Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

E verything felt too small like the walls were closing in. Jack’s boots scuffed against the worn stone steps as he ascended from the kitchen through the narrow stairwell.

Trish’s words lodged in his head: ‘It’s not real.’

She was right, of course. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

But fuck if it didn’t feel like it.

Jack’s palm settled on the banister’s worn grain. The distant sound of his kids’ laughter drifted down from above. A posh lass like Trish, with dreams bigger than this postcode’s entire horizon? She’d never be satisfied with a small-town postie. And he’d be damned if he’d clip her wings, keep her from soaring by tying her to this forgotten corner of the world. She’d suffocate here faster than a butterfly pinned under glass. She’d grow resentful of him.

Jack resumed his climb, each step feeling heavier than the last. He reached the top of the stairs. Shoulders back, chin lifted, mouth stretched into a grin so manufactured it could’ve been stamped from tin. Then he pushed open the door to the ballroom.

His kids were huddled with Gwen near the Christmas tree, their faces sticky with cookie crumbs. And there it was. The thing that made Kilcranach home.

His people.

Not blood-bound, but bonded by something more stubborn: chosen connection.

They’d been his lifeline when his mother’s rejection dropped like a shit-ton of ice water, when grief rattled through him after his aunt’s death, and when his divorce shredded everything. They’d scooped him up – him and his kids. Jack owed them. Big time. And getting tangled with Marla’s best friend? That’d be like taking a sledgehammer to the only goddamn foundation he’d managed to cobble together. He already felt like he was punching above his weight just having her here. Trying to make her part of his world? That’d only end with him losing her. And probably everything else that kept him steady, including the people who’d stuck by him when he needed them most.

Marla lurched an eyebrow. ‘How did the baking go?’

Jack shrugged. ‘Grand. Though I think we used every bowl in the place.’

Janet Bellbottom, back from her nap, perched on the arm of a nearby chair. She peered at him over her glasses. ‘How’s our lovely photographer doing? Still snapping away?’

Trish’s face, lips parted like she’d been caught mid-sigh, slipped into Jack’s thoughts. He pushed it aside. ‘Cataloguing the chaos, I think.’

Their stares scraped the back of his neck. Unspoken questions hung in the air, thick as bog mist. These people had witnessed every spectacular MacGregor nosedive. The thought of another crash twisted in his gut like a damn corkscrew. Pity. Those knowing side-glances. Disappointed murmurs.

Not. Fucking. Again.

He loved this community, but it didn’t take much for folks to start talking, and the wrong story at the wrong time could tip the scales. Jack snatched a cookie, ramming it into his mouth. Sugar disintegrated into sawdust, coating his throat like regret.

Gwen’s gaze cut through the small talk and pleasantries like she could see through his bullshit. Which she probably could. He shifted his weight, and the floorboards creaked beneath his boots. He had to get out of here; the air felt too thick with expectation.

‘There’s enough batter in the kitchen to wrap the whole castle,’ he said in the direction of his children. ‘So, who wants to bake more cookies?’

Three sets of eyes lit up like the Christmas tree last night.

‘Okay, wee monsters. Back to the kitchen for round two.’

The kids cheered, already scrambling towards the door. His phone buzzed in his pocket, a jolting tremor against his thigh. He fished it out. Melissa.

Fuck.

Jack held up a finger. ‘Hold your horses. Just gotta…’ He trailed off, answering the call. ‘Aye, Mel?’

He turned away, trying to shield the conversation from the room’s collective gaze.

‘I need to talk to you about Christmas.’ Melissa’s voice was clipped.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself. This was never good. He kept his voice as neutral as possible. ‘What’s up?’

‘Craig and I are going on holiday in five days. Two weeks in Magaluf. We’ve just been invited by clients of his, but the kids can’t come. So I’ll need you to take them. Over Christmas and Hogmanay. We’ll be back on January second.’

Jack’s organs went sideways, every cell running for an emergency exit. Two weeks? Smack in the middle of Christmas and Hogmanay? How the fuck was he supposed to wrangle that logistical nightmare?

‘Mel, you know that Christmas is my busiest time. The post office—’

‘Och, don’t give me that, Jack. I saw the photos. You playing “Sexy Santa”.’ Her voice dripped acid. ‘If you’ve got time for that shite, you’ve got time for your own children.’

Mortification flash-froze his blood, every capillary going arctic. The photos. Of course, she’d use them like a weapon.

