Chapter 3

Chapter Three

F ucking Christmas.

Jack’s van rattled down the winding road to Hazelbrae House. The steering wheel juddered under his hands as he was drumming the Beatles’ Tomorrow Never Knows with his fingers. It was a rare braw day, sunny with a sparkling layer of frost over every surface. But a mountain of parcels and envelopes teetered precariously on the passenger seat, threatening to avalanche with each pothole.

Jack groaned, remembering the upcoming Christmas ceilidh at the Blue Bonnet this Friday. Gwen had roped him and the others into playing with the band again. Not that he minded, really. Music made him forget about his life. But the thought of grinning through another performance in three days felt like one more thing pulling at him right now.

The castle’s blonde sandstone walls gleamed through the neatly trimmed ivy. The mullion windows, big and old, stared down like they had stories to tell. The late eighteenth century country house looked impressive – clean, sturdy, and a bit intimidating – but not cold. It felt lived in, like someone cared about every stone and shutter. Hadn’t always been the case, but Marla had turned the place around in less than a year. Now it was a bed-and-breakfast and a retreat for healthcare workers.

This was the longest driveway of his route, but worth the trek for the view alone.

As Jack pulled into the sweeping approach of the old manor house, the unusual stillness struck him. No Marla pottering about, no guests milling around the entrance.

He hopped out, snatching up the towering stack of post and parcels that threatened to spill from his arms. The pile reached well above his eye line, he saw fuck all. Still, he’d walked this path hundreds of times. Little bend, three steps up to the front door, piece of cake.

The stack wobbled in his arms as he navigated the frosty gravel. ‘Right, let’s get this over—‘ The words died in his throat as his foot connected with something squishy and solid.

Time slowed. The parcels launched skyward in a graceful arc. His arms windmilled. The ground rushed up to meet him as letters rained down like confetti.

‘FUCK!’

He crashed onto something that definitely wasn’t gravel. Something warm and soft that went ‘oof’.

‘Ouch! What the—’ A voice squeaked beneath him.

Jack blinked, finding himself on top of…

Trish.

Holy shit.

He froze, every nerve ending on high alert. Warmth radiated through her joggers, and her lush arse was nestled right against his groin like it was custom made to fit there. Jack’s cock twitched at the sensation. And the memory.

‘Bloody hell. Trying to give a man a heart attack?’

Trish squirmed beneath him, sending a hungry jolt through his system. ‘ You ran me over?’

Jesus, he needed to move. It was hard to concentrate on untangling himself when the faint scent of her shampoo was messing with his head. And his dick.

‘Right, sorry.’ Jack scrambled to his feet, adjusting himself as discreetly as possible. He offered her a hand up, wincing as his scraped knee stung.

Damn shorts.

Her hands flew to her camera, cradled against her chest. ‘Shit, please be okay…’

She ran her fingers over the camera’s sleek body. The lens cap had popped off. A second later, she let out a sigh of relief. Only then did she yank out her earbuds and look at him, eyes widening behind her glasses. ‘Oh, hi. Wow. That was…unexpected.’

She fidgeted with the camera, cheeks crimson. Was she flustered because of their collision, or…? His mind flashed to his unanswered text, then to his semi against her arse just moments ago. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to read her expression, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. The morning frost suddenly felt like a blessing against his burning skin.

She flicked bits of gravel from her joggers. ‘Didn’t hear you coming. When I’m behind the camera, I forget what’s going on around me. Especially with the earbuds.’

Jack stood there, gawping like an idiot, self-consciousness creeping up his spine.

‘What are you doing here?’ they asked in unison.

He cleared his throat. ‘You know, uh, delivering the mail. As you can tell by my uniform. And what brings you back to this neck of the woods?’

‘Got in last night. Marla needs help with some promo shots.’

‘Ah. And how long are you gonna be in town?’

‘Just a week or so,’ she said.

‘I see.’

