Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

T rish blinked, the world swimming into focus through a blurry haze of contentment. Seven-thirty and still dark. She stretched, a delicious ache radiating through her muscles.

He was gone.

A pang of…something tightened her chest. Disappointment? No. A gentle pull. Longing, more like. Her gaze drifted to the bedside table. A candy cane lay next to a folded piece of paper. With a smile, she reached for the note.

Nae worries, it’s a different cane. Had to be with the weans when they woke up. Back later. Don’t delete the photos. J. x

Trish rolled onto her side and hugged the pillow close, inhaling the few molecules of his scent that clung to the fabric.

Holy shit. Last night actually happened. Not bad for a second round.

The bathroom mirror reflected a smiling stranger. Cheeks stained pink, lips like bruised fruit. Trish noticed the faint marks Jack had left on her neck and ran a finger over the skin.

She stepped into the shower and let the hot water cascade over her. Her body thrummed like a plucked string. She still felt him inside. Like he’d left an imprint, like he’d reshaped her. And the pulse of his orgasm… She hadn’t lied when she’d told him she wouldn’t need to come to enjoy it. Making a guy like Jack completely lose it? It made a girl feel like she could take on the world.

That brought up another question, though.

Why me?

It niggled as she rinsed her hair, a wasp buzzing around the edges of her contentment. Jack had women falling over themselves for a shot with ‘Sexy Santa’. So why had he come to her room? Convenience? A warm body?

Trish stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. They’d both agreed this was a here-and-now thing, something with an expiration date slapped on like a sell-by stamp on a carton of milk. If all went according to plan, she’d be back in Edinburgh, preparing for her move back to London for a full-time position at Wanderlust . And Jack would be here, in Kilcranach, with his kids, his band, his life. So why this…this pull towards him? Was it the kick of a man she wasn’t supposed to be with?

Trish’s camera was heavier than usual as she descended the stairs. The aroma of fresh coffee and bacon wafted up, making her stomach growl.

She paused at the breakfast room doorway, taking in the scene. Marla stood at the buffet with three of her staff. Between the handful of B she wanted to get full custody just to spite me. Now we’re co-parenting. It’s a fragile peace.’

‘I don’t know her, but she sounds like a bit of a cow.’ Trish nodded and turned back to her camera, lining up a shot of the snow-laden trees. ‘Marc never wanted kids. Said they’d cramp his lifestyle.’

Jack snorted. ‘I don’t know him, but he sounds like a bit of a prick.’

Her laugh bubbled up from deep in her chest. ‘He was. Is. God, what was I thinking?’

‘We all make mistakes, that’s how we learn. People can be lessons, too.’

‘Clearly.’ Trish laughed, the tension easing. She pointed to a spot overlooking the frozen pond, the bare branches of the willow trees dusted with snow. ‘This’ll do.’

Jack set down the equipment. ‘Nice view. Though I prefer my landscapes with a bit more…curve.’ His stare carved into her, a knowing glint in his eyes.

‘Focus, Postman.’ She busied herself with adjusting the tripod.

‘Aye, focus.’ His voice was low. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. You’re making it hard.’

‘It or it ?’ Trish’s heart thudded so fiercely she half-expected it to echo.

‘Don’t ask if you can’t handle the answer.’

She cleared her throat and toggled through the camera settings. ‘I, um, I need to get this done.’

He leaned against a nearby tree with crossed arms and watched her. The intensity of his gaze made her skin prickle.

‘Take your time. I’m happy to…admire the view. Bend forward a bit more?’

‘Jesus, let a woman do her work.’ Trish smiled and calibrated the settings. A tiny snowflake landed on the lens, blurring the image. She swiped it clean. This had to be perfect. Wanderlust was her dream gig, her ticket to finally proving herself. Her middle finger to every doubter.

No pressure at all.

Her fingers flew over the camera’s controls, muscle memory taking over as she framed the shot. Precision. Obsession. Her weapon and shield.

Trish’s phone chimed in her pocket. She ignored it, concentrating on the morning light twinkling on the ice crystals. It pinged again. And again.

‘Aren’t you going to check that?’

Trish sighed, fishing out her phone. Three texts from the Photo Director at Wanderlust . She scanned them quickly, her stomach sinking with each word. ‘Fuck.’

Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Not really.’ Trish pulled at one of her curls. ‘The editor wants more “Scottishness”.’

Another chime.

‘It needs more…magic.’ Trish’s jaw tightened, and she wanted to hurl her phone into the pond. ‘More magic? What the hell does that even mean?’

