Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

T he mixing bowl trembled in Trish’s hands, a subtle vibration she couldn’t control. Every thought was scattered like pieces of light caught in a prism, still fractured from that kiss in the snow.

That brain-fizzling, heart-wrecking, absolutely panty-melting kiss.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ she muttered as she fumbled with the whisk. Her glasses were fogged up, and not from the temperature change. She’d come in here to bake cookies, not to relive every scorching second of that snog.

Calm down, Whitmore.

Trish’s eyes settled on her Leica that rested on a nearby shelf like a watchful guardian. This sleek, black piece of magic gleaming under the kitchen lights was her third eye. Even as she reached for the sugar, her mind was composing shots.

Jack Jr. perched on a stool by the counter, measuring out flour with a concentration that seemed beyond his nine years. Beth, down on her knees, was rummaging through the cupboard, hunting for the biggest mixing bowl. Meanwhile, Phil sat cross-legged on the floor and stole licks of butter whenever he thought no one was watching. Jack stood by the sink and rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands.

Her stomach did a weird little thing, like a camera shutter clicking too fast. She’d always had a thing for forearms, and Jack’s? Spectacular.

‘You’re pretty handy in the kitchen,’ Trish commented as Jack deftly cracked an egg with one hand.

‘I’ve had practice. Comes with the territory when you’ve got three wee ones to feed. But this is my only cool move; I’m showing off.’

He flashed her that boyish grin again. The kind that had no business pulling the ground out from under her, leaving her knees with the stability of wet paper.

Trish glanced over at the kids, who were now arguing over who got which cookie cutter. ‘They’re lucky to have you.’

Jack looked at his children with so much love Trish’s insides turned soft as spun sugar.

‘I’m the lucky one.’ He added a pinch of flour to his fingertips and flicked it gently towards them.

The kids yelped and laughed as the flour sprinkled down like gentle snow, instantly capturing their attention.

Trish grabbed another spoon from the drawer. She handed it to Phil with a wink. ‘Here, I think this one’s bigger. More choc chips for you.’

Phil beamed. This was nice. But nice was something you got used to. Nice was something you started to expect. She knew better.

The first batch of dough had firmed up in the fridge, ready for tiny hands and star-shaped cutters.

‘Who’s ready to cut some cookies?’ Trish asked into the kitchen.

‘Me!’ all three kids shouted in unison.

Trish stole a sideways peek at Jack, who was helping Junior roll out the dough, his large hands gentle and patient.

‘Like this, pal.’ Jack pressed the rolling pin firmly, and his mini-me nodded, mimicking his dad’s movements.

This was what she’d missed growing up. The simple, unpolished everyday moments that were magic because you shared them with people you cared about. It was like staring at a photograph of a moment she’d never captured. Her own childhood had been all starched tablecloths and polished silverware, while the kitchen remained a foreign territory staffed by professionals. She’d never known the joy of spilling flour, licking spoons, or feeling someone’s warm hands over hers, guiding her through a recipe. She was experiencing FOMO for a past she’d never had. Nostalgia for something that should have happened but never did.

Jack looked up, his gaze sliding into hers with an electric kind of ease. A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and Trish’s pulse faltered. There was something incredibly attractive about a man who was so good with kids.

‘Trish, look!’ Beth pointed to a speck of dough shaped vaguely like a reindeer. ‘I made Rudolph!’

Trish’s smile deepened. ‘That’s brilliant, Beth! Make sure to give him a big, red nose.’ She handed the girl a small tube of red icing.

Beth squeezed the icing onto the dough with more enthusiasm than precision. Trish reached out, steadying the girl’s hand. ‘Like this, sweetheart.’

Beth looked up at her. ‘You’re good at this.’

‘Thank you.’

Trish tore her gaze away, focusing hard on wiping down the counter in front of her.

Jack moved in closer. ‘You having fun?’

Trish nodded. She was afraid if she opened her mouth, she’d say something stupid. Like how much she loved this. How much she loved being here with him and his children. How much she wanted to stay but couldn’t.

Jack turned back to the table and picked up a cookie cutter. ‘Right, let’s keep fingers out of drawers and icing out of hair, aye?’

