Page 20 of New Year in Kentbury
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.
Chapter Twelve
Paul
The October airnips at my skin, cold enough to seep through the fabric of my jacket but not enough to chase away the crowd gathered in the square. The town has fully embraced fall, with pumpkins stacked on every available surface, their bright orangehues popping against the muted grays and browns of the cobblestone streets. Strings of lights drape from the trees, casting a golden glow that softens the evening’s chill. Laughter reverberates around me, mingling with the faint strains of music drifting from the bandstand. It’s the kind of scene that’s supposed to feel warm, nostalgic. Comforting.
But it doesn’t.
Not when I see him.
Damian.
He’s by the now dormant fountain, the very center of the square, like he belongs there. Like he’s the foundation around which everything revolves. His broad shoulders are framed by the flickering lights, his dark coat open at the collar, exposing the line of his throat to the cold. He’s here. Again.
He always knows where to find me, his timing impeccably inconvenient. Like tonight. I was supposed to drop off a pie for Gran’s friend and go back home. Simple. Quick. But now all I can do is watch as Damian’s eyes find mine across the crowd.
The connection is instant. I feel it like a pulse, a tug low in my stomach that pisses me off more than it should. His gaze doesn’t falter, just holds me there like he’s daring me to run. And God help me, I almost do.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, my fingers curling into fists at my sides as I force myself to keep walking, the crowd parting around me like waves. Damian starts moving too, weaving through the families and couples with a singular focus that makes my throat tighten. He’s not just walking toward me; he’s bearing down, his long strides cutting through the square with purpose.
“Paul,” he calls, his voice rising above the hum of conversation and laughter. It’s not loud, but it carries, slicing clean through the noise and landing squarely in my chest.
I grit my teeth, quickening my pace, but he meets me halfway, stopping just close enough that I can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. I’m furious at the part of me that notices, at the part of me that still feels that stupid, familiar ache.
“What do you want, Damian?” My words come out clipped, harsh, the kind of tone meant to shut this down before it can even begin.
“To talk,” he says, his voice softer now, almost careful. “Please, Paul. Just hear me out.”
I shake my head, the anger bubbling up, hot and volatile, before I can tamp it down. “I already told you—I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back off. Instead, he takes a step closer, his hand half-lifting like he might reach for me but thinks better of it. “I know I hurt you,” he begins, his words deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. “I know I fucked up. But I?—”
“Stop.” The word cuts through him, and I raise my hand as if I can physically hold him at bay. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk back into my life and expect me to just—what? Forgive you? Pretend like nothing happened? Go back to having nothing while pretending to be everything?”
His face twists, not in anger but in something quieter, something that looks a lot like regret. “I don’t expect that,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out like he’s afraid I’ll walk away before he can finish. “I just?—”
“What, Damian?” I snap, my voice trembling now. “What do you want from me? Because I’m tired of playing this game. I’m tired of you showing up with your apologies and your excuses and expecting me to . . . to what? Trust you? Like that’s even possible after everything?”
“I want a chance,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, the vulnerability in it so raw it sends a shiver down my spine. “Justone chance to make this right. I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m here, and I’m trying, Paul. I’m fucking trying.”
The crowd feels miles away now, the laughter and lights and warmth all muted by the whirlwind inside me. My anger is still there, burning bright and fierce, but so is the ache, the part of me that’s been quietly longing for him to show up like this—for him to fight for something, for me.
But I don’t trust it. I can’t.
“You can’t just decide you’re ready now,” I whisper, the words slipping out like a breath. “You don’t get to make that choice for me.”
“I know,” he replies, his gaze locked on mine, intense and firm. “But I’m asking you to let me try. To let me prove to you that I’m not the same man. Please, Paul.”
