Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

T he door crashed open with enough force to rattle the windowpanes, wood banging against ancient stone. Trish spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.

Jack stood in the doorway like the god of vengeance, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. His postal uniform was rumpled and dusted with snow that was already melting into dark patches.

‘What the actual fuck, Trish?’

Her fingers stilled on the half-packed suitcase, a silk blouse dangling between them. ‘Hello to you, too. What’s—… Are you okay?’

‘My kids? Seriously?’ His voice was low, dangerous – nothing like the warm, teasing tone she’d grown to love. ‘You’re using my kids for your fancy magazine spread?’

Ice slid down her spine. She’d known this conversation was coming, had rehearsed explanations in her head. It all made perfect sense, at least in theory. Legally, it was above board. Morally, too. Or so she’d thought. But nothing had prepared her for the raw betrayal in his eyes.

‘I’m not using anyone.’ The words felt inadequate even as they left her mouth.

‘No?’ He stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a thud. His boots left wet marks on the rug. ‘Then explain why Marla’s telling me my children are going to be in that magazine.’

‘It’s one photo of many, Jack. A beautiful moment I captured.’ Trish straightened, squaring her shoulders against the weight of his accusation. Her chest felt like it might crack from the force of keeping her composure. ‘You can’t even see their faces or recognise them. At all.’

Why couldn’t he understand? She’d spent hours perfecting that image, making sure it was both anonymous and magical. A small voice whispered that she should have discussed it with him properly first and not relied on that general release form. But no – she’d done everything by the book, hadn’t she? Like everything else in her life, she’d tried so hard to get it right. To do right by everyone. To square the circle.

‘That’s not the point, Trish.’

‘Then what is the point?’ She crossed her arms, her nails digging half-moons into her skin. ‘Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like I committed a crime.’

‘The point?’ Jack’s sarcastic laugh barely had the strength to lift the words. ‘The point is, you didn’t even ask. You just took what you needed and—’

‘I didn’t ask?’ Trish’s voice rose with disbelief. Hurt crystallised into defensive anger. ‘You signed a release form. Remember? Before and after the “Sexy Santa”-thing, for yourself and your kids.’

‘That was different.’ He stepped close enough to let her smell the winter air clinging to his jacket, to see the muscle ticking in his jaw. ‘That was me! My choice!’ His hands slashed through the air between them. ‘Not my children being turned into props for your Highland fantasy bullshit.’

The words struck, yanking the breath right out of her. Yes, this was a commission. And no, she wasn’t entirely on board with the brief. And yes, maybe using that picture was a bit of a grey area. But fantasy bullshit? Was that what he thought of her work? After everything they’d shared, talking about dreams and fears and hopes?

‘What else am I supposed to think?’ He paced up and down. ‘We’re all just characters in your story, aren’t we? Props for your photos. The charming locals, the sexy postie, the cute kids. A backdrop. Perfect for your portfolio. Not real, you’ve said so yourself.’

‘Fuck you.’ Her voice cracked. ‘You haven’t even seen the pictures. I would never—’

‘I don’t need to.’ He stopped, facing her. ‘I know how this works. You’ll polish everything up, make it all pretty and perfect. Then you’ll fuck off back to London—‘

‘Stop. You can’t accuse me of—’

‘Of what? Using us?’ The warmth had drained from his gaze like water down a storm drain. ‘That’s exactly what you’re doing.’

‘No! Jack, no.’ She grabbed her laptop, fingers trembling as she pulled up the photos. ‘Look. Actually look.’

The screen lit up with images. Frosty gazebo. Twinkling lights. And there – three small figures, backs to the camera, red hair catching the light. Hands in the cookie dough, flour dusting the air like snow.

‘See?’ Her voice softened. ‘If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t recognise them. They could be anyone’s children. I would never exploit them, Jack. Never! Your kids were safe with me,’ she continued, softer now. ‘I would never… I saw something beautiful that day. A father with his kids, making memories. Real moments. Not posed, not fake. Just…love.’

‘But—’

‘And perhaps I wanted to capture that. To show the world that sometimes the most extraordinary things are the simplest ones. But you’d know that if you’d bothered to talk to me instead of running away and going AWOL.’

‘I’ve not…’ He stared at the screen, something flickering across his face. ‘It doesn’t matter. You should have asked.’

‘I did! You signed—’

‘…a general release!’ He stepped back, knuckles dragging a frustrated path across his forehead.

‘You know what, Jack? You’re right. I should have asked properly.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I…I thought I had. I’m sorry. Would’ve been different if you could see their faces, of course. But you can’t, they could be anyone’s—’

‘Jesus, Trish! Melissa’s already on me about being a proper dad. If this magazine thing backfires, I’m fucked. These aren’t anyone’s children. These are my kids.’

‘And I respect that.’ She closed the laptop. ‘But you’re not really angry about the photo, are you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’re angry because I’m going back.’ She flung the words between them like a challenge. ‘Because it’s easier to push me away than face—’

‘Face what?’ His voice was razor-sharp. ‘That this was supposed to be a bit of fun and then became…? That you were never going to stay?’