Seraphina, with her penchant for cryptic feedback, was driving her insane. ‘What kind of magic are we talking about? Pixie dust? Unicorn tears? If I don’t nail this assignment, I can kiss the idea of that steady job goodbye. A job as a staff photographer in their London office, with international travel. That is like a unicorn.’

Jack stepped closer. ‘Hey. Take a breath. You’ve got this.’

Trish barked out a sound more rust than mirth, jamming her phone into her pocket. ‘Do I? Because right now, it feels like I’m spinning my wheels in a mud pit, getting absolutely nowhere.’

‘Stop talking nonsense.’ The sincerity in his voice made her core drop into free fall.

‘They’re not good enough.’ The admission came like a fist, bruising and unadorned. ‘I’m not—‘

Jack’s hand on her arm stilled her pacing. ‘Says who?’

‘Me. My parents. Marc. This annoying editor.’ Trish’s voice cracked. ‘Everyone.’

‘Everyone’s fucking wrong.’ Jack’s voice carved granite, brooking no argument. ‘Including you.’

He reached out, wiping a stray snowflake from her cheek. His simple touch set off a slow burn under her skin like he’d flicked on a switch she didn’t know she had.

‘You’re brilliant. I mean it.’

Trish met his gaze, struck by the conviction in his eyes. For a second, she almost let herself believe him. Then reality snapped back in place. ‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with everything riding on this.’

Jack’s mouth tilted into a lopsided grin as he crouched, scooping a handful of snow. ‘I’m just a humble postie.’

Despite herself, a smile crept onto her lips. ‘Humble? You?’

‘It’s not my fault I’m irresistible.’

She rolled her eyes, but the knot in her chest loosened. ‘You’re insufferable.’

‘Ah, but I made you smile.’

Before she could respond, something cold and wet slid down the back of her neck. Trish yelped and glared at him, sweeping the snow from her neck. ‘You didn’t.’

‘Oh, but I did. The question is: What are you going to do about it?’ He grabbed a fresh mound of snow, working it tight between his palms.

Trish slit her eyes. ‘Don’t even think about it, MacGregor.’

He tossed the snowball in the air and caught it. ‘What if I do, Whitmore?’

Trish grabbed a handful of her own snow, packing it into a ball. ‘Then you’ll regret it.’

This was nuts. The deadline was breathing down her neck like a debt collector with brass knuckles, her career teetering on a knife edge so thin it could slice bone. And yet here she was, about to launch snowballs at a walking testosterone billboard who looked like he’d been ripped straight from a postal service pin-up spread. The belt of tension Seraphina’s texts had wrapped around her chest? Gone, replaced by a surge of giddy recklessness.

A wicked grin spread across her face. And with a flick of her wrist, she launched the snowball. Then she ducked behind a frost-crusted pine, lungs burning, heart thundering a punk rock rhythm.

They chased each other through the garden, slipped and skidded like drunk figure skaters on the icy ground. Trish’s sides ached from laughing; her cheeks stung from the cold. Jack’s boot snagged on a hidden root, and the next thing he knew, they were tumbling in a flurry of snow and limbs, rolling through the snow like a pair of clumsy otters.

When they finally stopped, Trish found herself on top, straddling his hips. Snowflakes dotted his lashes, melting as he blinked up at her.

The world reduced to breath, touch, and the electric space between them.

That’s when she felt it.

The hard length of him pressing against her core. At his size, it wasn’t an easy secret to keep. A slow, simmering heat spread through her, contrasting the icy snow seeping into her jeans.

‘Oh.’

She shifted, half of her basking in the thrill of having this effect on a man like him. After all those years of feeling like wallpaper, suddenly she was…desired. The other half? Still couldn’t wrap her head around it. She bit her lip and pushed against him, tilting her hips back and forth, and the groan that rumbled out of his throat shot straight through her.

‘Is it because I’m such a hot mess? Nothing sexier than a neurotic photographer who can’t get her assignment right.’

All traces of playfulness vanished from his face, and his voice was raw. ‘No. It’s the way you laugh. It’s so fucking beautiful, it makes me hard.’

The air stuck somewhere between Trish’s lungs and lips, like a swallowed hiccup. There was no hint of teasing in his eyes, just naked want and something…deeper, almost pained.

Her icy fingers teased the line of Jack’s jaw, the stubble on the edge of bone and skin. She lowered her head, and their breath combined in warm puffs. She shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t either. Snow fell around them, silent and soft, a cover of white muffling the world and all doubts.

‘Jack,’ she whispered and couldn’t hear her voice over the pounding of her heart.

His hand came up, fingers tangling in her damp curls. ‘Trish.’

And when she kissed him, she didn’t think about deadlines or editors or friends or the miles that separated them.

All she could think was how happy he made her.