Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

S ometimes, making magic meant destroying reality, and Trish was becoming an expert at both.

She paced the room, phone glued to her ear, her attention fracturing between the glowing laptop screen and the mess of camera gear scattered on the bed.

‘Trish, darling,’ Seraphina’s voice scraped honey over razor blades, ‘as I said, it’s out of my hands that the deadline’s been moved up. We need your best shots by tomorrow morning. Exceptional, not just good. No room for mediocrity.’

Trish’s grip tightened on the phone. ‘Seraphina, I’ve got a ton of editing to do. I’m not sure I can—‘

‘I have complete faith in you,’ Seraphina interrupted. ‘You’re a professional, aren’t you? Besides, we really want to capture that Highland Christmas vibe. Think romantic, whimsical. You know, all those cosy, charming details. That’s why we chose you .’

Doubt lodged itself beneath Trish’s sternum. She stared at her laptop screen, the cursor blinking like a malevolent metronome. ‘I don’t want to exaggerate. Kilcranach isn’t just some postcard fantasy. It’s real, and I’d prefer to stay true to that.’

‘Trish, do you know why our readers buy our magazine? Escapism. They want a fairy tale that looks just realistic enough. They want to see the magic of the Highlands. Walter Scott, Outlander , tartan galore. Give them that.’

‘I get it, but I don’t want to lose sight of what’s real. Kilcranach isn’t Disneyland.’

‘Disneyland?’ Seraphina’s long sigh was intentionally audible. ‘Just…enhance the charm a bit. You can do that, can’t you? We’re really counting on you. This could be huge for your career.’

Or not if you don’t deliver. Subtext received.

Trish’s thoughts spun, scenes of Jack and the kids blurring in her mind. Their life here was tangible, real. Replacing that with a polished, artificial image unsettled her. ‘I know it’s important, Seraphina. I just—‘

‘You need to deliver, Trish. We love your work, but we need you to step up. Make this happen. Think about how much this means to your future. You want this, don’t you?’

Trish’s hand trembled slightly as she pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Of course, yes.’

‘Fabaroo! Then get it done. We’re expecting great things from you, Trish. Don’t let us down.’

The line went silent. Trish dropped the phone onto the bedside table, its plastic clatter slicing through the quiet. The attic room contracted, walls pressing inward. Her eyes flicked to the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. She sat down on the bed with a frustrated groan, her fingers tapping on the edge of the computer. Seraphina’s words clung to her like a too-tight sweater, smothering her creativity.

This didn’t feel like making art. This felt like a chore with an aftertaste of cheating.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, indecision gnawing at her. The pressure of turning Kilcranach into a glossy fantasy coiled tight in her gut, sour and wrong.

She leaned forward, clicking open the folder of pictures from the past few days. Images of Kilcranach filled the screen, each one a snapshot of the life she’d been immersed in. Her fingers tapped the keyboard, the click-click-click echoing in the silence.

She zoomed in on the photo, studying the arc of Jack’s lips, the easy warmth etched into his features. The way he grinned had a certain pull. That smile could undo her for good, and damn if she wasn’t already halfway there.

Trish’s eyes skimmed over the camera gear sprawled all over the bed, each piece a reminder of the dream she’d been chasing for years. Now, staring at it, all she felt was pressure. Failure nipped at her heels, paralysing her. If she couldn’t pull this off, what did that make her? The girl who thought she could but never did? Disappointment. Failure. The labels hovered, waiting to stick.

She couldn’t let Wanderlust down. But she also couldn’t let herself down. This was her chance to show that she was more than just a marketing manager playing at photography.

Seraphina’s words clanged around in her skull. ‘Magic. Charm. Whimsical.’ Trish’s gut twisted like she’d downed bad milk. She knew what Seraphina wanted.

Tartankitsch.

Snow-dusted heather and Highland coos with frost on their shaggy coats. Stags on the moors and shortbread tins by the hearth. Whisky in crystal tumblers and plaid everywhere: blankets, scarves, even the dogs. Not the emptying villages with ‘For Sale’ signs where families used to be. Not the second homes sitting dark through winter while locals fought to find a place to live. The daily struggles, the isolation.

Trish’s gaze drifted to the window. The snow outside was hiding the imperfections beneath. She knew the truth: underneath were dead leaves, gnarled roots, and mud. Nothing was ever as perfect as it seemed. But snow made it look that way.

Her hand shook as she reached for her camera. The weight of it was different now, heavier with expectations and doubt. She turned it over in her hands.

I have to be like snow.

