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He had traded his work jacket and body armor for dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal henley beneath a heavier winter overshirt, but he was still unmistakably Damien—broad enough to make the bakery chair look undersized, dark hair brushing his shoulders, beard slightly unruly from the cold outside.

His hand rested comfortably on my thigh beneath the table.

This time, there was no professional reason for it to be there.

I covered his hand with mine and let my thumb move over his knuckles while Angie finally gave up on the frosting and handed the child to Frankie.

“Your turn,” she said, passing him the child.

Frankie settled the child against his chest. “I thought my role was ceremonial.”

“It’s been upgraded,” Angie said as she reached for her coffee.

Pamela, who had been pouring coffee at the end of the table, glanced over her glasses. “That usually happens when the ceremonial employee proves he can be trusted with actual work.”

Frankie gave her a wounded look while Angie laughed. Pamela went back to pouring coffee, one of the kids reached for another cookie, and the room kept moving around me, warm and noisy and ordinary.

For weeks after Hollowfield, too many conversations had started with some version of how are you doing now? People meant well, but the question had carried everything behind it—the arrest, Justin, Grant, the charge, the reporters who had appeared briefly and then disappeared once there was nothing new to feed them.

Tonight, nobody was waiting for me to prove I was fine.

Laurie wanted me to eat. Pamela wanted to know whether the Sugar Basket’s heating bill could possibly justify how warm she felt. Angie was telling me about a preschool argument involving a missing mitten and an accusation of theft. Frankie had somehow acquired frosting on his sleeve.

Damien’s hand stayed beneath mine.

Normal had turned out to be much better than I remembered.

My phone vibrated where I had left it near my plate.

I glanced at the screen.

SYBIL’S SIGNATURE EVENTS flashed above the preview of a new email.

Damien glanced down too. “Client?”

“Probably.” I picked up the phone but left the screen dark. “You aren’t supposed to encourage me to work on New Year’s Eve.”

“I’m not. Open it if you want to; I didn’t say you had to answer.”

The distinction was annoyingly familiar. I opened the message.

The inquiry was from a couple planning a September wedding at Riverstone Manor. They had gotten my name from one of my December clients, who had apparently told them I was the only person she trusted to keep two divorced parents, a six-piece band, and an outdoor ceremony from becoming a public disaster.

I read the line twice.

Angie caught my expression and leaned toward the phone. “Good one?”

“A referral. September wedding at Riverstone, from a December client.”

She smiled like that confirmed whatever she had already decided about my face.

I set the phone facedown again as Laurie appeared from the kitchen carrying a plate nobody had requested.

She stopped beside me. “The one with the ice storm?”

I nodded. “The band got stuck outside Albany, and the bride’s father tried to rearrange the seating chart twenty minutes before dinner.”

Pamela slid the new plate into an empty space on the table. “So, a normal wedding.”