Chapter 1

Chapter One

T rish felt about as merry as a deflated PVC snowman. The Edinburgh Christmas Market sprawled across East Princes Street Gardens, a kaleidoscope that begged to be captured through her lens.

Not the glitz, but the grit.

Couples sipped from Santa-boot mugs, their faces glowing from the booze. Groups of friends squeezed into a giant plastic snow globe, trying to look happy for social media. A Santa Claus with a stained beard and bloodshot eyes was pocketing loose change from his donation bucket. In a corner, a hunched figure rifled through a bin, searching for food scraps amidst the gaudy excess of the market.

Above it all, Edinburgh Castle loomed majestically, floodlit against the inky sky like something out of a fairy tale. It was magical. It was tragic. All a question of perspective, of what you chose to focus on – as was everything in life.

From where Trish stood, it was also brutally boring.

Amidst the bustling crowd, she pulled her scarf tighter and glanced at her date. Sebastian was tall, handsome, and endlessly droning on about interest rates or golf handicaps – she’d lost track ages ago. His plummy English accent and the tinny sound of Feliz Navidad from the speakers grated on her nerves.

Why did I decide to go out with a banker again?

A group of tourists jostled past, nearly knocking over her mug of overpriced seasonal beverage. Sebastian didn’t even notice. ‘…and that’s when I realised the true potential of hedge fund arbitrage,’ he explained, oblivious to her glazed expression. His voice was as bland as unseasoned porridge.

Right now, Trish would rather be stuck in a darkroom with faulty equipment than endure another moment of this financial lecture masquerading as a date.

December is the worst time for dates, everybody is so desperate not to be alone for Christmas.

She took a generous swig of her lukewarm ‘original German Glühwein’. It did little to thaw her growing irritation.

‘Tell me, Sebastian,’ she interrupted, unable to contain herself any longer, ‘do you ever talk about anything besides money and golf?’

He blinked, caught off guard. ‘I suppose one can always discuss the Scottish weather.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Trish muttered under her breath. He’d seemed a tad more interesting in the messages they’d exchanged on the app.

But then again, that bar was devastatingly low to begin with.

She despised dating apps. It was like diving in a pool of poo to search for a tiny gold coin that might or might not exist. Too many dick pics, too few brain flexes, zero heart.

Where’s the magic in that?

Then again, she’d been half a bottle of wine deep when she’d swiped right, still stinging from that Instagram engagement post of Marc with his fiancée. She couldn’t even be mad. A gorgeous Polish molecular biologist, of all things. Part of her wanted to congratulate him. The other part…

Trish and Marc’s break up after ten years had been a long time coming and more or less mutual. But his moving on so completely only five months later not.

It seemed…unjust.

Trish thought back to that rainy day eight weeks ago when she’d packed up her camera equipment and her tired heart and moved from London to Edinburgh. Scotland’s capital was stunning, gothic spires and hidden histories underneath its streets, winding alleyways, and closes. The way the morning mist clung to Arthur’s Seat, how the entire city seemed to glow golden in the late afternoon sun. When it wasn’t raining. But even then, a photographer’s dream. And Edinburgh was the perfect escape – close enough to visit Marla in the Highlands now and then, far enough to avoid bumping into Marc and his soon-to-be-wife – or worse Trish’s parents – down in London.

‘…the weather is hardly a problem if you’re properly kitted out, and a good shoot is worth it. Just last month, Jonesy and I…’

Ugh .

Trish faded Sebastian out again. She looked around, searching for an exit route among the throngs of people pushing through the rows of wooden chalets. She blinked against the sting of her contact lenses, wondering what the hell had possessed her to swap out her glasses today, of all days. Vanity? Or maybe some misguided attempt to seem more put-together for this date? Whatever the reason, it was biting her in the eyes now, a constant scratchy reminder. Her breath formed little clouds in the frosty air as her gaze drifted over the sea of bobbing Santa hats and reindeer antlers, her eye habitually framing potential shots. A nearby stall hawked tacky tartan trinkets. Perhaps she could fake a sudden, overwhelming desire for a bagpipe-shaped bottle opener and ram it into her ears?