Trish gripped her camera like an anchor as she descended the grand staircase. One last shoot. She paused at the doorway, her eyes scanning the room.

People swarmed around the late lunch buffet, balancing plates, the air alive with laughter and conversations. The image of Marla and Niall hit her retinas with the subtlety of a camera flash. A thin ache scratched along her insides. Not jealousy, but close enough to stir that old sensation of being on the outside, looking in. Marla blended into this place, woven into its fabric. Niall, the village, the whole vibe – it all fit her. She was part of Kilcranach’s tapestry. Meanwhile, Trish was the voyeur behind the lens.

Suddenly, that role pinched and rubbed in all the wrong places, like trying to squeeze into too-small winter boots.

Marla glanced up and waved at her. ‘Trish, grab some grub. You must be starving.’ The grin that followed lit up her face, making it clear she wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Trish couldn’t help but smile back. It was good to see her friend so content and at ease. Trish was happy for Marla. Even though she wasn’t really a part of it.

‘In a bit. I want to capture some of this first.’

Marla arched a brow. ‘Always working, aren’t you? That’s a fast track to burnout, babe. You’ve gotta step off the treadmill sometime. And I must know, I’m running a retreat for NHS personnel with burnout.’

Trish raised her camera, letting the viewfinder’s black borders block out everything as a rush of emotions threatened to break through. She fired off a few shots of the scene, honing in on the tiny, unnoticed moments. Each click of the shutter was a comfort, a rhythm that steadied her nerves.

Gwen sidled up beside her, her lips quirking in that way that said she knew exactly what was up. ‘You’re not fooling anyone, you know. You can’t hide behind that camera forever.’

Trish lowered the Leica. ‘I’m not hiding. I’m working.’

Gwen snorted. ‘Working, my arse. You’re avoiding. And Jack has gone home, in case you’re wondering.’

Trish’s pulse stopped for a second. ‘Oh?’

Gwen gave one of those half-hearted, can’t-be-bothered shrugs. ‘Took the kids and buggered off half an hour ago. With the driveway being finally clear and all that.’

Trish’s clutched her camera. ‘Makes sense.’

Gwen studied her, a sympathetic tilt to her head. She gestured towards the buffet table. ‘Come on, let’s get you a sandwich. You seem like you could use a serious snack.’

Trish trailed after Gwen, her thoughts zigzagging like a pinball. Jack had left without saying goodbye? She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, the gnawing sense of disappointment.

As they approached the table, Janet Bellbottom bustled over, her leopard print blouse clashing with the festive decor.

’Dearie, I was hoping to catch you. I wanted to thank you for those lovely photos you took of Muffin. He’s quite the model, isn’t he?’

Trish managed a smile at the thought of the grumpy Border Terrier. ‘He’s a natural. I’m glad you liked them.’

Trish’s gaze swept the room before settling on the vacant spot where Jack and the kids had been earlier. Her throat tightened like it was fighting against her.

Marla appeared at her side, a glass of wine in hand. ‘Here, you look like you need this.’

Trish took the glass. ‘Thanks, Babes.’ She downed it in three sips, which earned her a minorly concerned glance from her best friend.

‘Refill?’

‘Nope, I’m working.’

Trish clicked through a few shots, capturing the joy and connection on people’s faces. Seraphina’s critique gnawed at the back of her mind. This wasn’t enough. She needed the fairy tale, not the mundane reality.

Her eyes hooked on Janet Bellbottom and her signature leopard print. This could be…

Trish approached her with brightness in her voice. ‘Mrs Bellbottom, can I trouble you for a photo? Perhaps by the Christmas tree?’

Janet Bellbottom’s grin spread wide, the kind of smile that had probably talked half the village into trouble. ‘Of course, dearie. But only if you promise to make me look like a Hollywood starlet.’

‘I’ll do my best. You’ve definitely got the glamour.’

She positioned Mrs Bellbottom against the tree, Christmas lights etching silver threads across her weathered skin.

Trish snapped a few shots, then paused, her fingers tapping against the camera. ‘Could you perhaps…tilt your head slightly? And maybe a softer smile? And now lift a bauble with two fingers…’ One subtle direction after another, a choreography of manipulation.

Mrs Bellbottom raised an eyebrow but pivoted into performance mode. Less Highland ex-teacher, more reluctant beauty pageant contestant.

Trish’s insides knotted tighter than a camera strap in a rush, but her finger hit the shutter, her mind already envisioning the edits. ‘Are you okay with me submitting them to Wanderlust ?’

