Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Paul

Damian’s sitting across from me in the glass-walled conference room, his fingers curled tightly around his coffee mug like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. The snow-capped mountains behind him are postcard-perfect, but I can’t focus on the scenery—not when he’s here, not when every breath feels like a fight to keep my emotions in check.

“I could’ve,” he says, his voice carefully measured, like he’s trying to sound indifferent. “But I like to avoid the McCays as much as possible. So, how long is your brother staying?”

The words hit me harder than they should, a tight knot forming in my chest. I nod slowly, swirling the coffee in my own mug, pretending his casual dismissal doesn’t sting like hell. Avoiding the McFolleys? Is that all I am? Another name he butchers on a list of things he’d rather not deal with?

There’s too much happening right now, and it feels like the world is spinning faster than I can keep up. My older brother, Barnaby, showed up in town a week ago. The whole family’s holding out hope that we can convince him to stay—if not permanently, then at least close the gap that’s been growing between us. Barnaby’s been keeping his distance for years, but maybe Kentbury could finally give him a reason to stick around.

I’ve been playing tour guide all week, showing him the town, pointing out all the little things that make Kentbury more than just a picturesque ski resort that happens to produce cider. I’ve tried selling him on the idea that even though he loves the city, this place could be his home. His real home.

But honestly? That’s just a distraction. A convenient excuse to keep busy.

The real problem is sitting across from me, sipping coffee like it’s the only thing in the world he cares about. Avoiding my eyes like the act of looking at me might burn him alive.

Damian Harris.

My . . . friend. That’s the word I have to use in front of people. That’s all he can be, no matter how much more I want from him. To some, we’re business partners. I’ve invested in some of his ventures—under the guise of diversification—but really, I did it so I’d have an excuse to be in his life. To talk to him whenever the fuck I want. To sit here in this glass-walled conference room and steal moments that feel like ours, even if we can never claim them.

But Damian Harris isn’t just my business partner. He’s the love of my life.

I know how it sounds—ridiculous, overly dramatic, corny—but it’s the truth. I’ve dated, I’ve been married, and nothing comes close to the way he makes me feel. Damian is the man I want for everything. At my side when life feels like too much, in my bed when the world finally slows down, across from me at the dinner table when it’s just us. My partner. My husband someday—if he’d ever let me.

He’s my foundation and my spark, the steady calm and the fire that keeps me burning. He’s my sunshine, even on the rare days when his moods are a big fucking black cloud. And, fuck, even then I want him. Sometimes especially then. Because loving Damian isn’t simple, but it’s worth every messy, angsty, beautiful second.

Right now, though, he’s all walls and rough edges. His grumpiness has been dialed up to eleven since the moment I walked in. It’s like he’s daring me to ask what’s wrong, to push against the fortress he’s built around himself.

And one day I will chip away at it. Not because I’m trying to fix him—he doesn’t need fixing—but because I know the man underneath all that scowling and brooding. The man who lets himself laugh when no one’s looking. The one who kissed me like he couldn’t breathe without it, who touched me like he was afraid I’d disappear. Who loves me even when he might never admit it.

But now? Now he’s shutting me out, and I can’t figure out if it’s me he’s mad at or just at the entire fucking world.

“Barnaby likes the town,” I say, breaking the silence, my voice deliberately light. “Thinks it’s charming. That’s progress, right?”

Damian doesn’t respond right away. He stirs his coffee, staring into the mug like it holds the answers to all his problems. Finally, he lets out a noncommittal grunt.

“Wow, don’t get too excited,” I tease, hoping to pull him out of whatever dark cloud he’s wrapped himself in.

He glances up, his gaze flicking to mine for just a second before darting away. “I’m thrilled,” he says, deadpan.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “You know, this whole brooding act might work on other people, but not me. I know you, Damian.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to snap at me. Instead, he exhales, long and slow, his shoulders slumping just a fraction.

“Barnaby staying here is a big deal for you,” he says finally, his voice quieter, almost reluctant. “You should focus on that.”

I should. But how can I, when the real thing consuming my thoughts is sitting right here, pretending like he doesn’t matter as much to me as the air I breathe?

“Maybe I don’t want to focus on my brother right now,” I say.

Damian’s hand stills on his mug, his eyes locking on mine for a beat too long. And just like that, the mask slips. I see the man underneath—the one who’s scared of his feelings. Scared of what would happen if the world knows who he is beneath the facade he set.

“Paul,” he starts, his voice strained, like he’s about to say something important. But then he stops, shaking his head.

“What?” I press, leaning forward, unwilling to let him retreat again.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for a second, I think he might actually say it. But instead, he looks away, his walls snapping back into place.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Forget it.”

And there it is. The cycle we’ve been stuck in since this started—him pulling away, me chasing after him, both of us too afraid to admit what we really want.

But not today. Today, I’m not letting him get away with it.

“Damian,” I say firmly, leaning across the table. “If this is about us?—”

“There is no us,” he cuts in, his voice sharp enough to sting. “There’ll never be an us and you should know it.”

I flinch but don’t back down. “You don’t believe that.”

He looks at me then, and it’s all there in his eyes—the fear, the longing, the frustration of wanting something he doesn’t think he can have. And it hits me, like it always does, that he’s not mad at me. He’s mad at himself. At the world.

And I love him anyway.

Every broken, complicated, impossible part of him.

“Are we still on for New Year’s Eve?” I dare to ask, my voice softer than I intend. It’s a gamble, a crack in my usual sunny armor, but I need to know. Because for the past couple of years, New Year’s Eve has been ours. The one night we can pretend the world doesn’t exist, that we’re not trapped in this endless limbo.

We deal with the resort party—mingling with guests, playing our parts—and then slip away to the presidential suite. Behind those doors, it’s just us. No titles, no facades, no pretending we’re anything but what we are.

We fuck all night.

But it’s not just fucking. It’s the way Damian looks at me, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of my body, every sound I make. It’s the way his hands grip my hips, strong but trembling, as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The way he buries his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin as he whispers my name like it’s a prayer.

I give him everything—my body, my heart, my soul—and he takes it like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting all year just for this. And when we’re done, when we’re both spent and tangled in the sheets, I make my wish.

Every year it’s the same wish.

That next year will be different. That it’ll be us . That Damian will accept us and won’t give two fucks about what the town thinks.

It’d be us in front of everyone creating a family, a home.

I wish he would see things my way. What if the fucking town of Kentbury finds out he’s gay? So what? They should accept him for who he is, not the version of him they’ve built up in their heads. Damian Harris isn’t just the man holding this town together. He’s more than the name and the legacy they worship. He’s brilliant and infuriating and tender in ways that would shock them if they ever saw the real him.

And children? We could have them. Adoption, surrogacy—there are so many ways to build a family. I’d do it all. I’d raise them with him, love them with him, create a home where we wouldn’t have to hide.

I just need him to see it. To believe it.

Because every year, I make that wish, and every year, I go home alone, wondering if I’m asking for too much. Wondering if Damian will ever let himself want the life we could have.

But even when he denies himself of . . . everything, I still love him. Every broken, complicated, maddening part of him.