Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

J ack yanked the handbrake up harder than necessary, the van’s metal creaking in protest. Another morning, another round of deliveries. The silence rang in his ears. No kids arguing over radio stations, no tiny voices demanding snacks. Just him and a mountain of parcels.

His phone pinged. Another DM notification. The whole viral Santa thing had mostly died down, thank fuck. Five minutes of fame stretched into about five days too many. At least he’d dodged those newspaper vultures.

The screen lit up with a message.

(MELISSA, 09:19) Kids settled in fine. Craig’s taking them to the cinema for the new monster movie later.

Great. He’d planned on taking them to see Creepy Creatures Club . There went that idea. Jack’s teeth ground together. He let the phone glide into his back pocket and grabbed the next batch of packages. Two weeks of Christmas and Hogmanay with the wee ones stretched ahead of him. Dread settled in his gut at the thought of juggling it all.

Church Hill. Jack checked the address twice. His mind kept wandering to Trish. To cookies and laughter and…

No. Focus on the job.

The front opened, and Sarah Campbell stood there in what could generously be called a dressing gown. If dressing gowns were made of see-through fabric and stopped mid-thigh.

‘If it isn’t Scotland’s sexiest Santa.’ She leaned against the doorframe, hip cocked. ‘I’ve been very naughty this year.’

For crying out loud.

‘Mornin’, Sarah. Got a parcel for you.’ He held out the package, keeping his eyes firmly on her face.

‘Why don’t you bring it in?’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ve got coffee brewing.’

‘Can’t. Routes to run.’ Jack stepped back. ‘Need you to sign here.’

Sarah pouted. ‘I saw those photos. That body shouldn’t be hidden under a postal uniform.’

‘I take it Mike’s away then?’

Something skittered behind her eyes. A quick, nervous tell. Her husband’s business absences were so frequent they’d become municipal conversation, a well-worn story everyone knew but nobody officially acknowledged.

Small towns, smaller secrets.

‘Aye.’ She scribbled her signature on the scanner.

Jack’s mind flashed to Trish in the kitchen at Hazelbrae, flour dusting her hair, glasses fogged from the oven’s warmth. She’d been a gazillion times more tempting than any other woman in a fucking negligee.

It’s not real…

‘Say hi to Mike when he’s back, he owes me another round of darts.’ Jack tucked the scanner away. ‘Have a good day, love.’

‘You too, Santa.’ Sarah winked. ‘My chimney’s always open.’

Gie’s a break.

Jack walked back to his van. The cold bit through his jacket, but he barely noticed. His chest felt hollow like someone had scooped out everything warm and replaced it with winter.

Back in the car, he sat for a moment, forehead against the wheel. Two days since he’d last seen Trish. Two days of pretending he wasn’t checking his phone for messages. Two days of missing her laugh, the way she saw beauty in everything.

The engine coughed to life. Jack pulled away from the kerb, leaving Sarah’s invitation in his rear-view mirror. He had three more hours of deliveries ahead. Three more hours to not think about cookie-scented kisses and candy canes.

Jack moved the heavy package in his arms, double-checking the address. 23, Burnside Row. He’d delivered here a thousand times before. Struan Kerr, retired lorry driver, a decent bloke who always had a kind word and usually slipped him two tenners at Christmas.

The door flew open before he could knock. And there stood Struan – all six-foot-four of him – squeezed into a Santa outfit that left about as much to the imagination as Jack’s own viral photos had.

‘Special delivery?’ Struan waggled his eyebrows, striking a pose that made the velvet stretch in alarming ways.

Jack’s mind blanked. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. ‘I, um…’

‘Like what you see?’ Struan ran a hand down his exposed chest and over his belly. ‘Thought I’d join the party. Can’t let you hog all the spotlight.’

A slow blaze spread across the back of Jack’s neck. ‘Look, mate…’

‘You’re not the only one who can rock a Santa suit.’ Struan propped a hand on the doorframe.

‘Christ.’ Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I appreciate your enthusiasm in taking the piss. But I’ve got rounds to finish.’

‘Spoilsport.’ Struan grinned and took the package. ‘The missus thought this was hilarious, by the way.’

‘Brilliant.’ Jack handed over the signature pad. ‘Just what I needed to hear.’

‘Och, come on. It’s funny! The whole village is talking about it. You’re famous.’

‘Lucky me.’ Jack logged the delivery. ‘Tell Margaret I said hi.’

‘Will do. And Jack?’ Struan’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘If you ever want to do a double act…’

‘Ta-ta, Struan.’

Back in his van, Jack dropped his head against the headrest. His phone buzzed, probably another Instagram notification. He’d thought about turning them off a dozen times, but the settings were a bloody maze.