The pain blossomed in her chest like frost patterns on the window pane. ‘You never asked me to.’

‘Because I’m not an arse. I would never stand in your way. And would it even have mattered?’

‘You didn’t even try!’ Her voice broke. ‘You decided I wasn’t worth it without even talking to me.’

‘Worth it—’ He cut himself off and barked out a sound that was half growl, half snort. ‘You’re the one who said this wasn’t real.’

‘Because you’ve made it crystal-clear from the start that you didn’t want it to be!’ Her eyes stung, and a burn prickled under her lashes. ‘When I got close, you pulled away. Like I wasn’t good enough.’

‘Good enough?’ Jack’s face twisted. ‘You’re the one with the fancy degree and the big dreams. You’re too good for me. I’m just a postie with a viral photo.’

‘No.’ Trish’s hands trembled as she shoved the blouse into her suitcase. ‘You don’t get to do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘This!’ She gestured between them. ‘Barge in here and put on a pissed-off show when you’re the one who’s been avoiding me.’

Jack’s adjusted his weight. ‘That’s not—’

‘Don’t.’ Trish held up a hand. ‘Just don’t. You want to talk about using people? Fine. Let’s talk about your notorious shagging, shall we?’

The words lingered between them as if they’d been etched into the air. Jack’s face went blank, that carefully constructed mask she’d seen him wear with others sliding into place.

‘Low blow. And that’s not the same.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Her laugh splintered. ‘You’re pretty good at taking what you need yourself.’

Jack flinched like she’d slapped him.

Good. Let him hurt, too.

He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in spikes. ‘Christ, Trish. You can’t—’

‘Can’t what?’ She lifted her chin. ‘Can’t care? Can’t want more than being your convenient holiday shag?’

The truth escaped like a sob she’d held too long, exposing more than she’d meant to. But she’d been strangling it down for weeks. She blazed with a fury that had nowhere to go but back into herself, punishment for the elaborate fiction she’d constructed: that this could ever be just sex.

‘Trish, that’s not what this was. I don’t know what—’ His voice cracked. ‘Fuck, you know that’s not—’

‘Do I?’ Trish adjusted her glasses, a nervous habit. ‘I don’t know anything anymore. I thought…’ She hated how uncertain she sounded.

Silence became a third presence. Outside, hail tapped against the window like nature itself was trying to break through their standoff.

‘I can’t—’ Jack’s shoulders slumped. ‘Look at me, Trish. I’m a postie who plays in a shite band. I deliver other people’s dreams in brown paper packages. I live in my aunt’s crappy old house.’ He gestured at himself. ‘You’ve got exhibitions and magazine spreads and a whole world waiting. I can barely keep my own life together, let alone…’ His voice cracked like thin ice. ‘And the kids need stability. Their mum’s already on my case about being a proper dad. One wrong move and she’ll…’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t go anywhere, and I can’t… You’re too talented.’

Trish’s hands shook as she folded the same shirt for the third time. She’d spent her whole life trying because she was never enough. And here was Jack, assuming she was too good for him? The irony would be funny if it didn’t touch that sore, broken place inside her that had never healed.

‘So you push me away instead? That’s your solution?’

His attempt at a casual shrug failed. ‘Better than watching people realise they’ve outgrown this place. Outgrown—’ He stopped himself, jaw tight. ‘It’s complicated.’

Trish’s eyes met his, her vision swimming. ‘You don’t say.’

For a heartbeat, something vulnerable flashed across Jack’s face. Then it hardened, vanishing like frost under fire.

‘Face it, Trish. We both knew the script from the start.’ He slowly retreated toward the door. ‘You’ll return to your world of art and galleries. Me? I’m anchored here. Parcels to deliver, kids to raise. You were never going to stay, and you know it.’

But that was the thing.

She didn’t know.

Trish hadn’t realised until right now how thin the line was between the shiny bauble of a steady job and an alternative she’d never seriously considered. What if he’d simply asked her to stay? Not dramatically, not with grand promises, but simply: stay. What if, beneath her narrative of ambition, there’d been a willingness to consider?

But he hadn’t asked. And now, with each breath, that microscopic space of potential was closing, sealing itself shut like a wound.

He hadn’t asked because he didn’t want to.

The truth burned against her tongue, metallic and urgent, as she met his gaze. ‘No, Jack. Maybe it’s you who decided I wouldn’t stay.’

He’d already turned around. The door opened. Closed. His footsteps faded down the corridor.

Trish stood in the silence, each heartbeat jarring like it was trying to crack through bone. She’d tried to be perfect, to prove herself, to make everything right. But in the end, none of it mattered.

It never did.

Her phone vibrated. Seraphina, probably with more feedback. More demands for fucking magic.

Fuck off.

Trish grabbed her suitcase, stuffing in the last of her clothes. The fabric of her dreams was unravelling, threads of ambition tangling with threads of love until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

She’d come to Kilcranach looking for a story. Instead, she’d found something much, much bigger. And lost it in the same breath.

When she was done packing, she took her suitcase and put on her coat. The door closed behind her with a soft click. No dramatic slam, no thundering echo. Just the quiet sound of an ending.