Trish almost tasted the memories in the making. The scene before her was too precious not to capture. She reached for her camera and wrapped her fingers around the familiar grip like a lifeline. The low winter sun squeezed through the garden-level windows of the souterrain kitchen, throwing angled beams across the stone floor like spotlights. Patches of light danced over worn wood and glinted off copper pots, casting a play of shadow and shine that was almost too damn perfect to be real. Through the viewfinder, the world narrowed to a series of perfect moments.

Jack’s strong hands guiding Beth’s smaller ones as they cut out star-shaped cookies.

Click.

The flour dusting Junior’s nose as he peered intently at the pictures in the recipe book.

Click.

Phil’s tongue poking out in concentration as he decorated a lopsided snowman.

Click.

Trish adjusted her aperture, honing in on the way the light laced through the golden strands in Jack’s hair. He looked up, snagging her gaze like he’d been waiting for it.

Click.

‘Thought you were helping, not documenting.’

Trish lowered her camera. ‘This light is too good to waste.’

But it wasn’t just the light, was it? It was the sense of belonging that radiated from every flour-dusted surface. It was everything she’d always wanted. But wanting meant risking. The possibility of losing.

Trish raised her camera again, focusing on a close-up of Jack’s hands as he helped Phil roll out more dough. The faded ink on his knuckles, the slight roughness of his skin – she catalogued every detail.

Click.

Because memories were safer than hopes. Photographs couldn’t break your heart.

As the children were busy doing the shapes with the cookie cutters, Trish felt Jack’s warmth seep into her back. He dusted a gentle kiss on the nape of her neck, a whisper of contact, and she instinctively backed away.

‘The kids…’

‘Busy.’

She glanced at the three, still blissfully focused on their creations. Trish turned to face Jack, her voice barely above a whisper, ‘Just reminding you, we’ve got company.’

‘You’re a natural with them, you know.’

Trish blinked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’

Jack nodded towards his three children. ‘You’re great with them. Fun. Patient. Kind. They really like you. Even Junior.’

Her skin heated again. She hadn’t thought much about being a mum. Not because she didn’t want to be, exactly, but because it had always felt…out of reach. Like something other women did. Marc hadn’t wanted kids, and if she was honest, she hadn’t fought him on it. How could she when the idea of a wholesome family felt so foreign? She’d been certain she’d cock it up somehow.

‘Thanks. But it’s easy to like them right back. They’re so sweet.’

Jack’s laugh was low, more felt than heard. ‘Right now they are. But you wait until bedtime.’

His lips whispered softly against her temple; then he sauntered back towards the large, old oak table in the centre of the kitchen. With a gentle nudge, Jack helped his daughter shape the reindeer’s legs, guiding her hands. ‘Like this, darlin’. Nice and careful.’

Trish busied herself with the baking tray, hands on autopilot. But that pull inside her wouldn’t let go. A gnawing itch coiling in her gut.

Her career looked like a mess, a jumble of half-baked ideas and failed attempts. Thirty-six, and she was still clawing for recognition, still struggling to make a steady income from the thing she loved. Marc had always expected her to mould herself to his life. He’d never understood her passion for photography, had never seen the way she could capture the essence of a moment, the way she could tell a story through a single frame. He’d wanted her to be his small, well-bred, agreeable trophy. A perfectly packaged partner he could display without ever having to deal with her ambition or fire.

His fucking head had exploded when she’d quit her marketing job.

But Jack… He’d only known her for three months. And yet he encouraged her, even when she was feeling like a failure.

A knot jammed up in her throat, coming out of nowhere like a rogue wave, clogging her airway.

Jack’s voice cut through her thoughts. ‘You okay?’

Trish blinked, realising she’d been staring at the same spot on the counter for who knows how long. ‘Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.’

One of Jack’s brows shot up. ‘About Santa and his naughty elf?’

‘Oh, shut it,’ Trish laughed, flicking a bit of flour at him.

Jack grinned and reached out to sweep the flour from her cheek. His touch lingered. ‘Make me.’

She wanted to. God, how she wanted to. But the kids were right there, and this wasn’t real. This was a Christmas castle daydream. The kind of holiday magic you’d find in a Netflix film. Beautiful, heart-warming, but fading as soon as the credits rolled.

‘You’re staring into the void again, Shutterbug,’ Jack murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Her smile widened. There was something about the way he used the nickname, the playful tone that made her feel…seen. Like she was part of something. This man, with his dad jokes and his kind eyes and his ability to make her smile even when she felt like crying.

