Chapter 2

Chapter Two

J ack MacGregor wondered if he’d lost control of his kitchen or his life.

The aroma of burnt toast hung in the air, mingling with the sweet scent of spilt orange juice and the faint, lingering odour of week-old tiny football socks. Jack surveyed the scene of utter carnage that was his kitchen with a weary sigh.

Beth was decorating a slice of toast with bits of cheddar, her seven-year-old creativity in full swing as she turned it into an inedible masterpiece. Jack Jr., two years older and ever the serious one, was glued to a YouTube video about the latest Nerf gun, oblivious to the sticky puddle of juice spreading across the table. And Phil, a whirlwind of energy for a lad of five, was using his spoons to pound out a chaotic rhythm on the battered cereal box.

Let him. Maybe he becomes a Topper Headon one day.

A vintage concert poster for The Clash hung crookedly above a sink full of dishes. Next to it, a novelty apron declaring ‘Kiss the Cook’ dangled from a nearby hook and collected dust. Jack’s eyes flicked to the calendar on the fridge, its surface a jumble of scribbled appointments and custody schedules. Three years, and the sight of Melissa’s swirly handwriting still made his stomach clench. One week on, one week off – a rhythm as familiar now as the beat of his favourite songs. And even that had been a battle.

He grabbed a magnet shaped like a guitar pick, pinning a new permission slip next to a photo of the kids at Craig’s summer barbecue. Melissa’s new bloke, real estate agent, all teeth and charm, with a big house in the next village. Close enough to co-parent, far enough to avoid running into them. And not on his daily route. Small blessings.

‘Right, you lot,’ Jack announced. ‘Two minutes to finish up. Or Santa’s bringing you sprouts instead of presents.’

As expected, the threat had zero effect. Jack Jr. continued his Nerf gun assault on the living room wall. Beth defiantly took a bite of her toast masterpiece, while Phil’s drumming on the kitchen table intensified.

‘Oi! Ya wee monsters!’ Jack raised his voice, a hint of exasperation creeping in. ‘I mean it!’

Jack Jr. fired one last foam dart, narrowly missing a framed family photo. ‘Aye, Da, but I’m practising my aim!’

‘And I’m not done with my toast,’ Beth chimed in, her chin smeared with mayonnaise.

Phil’s rhythmic pounding continued unabated.

Jack ran a hand through his short, dishevelled hair. ‘That’s it. No Christmas presents for the lot of you.’

This finally got their attention. Three pairs of wide eyes locked onto him.

‘You wouldn’t,’ Jack Jr. gasped, lowering his Nerf gun.

‘Try me, pal.’ Jack crossed his arms and attempted his best stern dad face. It was a bluff, of course, but he needed some semblance of control over the morning chaos.

Beth’s lower lip trembled. ‘But Da, Santa wouldn’t forget us, would he?’

Jack Jr. rolled his eyes. He was in on the truth, but he’d promised not to tell his siblings.

Jack’s resolve softened at his daughter’s worried expression. He crouched down beside her, wiping the smear of mayonnaise off her face. ‘Course not, darlin’. Santa knows you’re good weans…most of the time.’ He winked, eliciting a giggle from Beth. ‘But I’m the postie here, so I’m crucial to the gifts getting delivered – or not. Santa can’t do it all on his own. Now, come on.’ He stood up and clapped his hands. ‘Let’s move it!’

Jack adored his kids, but sometimes their boundless energy felt like a small army invading his world of comfortable chaos. And he had little authority over them. Occasionally it worked, though. Like now. The kitchen erupted into a flurry of activity as the three children scrambled to finish breakfast and gather their things. Jack navigated the obstacle course of backpacks and toys.

This was the busiest time of year for him. And Melissa had promised she’d take the menace this week on top of the next to help him. They should’ve been with her until the thirteenth. But then her plans had gone to pot, so now it was back to the usual ping-pong of schedules. The next handover was in two days, Friday after school. Jack rubbed his temples, a headache brewing.

A quick shag would take the edge off.

Yes, he was a part-time dad. But he wasn’t only a dad. And he wasn’t only Kilcranach’s postie. He was also a man.

A free man.

A free man with an appetite.

