Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Paul

The bell jingles above the bakery door, a cheerful chime announcing the arrival of more customers. It’s the New Year’s Eve sale at Kneady Kentbury Bakes, Grandma Genie’s beloved bakery—a tradition that draws a crowd every year. The air buzzes with laughter, greetings, and the warm scent of fresh pastries. I stand behind the counter, deftly boxing up orders as they’re handed to us. The rhythm of the work feels second nature now, thanks to the time I’ve spent in Kentbury.

Not only have I learned to pack boxes like a pro, but I can knead bread, bake, and even decorate cakes. Who would’ve thought?

“I never imagined you’d be the one taking over the bakery,” Grandma teases as the line thins.

“I’m just helping out,” I reply, shaking my head as I fold a box filled with the last croissants of the day. “It’s temporary. First, you’re not retiring anytime soon. Second, I already have too much on my plate to add running the bakery to it.”

It’s strange how much my life has shifted since moving to Kentbury. After years of grinding away in the city, desperately trying to meet our father’s relentless expectations, my siblings and I somehow found our way to this sleepy, charming town. Being around Grandma Genie has been healing for all of us—not just for our minds but for our hearts. My siblings have each managed to find love here.

Well, all except Barnaby, who just arrived and made it abundantly clear he can’t wait to get the hell out of here—his words, not mine. But even Barnaby might find someone, if he sticks around long enough.

And me?

I’m in purgatory love. The place where you’re crazy about someone who refuses to choose himself—or you for that matter.

“I’m excited for the fireworks display tonight. Aren’t you, Genie?” Mary, one of Grandma’s regulars, chirps as Grandma carefully arranges her order.

“Oh, not this year. I’m staying home with my great-grandchildren,” Grandma replies, her smile warm. She’s probably already thinking about spoiling my nieces and nephews rotten.

Maybe I should offer to stay behind in her place. Damian hasn’t mentioned the party once—not in the five times I’ve tried to bring it up since visiting him five days ago. The uncertainty stings, but I bury the thought and focus on helping with the sale.

By the time we run out of pastries and cookies, the bakery has quieted. It’s time to clean up. I grab a tray and head to the kitchen, just as Louann and McKay burst through the back door, bringing a gust of cold air with them.

“How nice of you to show up now that the sale is over,” I tease, flashing them a grin.

Lou gives me a playful smack on the shoulder before grabbing empty trays from the display case. “It’s been a morning, Paul. You’d understand if you had kids who think walls are canvases and makeup is their choice of expression.”

I burst out laughing. Life in Lou’s house is never dull. “At least no one’s set it on fire,” I say, helping her load dishes into the industrial-sized dishwasher.

“Hooray for small miracles,” Lou mutters, unimpressed. “Speaking of fires, are you going to the fireworks tonight?”

“I might sit with Grandma,” I say lightly. “Help wrangle your little artists and make sure they don’t turn her house into their next masterpiece.”

“No, you’re not,” Grandma announces, stepping into the kitchen. “You’ll go have fun.”

I wave her off and continue cleaning. With the help of my sisters, we finish earlier than expected. The dishwasher hums softly in the background, and the bakery smells of vanilla, cinnamon, and sugar—a scent that lingers even after the last tray is clean. Lou and McKay leave soon after.

“Even if you skip the fireworks, you should go to the resort’s party,” Grandma says gently when it’s just the two of us. “You’ve gone every year since you moved here.”

“Maybe it’s time to start a new tradition,” I say, avoiding her gaze as I finish wiping the counter.

She doesn’t know why I’ve gone all these years or why I want to avoid it now. It seems like Damian and I are at a crossroads. I don’t want to push him to do anything he doesn’t want to, but I don’t think I want to continue to do things the way we’ve done it so far. Of course I keep that to myself and hope my family will let me be.

Grandma shakes her head, her expression calm but firm. “No. Be patient. It’ll be worth it.”

Her words startle me, and I can’t help but wonder what exactly I’m supposed to be patient about. Is she talking about the party? Or maybe she’s trying to figure out why I go every year—or for whom I go. Either way, I don’t ask.

I’d rather not discuss it with her, especially when I’m not entirely sure myself.

The party doesn’t suck. Damian knows how to throw a good one. Or, more accurately, he knows exactly who to hire to make sure it’s done right. The team he brought in? They’re professionals—everything from the lights to the music feels effortless as if the room itself is alive with celebration.

He lingers near the edges of the room, moving through the crowd with the kind of easy charm that makes it impossible not to notice him. Damian doesn’t just host. He connects. Townies and tourists alike are drawn into his orbit because he treats them like dear old friends.

That’s what makes the New Year’s party special. It’s not the perfectly curated food or the dazzling decorations. It’s the way Damian transforms the gathering into something more. For one night, strangers don’t feel like strangers, and the divide between locals and tourists fades into nothing for one night.

It’s part of the magic of the resort during this specific night, and everyone feels it. It’s no wonder people count down to this party all year long, waiting for the chance to be part of something that feels larger than life.

As the party begins to slow down, the energy shifting from electrified to mellow, Damian finally acknowledges me. He doesn’t call my name or make some grand gesture. Instead, he crosses the room with the same steady confidence he’s had all night, slipping a card into my hand.

“The presidential suite,” he murmurs, his voice a deep, commanding growl that slides over my skin like a caress. His gaze locks on mine, dark and intense, holding me captive for far too long. “Head up. When I get there, I want you naked. On your knees. Mouth open and ready to take my cock.”

I should tell him no. I should throw the keycard in his face, tell him to fuck off, because this push-and-pull game he plays with me is infuriating. It’s maddening how he tears me apart and pieces me back together with a single look.

But my resistance falters, just like it always does when it comes to him.

Instead, I take the card, the tension between us crackling like static electricity. My chest tightens with a mix of defiance and undeniable want.

Because tonight isn’t just any night. It’s a night for surrender. For whispered promises and filthy confessions spoken into the dark. For daring to hope—just for a fleeting moment—that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t a game. That this could be something real.

Him. Me. Us.