Just as she was contemplating the merits of accidentally dumping her drink on Sebastian’s impeccably creased trousers and making a run for it, her phone buzzed. Trish nearly wept with relief.

‘Pardon me,’ she said, not sorry at all. ‘I have to take this.’

Sebastian nodded magnanimously, as if granting a royal pardon. Trish resisted the urge to curtsy mockingly as she stepped away.

‘Marla, you beautiful, brilliant lifesaver,’ Trish breathed into the phone. ‘I could kiss your stinky bum right now.’

Her best friend’s warm laugh crackled through the line. ‘That bad, huh?’

‘Worse. I’m on a date with the human equivalent of a spreadsheet. He’s handsome, think blonde Henry Cavill, but he’s about as interesting as watching paint dry.’

‘Ouch. Well, consider this your get-out-of-jail-free card then. I need a favour.’

Trish perked up. ‘Name it. I’ll do anything to escape Mister Hedge Fund.’

‘How do you feel about a Highland adventure?’ A hint of mischief tinged Marla’s voice. ‘I need some professional winter shots of Hazelbrae for the website. Plus, I’m putting on a small event for Christmas. A village fair of sorts. Could use your professional eye for both.’

Trish’s heart leapt. Hazelbrae. The gorgeous eighteenth-century castle her best friend had inherited a year ago, nestled in the Scottish Highlands. It was the perfect excuse to flee Edinburgh and her disastrous, half-hearted, pathetic attempts at dating.

‘Marl, you had me at “Highland adventure.” When do you need me?’

‘As soon as you can get your arse up here. Lots of snow’s about to fall, which rarely ever happens, and it’s going to be magical. Or so Niall says.’

Trish glanced back at Sebastian, who was now engrossed in his phone, probably checking stock prices. ‘I’ll start packing tonight and leave first thing tomorrow. Got to sort out my gear.’

‘Brilliant! See you soon, love.’

Trish ended the call, a genuine smile on her cold cheeks. She turned back to her date, summoning her most neutral expression. ‘Listen, Sebastian. I’ve just had an urgent work call for a last-minute photo shoot in the Highlands and I have to bugger off. Okay?’

Sebastian nodded and had the decency to pretend to look slightly crestfallen. ‘Of course. Fine. Don’t worry. Have a safe trip.’

If he cared at all, it was only by a hair more than she did.

Trish was already backing away. ‘Thanks. I really must dash. Lots of packing to do, lenses to clean, that sort of thing.’ She turned and fled before he could respond, weaving through the crowds with desperate determination.

As she reached Princes Street, Trish slowed her pace, exhaling a long breath. The relief of escape mingled with a familiar melancholy that seemed to creep in whenever she thought about the holidays.

Five months since Marc. Five months of trying to outrun disappointment and alienation and a severe identity crisis. At thirty-six, Trish should have figured things out by now.

Nada.

She’d hoped Edinburgh would be a fresh start, a chance to reinvent herself away from London’s memories and her parents’ crushing expectations. And maybe it would be. She’d only moved here in early October, determined to concentrate on her career and nothing else. To make it as a photographer. She’d always been behind the camera, but she’d only jumped into the profession two-and-a-half years ago, leaving her job in marketing behind. It was…tough.

Trish pulled her down coat tighter, her thoughts drifting to Hazelbrae and the promise of escape it offered. A week or two with Marla in Kilcranach was exactly what she needed. A chance to lose herself behind the lens, to capture some of that wild Scottish beauty in a way that made her soul sing.

And also…a chance to see that Scot again.

Trish’s cheeks burned brighter than Rudolph’s nose as the memory hit her. She hadn’t intended to pounce on Jack MacGregor when she’d first clapped eyes on the man at Hazelbrae’s opening party three months ago, but… There was something about him. That cocky grin, those smouldering eyes had peeled back layers she hadn’t even known she was hiding. He’d made her feel as exposed as a raw negative. Jack had lit a fire in her Trish thought had long since died out.

Well, it hadn’t.

Like…not at all.

Maybe it had been the champagne fizzing through her veins. Maybe it had been the ache of her recent breakup, the raw need to feel wanted again after years of emotional drought. Of rejection. Failure.