After breaking free from the shackles of his miserable marriage three years ago, Jack had dived dick-first into a smorgasbord of sexual pleasures. Each romp felt like reclaiming a piece of his soul from the dusty corners of monogamy, filling the void left by years of routine and endless, caustic fights.

Because occasional hate-fucks are a lot less fun than they might sound. Even if they produce adorable mini-mes.

No strings, no expectations, just a parade of consenting partners. He’d become a regular on the dating app, swiping his way through Oban, Fort William, and even Inverness on his days off. The thrill of sneaking out of hotels and bedrooms, the satisfaction of leaving before the post-coital awkwardness set in. No messy feelings, no promises he couldn’t keep with his fingers crossed behind his back. Nothing but unadulterated adult fun.

After years of not making Melissa happy, Jack had discovered that he had a bit of a talent when it came to getting women off, leaving a trail of trembling thighs in his wake. He was a proud craftsman.

But lately… something was off. He couldn’t muster the energy to gorge on the usual buffet of potential shags. He hadn’t so much as looked at the app since…

Hazelbrae’s grand opening.

Which wasn’t quite accurate. Or at least not the whole truth.

Not since Trish Whitmore.

Aye, he remembered her full name. And that wasn’t the only thing he remembered.

Wild curls tickling his chest, breathless laughter when he’d fumbled with her bra in that cramped linen closet, those honey-browns wide and hazy in the dim light as she’d looked up at him over her shoulder, the sight of her bent over…

But not just that.

Something about her had knocked him off-kilter that day. Maybe it was how she’d rambled on about light and apertures with tipsy enthusiasm, or the way she’d snorted mid-laugh when he’d made a terrible pun. She’d been unguarded, passionate about her art, a bit awkward, wearing her insecurities and enthusiasms right there on her sleeve. No games, no performance. And for a guy who’d figured out young that letting people see the real you was an open invitation to getting stomped on – her raw authenticity had hit him so hard he’d been counting constellations for days.

He’d sent her a text after that night, a casual, ‘That was fun.’

Massively underplaying it there, son.

No reply. Radio silence. The memory of her ghosting him stung like a thousand paper cuts on his ego, and he didn’t know why.

Your loss, lass.

Still, ever since that party, his dick seemed to have developed a discerning palate. Jack tried to shake off thoughts of her. It had just been another hook-up. Casual was safer. Casual was easier. Casual was his thing.

Not to speak of the uncomfortable fact that this was his best friend’s girlfriend’s best friend. Far too close to home for his taste. Jack scrubbed his chin, still unsure why he’d thrown his ‘keep it ootside the village’ rule to the wind for her. Could get far too complicated far too fast. So, he’d probably dodged a bullet there.

Yet there was one detail that nagged at him worse than Melissa’s constant antics: he hadn’t made Trish come.

Him. The man who prided himself on his ability to reduce women to quivering, satisfied puddles. To give them what they yearned for. It was a splinter in his finger, irritating and impossible to ignore. He’d replay their encounter, searching for where he’d gone wrong. Yes, they’d been interrupted. But it shouldn’t have taken that long in the first place. Had he been too pished? Perhaps that’s why she’d disappeared, didn’t give him the chance to…what? Make it right?

Dinnae be daft, man. It was a quickie, not a bloody fairy tale.

But it fucking bothered him. And made him want to pin her against the nearest wall and prove himself all over again.

Part of him wondered what might’ve happened if they hadn’t been interrupted. Jack shook his head. That was a thing of the past. A fun slip-up with an imperfect ending. He had more relevant fish to fry right now – like getting three kids out the door without losing his sanity in the process.

‘Right, ya wee terrors. Time to move your bums before I turn into the Grinch and cancel Christmas myself!’

He herded the kids towards the door, dodging stray Lego bricks like landmines. As he manoeuvred Phil’s arms into his coat sleeves, Jack caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror. He looked rough. Hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, five-day stubble, and bags under his eyes that could carry the weekly messages.

The joys of fatherhood.

Jack grabbed his postie jacket, patting the pockets to make sure he had his keys and phone. No time for a proper shave or even a comb through his disaster of a mop.

Could be worse, I could be working in an office. And still be married.