‘Sure.’ Mrs Bellbottom chortled. ‘I don’t mind a bit of spotlight. If our dear postie doesn’t mind sharing his fifteen minutes of fame.’

‘You’ve already signed a model release. So that’s good. Now a little to the left…’

After she was done shooting Mrs Bellbottom, Trish moved on to Gwen, who was pouring alcohol-free punch into red mugs. ‘Could I get a pic of you doing that? Maybe with a bit more of a festive smile and in front of the fireplace?’

Gwen looked up. ‘A festive fucking smile? Trish, are you awright?’

Trish let out a laugh, but it sat awkwardly in the air, as stiff as her shoulders. ‘Just trying to capture the spirit of the season.’

Gwen shook her head. Then she stretched her lips into an exaggerated smile, showing off her chipped front tooth like an exclamation mark.

I can fix that asymmetry in post.

Trish took the photo. ‘Thanks, Gwen.’

‘Anytime, hen. Marla’s pals are our pals.’

Trish turned and looked straight at Niall, the epitome of the Highlander with his auburn hair and broody aura.

Jamie Fraser has fuck all on him.

Niall was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a slight scowl on his face.

She approached him with slow steps. ‘Niall, do you think I could get a shot of you in your great kilt? You know, the one you wore on opening day. It would highlight the Highland charm.’

Niall’s scowl deepened. ‘No.’

Trish blinked, taken aback. ‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘I won’t put it on just for a picture; it takes forever. And it makes me look like a cliché.’

Trish’s fingers locked around the camera. ‘But it would add to the authenticity—’

‘Authenticity?’ Niall pushed off the wall and scoffed. ‘This is authentic, Trish. Me, in my jeans and an old hoodie, having a laugh and a chat with my friends and my woman and my dog.’

Trish’s face burned so hot she could’ve baked cookies on her cheeks. She lowered her camera, feeling the sting of Niall’s words more than she wanted to admit.

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I got carried away.’

Niall’s jaw unclenched, and the tension drained away, the edge in his voice fading. ‘Nae bother. I get it. A man in a kilt is a special kind of Sexy Santa. It’s just not me.’

Oh, right. That.

Trish’s mind drifted back to Jack. Perhaps he’d seen through her facade to the wreck underneath – the relentless need to prove herself, the fear of failure shadowing every shot she took. The neediness. No wonder he’d slipped away without another word. They might see each other again before she left for Edinburgh, possibly. Somehow, his quiet exit today stung more than it should have.

Trish closed the door behind her with a thud and slumped against the heavy wood. Her pulse pounded in her neck, chasing the wild tangle of her thoughts. Her tiny attic room was spinning.

‘Shit.’

Marla had been enthusiastic about letting Trish use Hazelbrae for the shoot – ‘It’s perfect for the magazine, Babes!’ And she hadn’t been wrong. The late-eighteenth-century castle was a Highland Christmas fantasy come to life, especially dusted with snow. But forcing people into awkward poses, with fake grins and stiff holiday cheer, twisted Trish’s insides like a bad roll of film. This wasn’t the Kilcranach she’d come to like. This was a curated lie wrapped in tartan and tied with a bow of bullshit.

And Jack.

No goodbye, no see you later. No note, no text, no word. Probably nothing. Probably just rushed off with the kids, right? Totally reasonable. Except her stomach didn’t believe it. It twisted anyway, churning through too many emotions at once – anger, hurt, fear.

He could’ve left a note. A text wouldn’t have killed him .

Her logical brain tried to calm her down.

Maybe he didn’t have time, maybe he’ll call later, maybe—

But the maybes weren’t helping. They weren’t silencing the part of her that had been bracing for this since the beginning.

This is Jack MacGregor, it whispered. Walking, talking flight risk. You knew this was coming.

She pressed her palms to her temples, shutting the thought down.

Stop. Don’t do this.

But her mind wasn’t done punishing her. Because hadn’t she known this would happen? Hadn’t she told herself he was just a bit of seasonal stuffing, a Christmas temp job for her libido, a holiday boost to her ego? She’d known. She’d prepared.

So why did it feel like the ground had been yanked out from under her anyway?

Trish pushed off the door, legs shaking as she made her way to the bed. Her laptop sat open. She collapsed onto the mattress. Her phone buzzed, jolting her out of her thoughts. She dug it out of her pocket, heart skidding into her throat. Not Jack. Her mother.

(MOTHER, 14:37) Darling, your father and I expect you for Christmas dinner. The new ambassador’s son will be there. Perhaps it is time to discuss your future? You’re 36. Time to get you on a proper path. Mummy x

Nausea rolled through her like bad eggnog. Her phone sailed across the bed, landing with a muted thump as her hands knotted into tight fists. Her mother’s expectations and her own terror of spectacular implosion crushed her chest. A concrete weight, real as broken bones.