Jack glanced back at the room. They were pretending not to be watching or listening. But they were. He wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the floorboards and become one with the dust bunnies.

Jack gripped the phone tighter. ‘It was just a little harmless fun, Mel.’ He spoke quietly, aware of the ears around him.

‘Fun?’ Melissa scoffed. ‘While I’m here busting my ass trying to make ends meet, you’re gallivanting around half-naked? Really responsible, Jack. As always.’

He could almost see her, arms crossed, eyes flashing. He squeezed his eyes shut to make the image disappear. ‘That’s not fair. You know I take care of the kids just as much—‘

‘Do you?’ she cut him off. ‘Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re more interested in playing rock star and viral sex symbol than being a father.’

Her words stung like frostbite. He glanced at his kids. He was trying, dammit. ‘You know it’s not easy—‘

‘Easy?’ Her voice rose half an octave. ‘You want to talk about easy? I could tell you how often I—’

‘At least you’re not alone, Mel.’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. ‘You’ve got… Craig .’

There was a pause, a beat of silence that spoke volumes. ‘Aye, I do. And he wants to take me away for a bit. Is that so wrong?’

Jack sighed, rubbing the heel of his palm across his jaw. ‘No, it’s not wrong. But neither is asking for a little understanding. I can’t just drop everything—‘

‘Can’t or won’t?’

Anger punched through him, skin radiating fuck-you fire. ‘Listen, I’m not saying no, awright? I’m just saying it’s fucking complicated.’

‘Complicated.’ She laughed, a harsh sound. ‘Life is complicated, Jack. Grow up.’

Jack bit back a retort. ‘Mel, it’s not…’ He started, then stopped. What was the point? She’d already made up her mind. ‘Fine. It’s not like I have a choice.’

‘No, you don’t. It’s your turn. You’ve left me hanging dry for years. It’s your flesh and blood. So, have a nice Christmas. And I’m sure all three are happy to stay with you. Fewer rules and all that. Bye now.’

The line went dead. Jack stuffed the phone back in his pocket, his hand clenching into a fist. He turned back to the room and forced another smile.

‘Everything okay, Jack?’ Marla’s words came as though she’d already clocked whatever he was trying to hide and was daring him to deny it.

Jack nodded, his throat tight. ‘Just Mel being Mel.’

He looked at his kids, their faces bright with anticipation. Guilt churned low in his gut, like a bad pint settling in his stomach. I wasn’t that he didn’t want them for Christmas. More like he wanted to fully be there for them. And he couldn’t.

Fuck. Jack dragged a hand over his face. As usual, he’d have to wing it somehow.

Another thought crossed his mind. Trish deserved better than the messy reality of his life. Three kids, an ex-wife who treated him like a stray dog – for good reasons, to be fair – and a job that barely paid the bills. He pictured Trish trying to navigate the chaos of his mornings. The frenzied search for matching socks, the spilt cereal, the constant bickering.

She’d hate it. She’d run.

The room was too warm, the scent of pine and cookies cloying. The heaviness of Melissa’s words still pushing down on him like a sodden wool blanket.

‘Right, cookie monsters. Let’s get back to baking and get you a few sandwiches for lunch.’ He shepherded the kids towards the kitchen, thinking about logistics and childcare for the next two weeks.

Descending the stairs, Jack’s thoughts careened like a drunk driver. The viral photo, Melissa’s demands, Trish’s smile… Everything collided in a wreck of guilt, want, and worry.

What the fuck was he playing at?

The kitchen’s warmth hit him like a wall as he opened the door.

‘Triiish!’ Jack Jr., Beth, and Phil yelled in unison.

His kids were bouncing around like sugared-up gremlins, hyped for another round of flour fights. Jack’s chest cinched, not with love – he had that in spades – but with a stab of parental panic. He adored those little maniacs, but the constant pressure? It was like trying to herd cats while juggling flaming knives.

Jack stalled mid-threshold. Trish stood backlit by the oven-glow, glasses askew, a chocolate constellation smudged across her cheek.

She looked up, her grin bright enough to rival the kitchen lights. ‘Hey. Just in time to get roped into round two.’

Flour dusted her cheeks, and her tongue poked out in concentration as she prepared something on a baking sheet. Jack’s heart seized like a fist as he watched Trish carefully arrange the cookie letters. J, B, P.

Not just any letters.

His kids’ initials.

Something geological realigned inside him, tectonic plates grinding. The truth punched him square in the sternum: he was fucked. Monumentally, catastrophically fucked.

He was… falling in love ?