Be rational. Be reasonable.

This was just baking. It wasn’t a date or anything. They simply happened to be snowed in together and had to keep the kids occupied. But she wanted to lean into him, to feel his arms wrap around her, to hear him laugh at something she said. She wanted to be part of this.

Stop it, silly. You’re here to take photos.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Jack wasn’t the type to settle down. Kids or no kids, he never stayed in one bed for too long. And even if he were, she wasn’t the type to be settled. Not here. She had a career to launch and couldn’t just stay here, lost in the land of more lochs than locals. Trish shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. This was just a Christmas fling, at best.

When the first batch was done, Junior, Beth, and Phil pounced on the cookies like a pack of wild little wolves, their laughter echoing through the kitchen.

‘We’re gonna show them to Marla and Gwen!’ Beth declared. And off they ran.

Trish wiped her hands on a dishcloth, surveying the mess in the kitchen. ‘That was an experience.’

Jack let out a snort of laughter, rinsing a bowl under the tap. ‘Chaos is their natural habitat.’

Trish leaned against the counter. ‘I can’t even imagine handling three on my own. Even if they’re…nice little people.’

‘Nice, hey?’ His voice dropped, laced with amusement and something else. ‘You know what’s nice?’

Jack stepped closer behind her and slipped his arm around her waist underneath her jumper. His breath skimmed her skin, just enough to stir up trouble, and his hand found the bare warmth just above the waistband of her sweatpants.

‘What on God’s green earth are you doing?’

‘Shhh. Don’t want to draw attention, do we?’

She kept her eyes on the counter, on the remnants of dough and scattered chocolate chips, as he moved lower, dipping beneath the waistband.

‘Behave,’ she whispered, but the words came out with the conviction of a cooked noodle.

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

His fingers dipped lower and teased the edge of her briefs, prickling her skin into tight, responsive bumps. The cotton folded and stretched between his knuckles. Her breath seized, a tiny tremor threading through her ribs.

‘Feel that?’ His voice scraped low against her ear. ‘How your body’s already saying yes? Now that’s nice.’

He slipped underneath, finding her slick and swollen. Two fingers pressed deep, ruthlessly precise, sinking into her. Her muscles gripped him reflexively, a compulsive pull. Her breath scattered in uneven pulses.

‘Fuck. God.’ Trish’s hands gripped the smooth edge of the counter. She felt every callous on his fingertips, every ridge. Her eyelids drooped, and her teeth clamped down, stifling the sound rising in her throat. As Jack withdrew, the absence burned like a sudden draft against wet skin. Her heartbeat pulsed so hard it felt like it might give her away.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. Jack’s eyes held hers, dark and unblinking. He raised his hand and slid his tongue across his fingers. The slick sound was barely audible over the hum of the oven, but it shot through her like a spark, lighting her up.

‘Mmm…still sweet. And still sweet.’

‘Jack, what is this…with us?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m enjoying it. Very much.’

The way he stretched ‘very’ – that raw Scottish burr – sent flames licking down her spine. Her ribcage felt compressed, each breath harder and harder to control. She turned to face him, her hips pinned against the counter’s edge. His presence warped her gravity, each cell rotating – until she aligned completely, inevitably toward him. She should put some distance between them. But her body refused.

‘Jack, we can’t—’ she started, but her words were cut short as his thumb skimmed along her lower lip.

‘Can’t what? Can’t enjoy this? Can’t let ourselves feel something for a moment?’

She closed her eyes as he rubbed his nose against hers, infinitely gently. His breath mingled with hers, warm and sweet from the cookies.

‘This isn’t real,’ she whispered, even as her hands found their way to his chest, feeling the racing thump of his heart beneath her palms. ‘It… It can’t be.’

The room fell quiet for a beat like the universe hit pause.

‘Aye. I guess you’re right.’

Trish’s heart dropped a million feet as Jack stepped away with a pained frown on his face. The loss of his warmth felt as if someone had snuffed out the only candle.

‘It’s as real as Santa Claus.’ His voice was too calm, and the huge kitchen suddenly felt too small, too intimate. ‘I should go and check on the kids.’ He turned around.

As he left the room, Trish released a trembling breath. She stared at the doorway, half-expecting him to return. But he didn’t.

This wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a bit of fun during the holiday season. So why did her chest fold in on itself like an empty cardboard box at the thought of leaving them behind?