Maybe it was Melissa with more demands about Christmas.

Instead of checking, he started the engine.

This whole ‘Sexy Santa’ thing had gone sideways, twisting into something Jack never signed up for. Always another wink, another joke that chipped away at whatever dignity he’d been trying to maintain. It was fucking tiring.

The cosmic joke wasn’t lost on him. That’s what he’d been projecting into the world. Playing up the charm, letting people see only what they wanted to see.

Don’t let anyone look too deep.

But he was more than just a six-pack and a cheeky grin. He was a father who read bedtime stories, built blanket forts, and kissed scraped knees. A friend who’d hold your hair back after too many pints and never mention it again. A son who’d lost his mother way too early to addiction.

The muscles in Jack’s shoulders bunched like twisted rope, a tension headache brewed at the base of his skull. He jabbed at the radio, needing noise – any noise – to drown out the loop playing in his head. Static crackled through the speakers, matching the restless energy crawling under his skin.

Each house on his route now felt like a potential ambush, another chance for someone to reduce him to that bloody Santa photo. Jesus, even Struan – solid, dependable Struan – had turned it into a joke.

Maybe they were right. Maybe that’s all he was.

The brass knocker on the Bellbottoms’ door gleamed despite the grey December morning. Jack balanced the parcel against his hip, reaching for it.

‘Jack MacGregor!’ The door swung open before he could knock. Mrs Bellbottom stood there in a leopard print jumper. ‘Perfect timing. I had a feeling you’d show up, and I just put the kettle on.’

‘Naw, I’ve got rounds to—‘

‘Nonsense. You look like you need a cuppa.’ She stepped aside. ‘Come on in, dearie. Five minutes won’t kill you.’

The scent of Earl Grey and shortbread hit him as he followed her into the kitchen. Nothing had changed since his school days. Same yellow curtains, same ceramic dogs lined up on the windowsill. Muffin looking at him with his signature semi-threatening scowl.

‘Sit.’ She pointed to a chair. ‘You look done in.’

‘Just tired.’ Jack sank into the seat. ‘Been a weird few weeks.’

‘Aye, I bet.’ She plonked a steaming mug in front of him. ‘Our local postie turned pin-up boy.’

‘Not you, too.’

‘Och, don’t worry about me.’ She settled across from him, pushing the biscuit tin toward him. ‘Though I must say, those photos caused a wee fuss at bridge club.’

Jack sighed. ‘Can we not?’

‘You know, Jack,’ Mrs Bellbottom stirred her tea with deliberate slowness, ‘the ladies had quite strong opinions.’

Jack stared into his cup and watched the steam rise. ‘Look, about that—’

‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? How quickly folks reduce others to…’ She gestured vaguely. ‘I saw it often enough in my teaching days. The way some of the boys would talk about girls as if they were items in a catalogue. Young lads strutting about, rating the girls on their looks. As if that’s all they were.’

Jack grabbed a shortbread, turning it over in his hands. ‘I never…’ He paused, the justification hollow in his throat.

Really?

The pattern wasn’t exactly the same, but close enough. Meet, shag, move on. He’d always gone for the lookers. What was on the inside hadn’t mattered much, not if the outside turned heads. His head. And how often had he walked away, leaving nothing but a casual text behind? How many names had he already forgotten? No real conversations, no genuine connection. Just warm bodies and fleeting pleasure.

The realisation crept in. He’d been doing the same thing all along. Not as crude or public as these Santa photos, but he’d still reduced those women to entertainment. To shells. Keeping it casual meant keeping them at arm’s length. Limited their worth to what happened between the sheets.

Sure, it had all been consensual and respectful. Just two adults scratching an itch. But how many times had he snuck out? How many ‘had fun last night’ texts had he sent and never answered to any replies? He’d convinced himself it was better that way – cleaner, simpler. No messy feelings or complications.

But simple for who?

He’d never stuck around long enough to find out.

Mrs Bellbottom’s eyes held no judgment, just that annoyingly patient teacher’s gaze that had seen through countless excuses. ‘You’ve never what?’

‘Nothing.’ The biscuit in Jack’s hand crumbled slightly.

She dunked a bit of shortbread in her tea. ‘Funny how perspectives change when the shoe’s on the other foot.’

Jack flicked crumbs from his fingers. ‘Maybe.’

‘Speaking of perspective…’ She leaned forward. ‘How’s our visiting photographer?’

His stomach dropped. ‘She’s…working, I guess.’

‘Mmm.’ Mrs Bellbottom studied him over her mug. ‘Ambitious girl, that one. Reminds me of myself.’

Jack tipped his mug slightly as if weighing her words. ‘You were a photographer?’