Then she saw it. The message she’d missed. Jack, fifteen minutes ago.

(JACK, 13:09) Sorry. Had to get the menace home. And you were right; this isn’t real. But it was fun as long as it lasted. Now you focus on your job. Show them what you’re made of. See you around. J.

The screen dissolved into a smear of pixels, and Jack’s casual words drilled through her ribcage.

Past tense.

She’d already been archived, filed under ‘temporary’. The room contracted, oxygen thinning with each shallow breath.

She must have ruined it somehow. Too desperate? Too…herself?

Her fingers lingered over the screen, ready to type a response. What could she say? ‘Thanks for the fun fuck’? ‘Sorry I’m not worth sticking around for’? ‘Guess I failed at being casual, my bad’?

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Trish flipped the phone face-down, but the words had already tattooed themselves into her brain. ‘Was fun.’ Like a weekend trip to the beach. Like one of those old-school disposable wedding cameras.

The phone’s glow cut through the dim room like a neon ‘closed’ sign at midnight. Jack’s message sat there, and the truth scratched along her ribs: she’d never known how to be part of a real family. Her childhood had been all empty rooms, nannies, and that fucking boarding school. Not much in the way of cookie-baking, bedtime stories or sticky kisses.

She typed slowly: Your kids are amazing, Jack. They deserve someone—

Her fingers paused. Someone what? Someone better? Someone who knew how families worked? Someone who could stay? She’d never learned the rhythm of family life. She deleted the message and started again:

(ME, 14:46) It was the most fun I’ve had in years. Thank you – and your nice little people.

Her laptop purred lowly, demanding attention. Work. Right. That’s what she was good at. That’s what she could control. Her index finger tapped against the keyboard. The folder of photos stared back at her. She clicked it open.

The first picture was of Jack and the kids decorating cookies. They looked so happy, so carefree, so…fucking perfect. Like a Christmas card come to life.

She flipped through the images, her gaze lingering on the ones of Jack. That crooked grin, the way his laugh seemed to ripple through him, the way his eyes softened when he looked at his kids… It was too much. Too raw. Too real. Like her camera had caught something she wasn’t supposed to see.

Trish snapped the laptop shut. She couldn’t handle this. Couldn’t look at those damn photos, couldn’t face the reminder of letting herself long for something impossible.

But she had to. Deadline looming, career teetering – she couldn’t fall apart now, not when she had something huge on the line. With a steadying breath, she cracked open the laptop again and dived into the folder.

And then she saw it.

The perfect shot.

The three kids, their faces obscured by the angle, red hair gleaming in the soft light in different shades. Junior’s strawberry blonde, Beth’s carrot ginger, and Phil’s auburn. The cookies, the decorations, the whole goddamn Christmas magic.

It was flawless. Everything Seraphina wanted.

Trish stared at the screen, her mind racing.

But… Is this allowed?

They’d signed the event release forms, standard stuff. She chewed her lip.

That’s probably enough for this.

Their faces weren’t even visible, just their hair, their small hands clutching those cookies. It wasn’t invasive. It wasn’t personal. It was… art. This was a fine line. Her professional side took over, reasoning, rationalising.

It’s not like I’m naming them or showing anything identifiable. It’s tasteful, it’s safe, it’s ethical.

She let the thought settle for a moment before it was bulldozed by desperation.

And it’s my only chance.

The winter wonderland shots were good. The eighteenth-century Scottish country house was postcard perfect, and Mrs Bellbottom ‘decorating’ the tree gave it charm. But this… this was special. This was the soul of the set.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, thoughts tumbling and colliding in her head like a fast-paced slideshow. She could do this. Crop the photos, edit them, and make them into something…magical. Something that would make Seraphina happy and land her the job.

Something that might finally make her mum stop harping about wasted potential.

Something that would make her forget about Jack MacGregor and his stupid, perfect smile, his sexy forearms, his unparalleled dick, and his soft, huge fucking heart.

Her hands moved in a frenzy, cropping and enhancing, tweaking the lighting and contrast, pulling every last drop of goddamn magic out of the images. And as she worked, she muttered to herself, her voice low and urgent in the empty room. ‘Come on, Trish. You can do this. You’re a professional. You’re not some pathetic girl pining over a guy. You’re an artist. You can make this happen.’

Be like snow. Cover the mess with beautiful cold.