really my personality in a nutshell. I’m so fucking angry at the world because I can’t have what I want, not the way I want it. But I’ll be damned if I let him see me crack. Not here. Not now. Even as his words send a molten rush of heat straight to my core, I refuse to back down.

“Big talk, Paul,” I say, lifting my chin, my voice daring him to push back even as my body betrays me, heat coursing through my veins like a drug. “But we know it won’t happen, don’t we? He’ll stay here, fall in love and you’ll find excuses to . . .” I trail off because what’s the point of finishing the sentence. It’s not like I can give him much either.

He laughs, low and bitter, the sound rough enough to scrape against my already-frayed nerves. There’s no humor in it, just pure frustration, like the world’s been kicking him all day, and I’m the convenient target for his pent-up anger. Or worse, his outlet.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, leaning in closer, his gaze dark and deliberate, “keep bitching if that helps you sleep at night. But the next time you’re in my bed, moaning my name, begging for more? I’m not letting you forget this little tantrum.”

The words land like a match to dry kindling, setting me ablaze. My heart slams against my ribcage, my teeth grinding together in a weak attempt to keep myself grounded. His need practically radiates off him, thick and all-consuming, making the air between us feel electric.

And then there’s the look in his eyes—raw, unfiltered hunger that’s so feral, it steals the air from my lungs. It’s not just desire. It’s primal, like he wants to consume me, mark me, and leave me wrecked in a way I’d never recover from. And fuck, I’d let him. I’d let him ruin me completely, if only life were fair.

But it’s not.

It never is.

Paul and I weren’t supposed to happen.

We will never happen.

He came to town on some soul-searching mission, trying to connect with his grandmother before it was too late and stepping up to help his little sister find some stability. He wasn’t the type to stick around—he said that much himself when we met—but there was something about him. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d stay, yet he was the kind you couldn’t help but want to hold onto.

It started innocently enough. He signed up for ski lessons at the resort—partly to fill his time, partly because his sister begged him to. I was the one who ended up teaching him. At first, it was all business. He was polite, attentive, and focused on the slopes. But the more time we spent together, the more I noticed things.

The way his laugh rumbled low when he nailed a tricky run. The way his dark eyes lit up when he teased me about my form. The way my chest tightened whenever he leaned in close to adjust his gear, his hand brushing mine.

Yes, I noticed, but I didn’t touch him. He was happily divorced. A straight man who wouldn’t give a glance to a closeted forty-some-year-old man like me. And that’s fine.

After lessons, we started hanging out. A drink here, a late-night chat there. He was easy to talk to, despite how different we were. He’s from the city—a wealthy finance guy. I’m a man from a small town pretending to . . . fuck, if I’m honest with myself, everything about me is pretend.

Back in the early days, we’d sit in the lodge bar after the slopes cleared, trading stories about family, life, and all the ways we’d been let down by the people who were supposed to have our backs.

Then came the night that changed everything.

It was late, the lodge nearly empty except for a few lingering guests sitting quietly by the fire. One of them—a strikingly beautiful woman with golden hair and a smile that could make any man forget his own name—slipped into our conversation as if she belonged there. Her confidence was magnetic, pulling focus in a way that made it impossible not to notice her, even for a guy like me.

At first, it was harmless banter, the kind of playful flirtation you could brush off with a laugh. But she wasn’t the type to be brushed off. Her teasing grew bolder, her gaze moving between Paul and me like she was testing just how far she could push. Either figuring out who’d fuck her for the night or wanting a threesome.

When she suggested we take things somewhere private, his eyes burned with something I hadn’t seen before. Curiosity, yes, but also a hunger that felt almost primal, like he was daring me to say yes, daring us both to cross the line we’d been skirting for weeks.

And I did. Without thinking too hard about it, I said yes.

That night was electric—a haze of heat, hands, and breathless abandon. The stranger, with her easy laughter and playful touches, was the spark that started it all. But what stayed with me—the thing that shifted something fundamental between Paul and me—was him.

It was the way his touch lingered, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure this was okay, wasn’t sure if we were okay. Then it grew bolder, more certain, as if he’d been holding back for too long. The way his lips found mine, tentative but insistent, like he’d been waiting for this moment but couldn’t bring himself to admit it out loud.