But yeah, that day in September, Trish had thrown caution to the wind faster than she’d ever ditched a bad composition. First, their eyes had locked across the room. Then they’d had a chat. Jack had listened, he’d been kind and fun. He’d made her laugh when she hadn’t in ages, melting her like the first warmth after winter. Trish had never felt such an easy, instant connection to anyone. Jack had seen her as someone fun, rather than as the ‘nerdy perfectionist’, an ‘unrealistic dreamer’, or ‘an obsessed camera weirdo’.

Marc’s fucking words when he’d told her she’d had to move out.

Being with Jack had been about feeling something – anything – after years of numbness. Trish had needed to feel alive, to stop caring what everyone thought for once. And for those stolen moments, she had. She’d been so bloody tired of being careful, of overthinking everything. She’d wanted to be reckless, to let her body lead instead of her overactive brain.

He’d taken her hand, tangling his fingers with hers. ‘Come with me.’

And like a moth drawn to a flame, she had.

Oh, boy.

For once, she hadn’t been Trish the perfectionist, Trish the overachiever, Trish the optimistic people-pleaser, the dumped nerd. She’d just been…Trish, the happy slut in the closet. Fucking with a stranger. Purely, uninhibitedly, gloriously alive.

In that moment, pushed against the shelves, a dam had broken. All the pent-up frustration from decades of trying to be the perfect daughter, the ideal girlfriend, the professional, the aspiring artist – it had all come rushing out in a flood of desire.

Jack had hitched her leg around his waist, grinding against her core like he owned that joint. He’d coaxed sounds from her she hadn’t even know she was capable of.

‘Shh,’ he’d murmured against her skin, his breath hot on her ear. ‘Don’t want the whole party hearing what a horny girl you are, do we?’

It had been like he was speaking directly to that hidden, hungry part of herself. The part that craved more than safe, predictable, beige lovemaking in a darkened bedroom. The part that wanted to lose control completely.

And, that was the astonishing part, she’d almost had.

Almost.

Trish had struggled with orgasms during penetrative sex all of her life. They’d been elusive, like trying to capture the perfect shot of a rare bird – always just out of reach. With Marc, and the few others before him, she’d felt unable to focus, unable to click.

But Jack… Jack had known exactly how to touch her, to zoom in on her pleasure centres.

Trish had come close. So damn close.

But then Marla had yanked the door open, and well, that had been the end of it.

Warmth tingled at her toes, spreading in a rush up her thighs, as she remembered how it had felt with him. More than a rebound, their instant connection had almost been scary. Too much too soon too fast.

So when he’d texted her once, she’d ghosted him. She’d had no idea what to say.

A pang of guilt niggled at Trish. Had she used him? Treated him like a human tripod to steady her world after that break-up? They’d both been clear about it being a fun fuck. She didn’t owe him anything. She didn’t want to owe anyone anything. After Marc, the last thing she needed had been to tumble headlong into feelings again.

But…

The other reason she’d never answered his text was the minor inconvenience that Jack was her best friend’s boyfriend’s friend.

On top of that, he was also a divorced dad of three kids and, according to Marla’s occasional anecdotes, a bit of a mad shagger.

In other words: triple trouble.

With a triple-sized gift – and the skill to use it.

Her nipples hardened beneath her woollen jumper. Getting turned on in the middle of a busy Edinburgh street by the mere memory of a phenomenal cock was hardly appropriate, but neither was shagging your best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend in a linen closet.

After having come so close to coming, Trish was curious if she could repeat that experience with someone else. Anyone.

Hence the app.

And yet, all she found there were lame ducks like Sebastian, whom she’d never even go near any closet with. Trish shook her head forcefully, as if the physical motion could dislodge the thoughts of her first and only one-night-stand.

No. She couldn’t afford to meddle with her best friend’s found family in Kilcranach. Marla was finally happy, and Trish would rather throw her Leica SL2 off Arthur’s Seat than ruin that for her with complicated, hormone-driven entanglements. She also couldn’t afford to hang on to a guy, anyway. Not when her career was still on shaky ground. Hazelbrae was a welcome escape and a professional opportunity rolled into one. Work, her best friend, snow – no distractions.

As she hurried down the bustling street, Trish told herself that this trip was strictly about work, about helping Marla. Nothing more.

And absolutely no one else.