He gripped the counter, steadying himself. The weight of it settled in his chest, warm and terrifying. Trish was…everything. Brilliant. Kind. Sexy without trying. Funny as fuck. The way she saw the world, capturing beauty in the smallest moments…

He wanted to cup her face in his hands, to brush away that smear of chocolate on her cheek with his thumb. To taste it on her skin. To memorise every freckle, every laugh line. To tell her he was falling. Falling so hard he might not survive the landing.

The words jammed in his throat. His fingers drummed against the counter, a restless rhythm that matched the beat of his heart.

Trish’s smile widened, a small dimple appearing in her left cheek. ‘Come on, Postie Pat. Your turn to get messy.’

He buried his hands in his pockets, attempting to look casual. Like he wasn’t about to spontaneously combust. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘These are for the kids.’ She gestured to the tray, where J, B, and P were taking shape in perfectly formed cookie dough.

His fucking heart.

‘They’ll love that.’ His voice came out rough, so he gave a little cough to smooth it over.

‘Da! Look!’ Beth held up a cookie. ‘That’s me! B for Beth!’

‘Mine’s a J,’ Junior declared, grabbing his cookie. ‘And it’s got green sprinkles. Nice.’

Phil glared at his cookie, head tilted. ‘What’s that?’

‘That’s your letter, wee man. P for Phil.’ Jack’s hand settled lightly on Phil’s head.

Junior took a big bite. ‘Did Trish make these just for us?’

‘Aye, she did.’ Jack’s words scratched the back of his throat.

‘Why?’ Junior asked.

Trish shrugged. ‘Because I thought it was cool.’

‘It is’, Junior said and grinned.

Beth’s feet shifted in a little dance. ‘Can we make some for her too?’

‘What letter does Trish start with?’ Phil asked.

’T.’ Junior said. ‘Like turtle.’

‘Or tiger!’ Beth added.

‘Well, then,’ Trish wiped her floury hands on her apron, ‘who wants to decorate the next batch?’

Beth squealed, grabbing a bowl of sprinkles. ‘Me! Me! Me!’

Jack Jr. pointed at a tube of icing. ‘Can I do the green one?’

‘Sure!’

Suddenly, Trish’s phone rang. She fumbled it free from her pocket, and the brightness in her face dimmed as she glanced at the screen. ‘Sorry, I need to take this.’ With a tight smile, she stepped back, muttering a clipped, ‘Hi, Seraphina.’

Jack’s ears perked up, catching the tension in her voice like static in the air. ‘Yes… What? Tomorrow? Yes, they’re… Look, I’m a bit—’ Trish’s voice was tight. ‘No, that won’t be a problem. Of course not.’

Jack tightened his gaze as she paced, one hand gripping the phone, the other twisting her curls. Something was off.

‘Sure, I can call you back. Five minutes? Okay. Goodbye.’ She ended the call, her shoulders sagging.

‘Everything fine?’ Jack asked.

She untied her apron, draping it over a chair. ‘Work stuff. Deadline’s been moved up. I need to go edit those photos asap. You okay to finish baking without me?’

‘Of course.’ He picked up a stray sprinkle from the counter.

Beth pouted. ‘But we’re not done decorating!’

‘I know, sweetheart.’ Trish knelt down, giving each child a hug. ‘You’ll have to show me your masterpieces later, okay? Can’t wait to see them.’

Trish straightened up, and Jack froze as she leaned toward him. In that microscopic moment before contact, the universe contracted. Her lips grazed his cheek, barely a whisper of touch. But fuck, it detonated through him like a low-voltage current.

A millisecond kiss. Chaste as a nun’s prayer.

And he was wrecked.

He’d snogged women senseless. But this? Freaking out over a kiss on the cheek? This was unheard of.

His children cackled, oblivious to the earthquake happening inside their father.

‘Ewww!’ Jack Jr. said. ‘Da and Trish, sitting in a tree…’

‘K-I-S-S-I-N-G!’ Beth chimed in.

A molten tide climbed his neck. ‘Oi, you wee monsters. Back to your cookies.’

‘Later?’ Trish whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

He nodded, his voice lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat.

Trish turned and headed for the stairs. Jack watched her go, tightness knotting in his stomach.

Her work call. The deadline moved up. His kids’ cookie letters cooling on the tray. All the pieces clicked into a picture Jack didn’t want to see. His chest ached like someone had reached in. She’d made cookies for his kids. But now she was running off to edit photos for some fancy London magazine.