‘Dinnae be daft, no. But I had dreams. Big ones.’ She smiled. ‘Sometimes they seem impossible to reconcile with real life.’

An uncomfortable weight settled just under his sternum. ‘Aye.’

‘But here’s the thing about ambition.’ She tapped a finger against her mug. ‘Sometimes we get so focused on one path, we miss the side roads.’

The tightness in his chest squeezed a little harder with each word. ‘What if the paths are going in opposite directions?’

‘Are they?’ She fixed him with that penetrating stare that had terrified generations of children. ‘Or do they just look that way from where you’re standing?’

Jack stared into his tea. ‘I should go. Got deliveries… Christmas and all that.’

‘Of course.’ She stood, gathering their mugs. ‘Just remember, Jack – the best views often come when we step back and look at the whole picture.’

He paused at the door. ‘Mrs Bellbottom?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks for the tea.’

She smiled, patting his arm with her small hand. ‘Anytime, dearie.’

The door clicked shut behind him. Jack stood on the step, letting the cold air clear his head. His phone chimed – another notification. But for the first time in days, he felt something loosen inside him like a lock easing open. Just enough to make him wonder what might be on the other side.

Hazelbrae loomed ahead, its stone walls catching the last light of day. Jack drummed his fingers on the wheel, that damn package burning a hole in the passenger seat. He’d saved this delivery for last, telling himself it was just practical route planning. Nothing to do with avoiding anyone.

The van’s tyres bit into the gravel, sending small stones skittering as he pulled up. No other cars in sight. No camera equipment scattered about. No wild curls catching the winter sun.

His shoulders felt both lighter and heavier at once.

He grabbed the package, boots scuffing against stone as he made his way to the entrance. Marla stood by the doorway, wrestling with a string of fairy lights tangled in a boxwood plant.

‘Fucking shitty shit thing.’ She yanked at a stubborn knot.

‘Need a hand?’

She spun around. ‘Yeah. I swear, these lights are possessed.’

He set the package down, reaching for the twisted strand. ‘Where’s your resident photographer?’

‘Finally finished her assignment.’ Marla’s voice held a note of pride. ‘Wait till you see the spread in Wanderlust next week. The entire town is waiting for it. To see how much Tartankitsch it really is. There are bets on a Highland romanticism bullshit bingo in the Blue Bonnet, so I’ve heard.’

Jack focused on untangling a particularly nasty knot. ‘That right?’

‘God, yes. Though I didn’t know your kids were going to be in it too!’

His fingers froze on the lights. ‘What?’

‘There’s this gorgeous shot of the three of them decorating cookies. Trish showed it to me before she sent the e-mail. Really cute.’

The string of lights dropped from his hands, the cold shock of her words spreading from his chest down to his fingertips. ‘She’s using photos of my kids?’

‘Yeah. They’re part of the—‘ Marla stopped, catching his expression. ‘Oh shit. You didn’t know.’

‘No, I didn’t fucking know.’ His voice came out rough. ‘When exactly was someone planning on telling me?’

‘I thought… She must have asked…’

‘Aye, well, she didn’t.’

Yes, he’d signed a slip, but… Jack scrubbed a hand down his face, and his mind raced to Melissa. ‘Christ. Their mother’s going to lose it.’

‘Jack—’

‘Don’t.’ He held up a hand. ‘Just…don’t.’

The fairy lights lay forgotten at their feet, twinkling mockingly in the gathering dusk.

Why didn’t I set clearer boundaries? Eejit.

He grabbed the parcel and held it toward Marla. ‘Need you to sign for this.’

‘Jack, come on. I’m sure there’s—’

‘Sign. Please.’

She took the scanner and swiped her finger. ‘She wouldn’t have meant—‘

He tucked the handheld device back into his bag. ‘Doesn’t matter what she meant.’

The words came out bitter, coating his tongue like old coffee. He turned away, not wanting to see Marla’s face. Not wanting to think about hot nights and cosy afternoons and trust broken as easily as shortbread.

‘She still here?’

Marla gave a small nod. ‘In her room, packing.’

‘Good.’

The oak doors creaked as Jack pushed through them, each step echoing off the old stone walls. His hands balled into fists, his pulse throbbing in his skull.

Third floor. Room 12. The one with the thick rug.

The stairs flew under his feet. A guest moved out of the way, muttering something he didn’t catch. Jack’s breaths came shallow, his mind spinning with images – his kids’ faces plastered across magazine pages, agreements torn apart because he’d been stupid enough to…

He wanted a fucking explanation.

The corridor stretched ahead. Light spilled from under her door.

This time, Jack didn’t knock.