Page 1 of New Year in Kentbury
Prologue
Damian
Kentbury meansdifferent things to different people. A wedding destination, a ski resort, a maple haven. A weekend enjoying the festival of the season. For me, it’s a legacy—theplace where my ancestors planted roots and nurtured a community.
I am Damian Harris. The firstborn of Steve Harris and Rosalinda Kentbury-Harris. Yep, that Rosalinda. The descendant of the family who founded Kentbury more than a hundred years ago.
My father always says being a Kentbury isn’t just about bearing a name—it’s a calling. A privilege, he reminds me of every time he cans. When Mom passed, that privilege began to feel more like a mandate, a leash pulling tighter with each step I took.
I’ve carried our legacy—and its suffocating burden—since childhood. To everyone else, I’m the polished face of our enterprises, the man who turned Kentbury’s old lodge into the Harris Ski Resort. To my siblings? I’m the money-hungry tyrant who can’t see past a balance sheet. They have no idea how often I’ve wondered if they’re right.
The lodge renovation into a ski resort was supposed to be my way of reclaiming the narrative, proving Kentbury could grow without losing itself. But convincing my family to share the vision? That’s been like scaling the slopes outside the lodge—beautiful, relentless, and always threatening to bury me alive.
Now, standing in the resort’s conference room, I stare out at the snow-draped peaks. The pristine slopes are breathtaking, a promise of another bustling holiday season. But the reflection in the glass shows something else entirely: a man whose jaw is set too tight, whose brow holds worries he can’t outrun.
Behind me, Bethany, my assistant, clears her throat. “Ready for the Harris-Sutherland meeting?” she asks, not looking up.
I straighten my tie and force a confident smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She glances up, skeptical. “And the vineyard acquisition? You think now’s the time to push for it? The resort’s just starting to turn a profit and?—”
“I know,” I cut in, turning to face her. “But this isn’t just about profits. It’s about positioning Kentbury as more than a quaint winter escape.”
Bethany raises an eyebrow, her expression half-curious, half-dubious. “And your family? Do they see this potential?”
I laugh—short, hollow, like it escaped by accident. “Lee’s too busy running the bed and breakfast to care, and Bishop’s more invested in perfecting his cider than anything I’m building here.” I let the bitterness creep into my voice. “They’ll understand once the numbers speak for themselves.”
It’s not like I can go to them and say, “Hey, we’re on the verge of going broke. Either we adapt, or we lose everything.” Landon Miller already owns a piece of the resort—a lease deal that’s barely keeping us afloat. But if I don’t figure out another way to turn things around, even that won’t save us.
“And your father?” she presses, her gaze unflinching.
I look away, busying myself with the blueprints sprawled across the table. Her persistence grates, not because it’s unwarranted but because it strikes too close.
“He doesn’t see the value,” I admit finally, my voice low. “But he’s not the one thinking about Kentbury’s future. That’s on me. I have to be the one handling it. It’s my job.”
“For someone so focused on the future, you seem pretty anchored in the past,” she states casually, but the comment hits harder than it should.
“The past and the traditions are what keeps this town alive,” I reply, my tone clipped as I grab a blueprint. “It’s our history. That’s all that matters.”
Bethany softens, her arms unfolding as she tilts her head, her voice quiet but firm. “Andyourfuture? Doesn’t that matter, too?”
I glance back at the window. The snow falls in a mesmerizing rhythm, blanketing the world in white, as if it’s trying to cover the cracks I keep pretending don’t exist. The truth is, I’m not sure if it’s Kentbury’s future I’m chasing—or my own. I can’t be myself in this town. Not me, the one who carries the legacy and has to be perfect, infallible. The heir who never stumbles, who keeps everything running no matter how much it costs me.
A few years later . . .
A few years later . . .
Chapter One
Damian
The conference roomis 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 tohide 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 todiscuss 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.