The woman became background noise long before the night ended. She was just the excuse, the opening. What mattered—what had always mattered to me—was Paul. The way he looked at me, as if he were discovering something he hadn’t expected to want but suddenly couldn’t let go of.

And I let him. Knowing it was dangerous. Knowing it would only make me crave something he might never give. I mean, this wasn’t the first straight guy who wanted to experiment. So many do, but then they realize sex with a guy is more complicated than just a one time fuck.

With Paul though, it was different. After that, there were more nights like that. A few more women, a few more excuses to cross lines we never talked about during the day. But somewhere along the way, it was just us.

Paul wanted to do more, experiment. He wanted more than only touches or sucking each other while pretending we enjoyed the woman we chose that night. I was too far gone to say no. So, we skipped the third person. It was just him and me.

Teaching him was . . . special in a way I never thought possible until . . . now.

Now? We’re friends with benefits. Actually, if we had to slap a label on whatever the fuck this is between us, it’d be: closeted friends with benefits . He’s not sure how to tell his friends and family. I . . . I’m the oldest of the last Kentbury, and everyone expects me to marry a nice woman and have children.

No one can know I’m gay. Do I sometimes have sex with women? Only so the town believes I’m who they want me to be. How pathetic is that? So fucking pathetic.

Paul and I have rules.

We don’t talk about feelings. We don’t talk about what’ll happen when he leaves town. I just take what I can, when I can, pretending it’s enough.

It’ll never be enough.

If life were different—if I were different—I wouldn’t be standing here, pretending to barely like him while my heart pounds like a fucking drum. I’d cross the distance between us, grab him by the collar, and kiss him so hard. I’d claim him, right here in this fishbowl of a room.

But instead of saying any of the hundred things clawing at my throat, I grit my teeth and turn back to my coffee, gripping the mug like it might somehow save me from the mess of emotions threatening to spill over.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I manage to spit out, though the slight tremor in my voice betrays me, leaving just enough room for him to notice.

“I won’t need to,” he says, his voice low and smooth, wrapping around me like a goddamn vice. “You’ll come running. You always do.”

I scoff, though it sounds weak even to my own ears. “Sure, because we’ll have time. First it’s your brother, then your other brother, and let’s not forget it’s the holidays. Nothing’s happening, Paul. Not until?—”

“Is this your way of telling me you miss me, babe?” he interrupts, his tone laced with sarcasm and just enough heat to make my chest tighten. “Try therapy. It might help with your underlying issues.”

“Why are you here?” I counter, my words louder than I intend, though I don’t bother softening them. I mean why keep torturing each other when he can just tell me what he needs and leave.

“You skipped Christmas with our family,” he says, his smirk slipping into something more serious, something almost accusing.

“Instead of the McFolleys I decided to spend it with the Millers,” I reply flatly, not offering more. “Knightly insisted. You know, little sister trumps younger brother. Bishop doesn’t give to shits if I’m there or not.”

“Bishop cared, I cared, and the McFolleys would’ve been glad to have you there,” he shoots back, like my brother’s presence is a good enough reason to subject myself to his family.

As if.

But the words hit a nerve anyway, because deep down, it all comes back to the same thing. I’m always the fucking uncle, the good brother, the dependable guy who shows up for everyone else’s holidays. Never my own. I don’t have a family of my own therefore, we can’t celebrate at my house.

That’s not in the cards for me—not with who I am, not with the expectations this town has piled on my shoulders since the day I was born.

I’ve tried, though. Fuck, if I haven’t tried to be the version of myself they want me to be. I tried to meet a nice girl, settle down, play the part. But no. That’s not me.

It never was.

I’ve fallen in love twice in my life. Once with my childhood best friend—who, of course, never knew and never would’ve returned those feelings. And now? I glance at Paul, who’s watching me with that mix of amusement and intensity that makes my chest ache. Now, it’s him. And life, as always, is just this fucked up.

“I could’ve,” I finally say, forcing the words out as I take a sip of my coffee, though it tastes as bitter as my life. “But I like to avoid the McCays as much as possible. So, how long is your brother staying?”

It’s a weak deflection, but it’s all I’ve got left to keep from unraveling right here in this damn glass box of a conference room, with Paul standing too close and the weight of everything I can’t have pressing down on me.