Her coat was open. Jack’s gaze dropped to where her sweatshirt had ridden up, revealing a tempting strip of skin. Very soft skin. He yanked his eyes away, focusing on the chaos of scattered mail. ‘This is gonna take a while to sort.’

‘Here, let me help.’ Trish crouched down, gathering envelopes.

‘No need, I’ve got it.’

‘Nonsense! I was in your way.’

Their hands touched as they reached for the brown paper package. The touch set off tiny sparks, like striking flint against steel, and Jack yanked his hand back. Her fingers were still there, hovering over the parcel. The spot where they’d connected tingled. It was just a brush, so why did his pulse feel like it was trying to escape through his neck?

He gave a lopsided grin to cover the moment. ‘Careful, Shutterbug. Don’t want to go breaking any fragile post on my watch.’

Jack’s focus stayed glued to the letters, desperate to ignore the way her presence seemed to wrap around him. The air between them buzzed with unsaid things, a pressure cooker waiting to pop. His knee started to throb, a little reminder of that humiliating dive he’d taken minutes ago. The sorting dragged on in a silence that wasn’t just awkward. It was a brick wall so thick he could’ve drilled a shelf into it.

Speaking of drilling and shelves…

Stop it, man.

Her thoughts went in the same direction.

‘Jack, I—’ Trish started, then faltered. ‘About that night, why I—’

‘Nae bother. Water under the bridge.’ He cut her off and plastered on his signature grin. Took some effort. ‘No need to make it weird. We had fun once, why make it messy?’

But then there she was, the same woman who’d had him tongue-tied with a single smile the second he’d laid eyes on her. The woman whose realness and fire had thrown him completely off balance.

Trish’s face fell slightly, but she nodded. ‘Right. Of course. Yeah.’

‘Marla in?’

‘Yes, she’s inside the house.’ Trish picked a pine needle off her coat. ‘I’m taking some winter shots for the website. You know, all that arty stuff.’

‘So you’ve said.’ Jack nodded, trying to keep his eyes from wandering to the sliver of stomach exposed as she moved.

‘I have, haven’t I? Maybe I have a concussion.’

Jack’s throat tightened. Shite, she was cute – like a clumsy kitten trying to act cool and calm. She wasn’t, though. Her glasses kept sliding down her nose. He had to fight the urge to reach out and push them back up for her.

‘Well, I’d better get a move on… Can’t keep the good people of Kilcranach waiting for their Christmas stuff.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘This week’s been mad with the kids, and now I’m getting knocked over by stray photographers.’

‘Yes, absolutely. Go on, Postman Pat,’ Trish said, her eyes lingering a beat too long. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

‘See you around, Shutterbug.’

Jack’s mind raced as he approached Hazelbrae’s front door, his body on autopilot. How she’d felt pressed against him, all soft curves… and how they’d been interrupted before she’d finished. If only… No. Nope. He didn’t do repeats, and he certainly didn’t do complicated. He’d spent years carefully cultivating his circle. It worked. And Trish? She was Marla’s best mate, which made her firmly off-limits.

Christ, just imagine the awkward dinners if things went tits up.

He’d seen enough relationships implode. His own marriage had been a masterclass in how to properly bollock things up.

Plus she lived in Edinburgh or London or wherever. Might as well be on Mars.

But as he knocked on the door, waiting for Marla to answer, his traitorous mind wandered. What if he just…

Bad idea. Fucked-up idea. The kind of idea that led to hurt feelings and disappointed friends. He’d already dipped his wick where he shouldn’t have once. Doing it again would be asking for trouble.

But it still royally pissed him off that she hadn’t…

Get over it, knobhead.

Marla’s voice floated from inside, calling out that she’d be there in a minute. Jack shifted his weight, acutely aware of Trish’s presence. He felt her gaze burning into his back. Or maybe that was just his overactive imagination.

The door swung open, revealing a frazzled-looking Marla. ‘Jack! Thank God, I’ve been waiting for these.’

He handed over the stack of mail, forcing a grin. ‘Aye, special delivery for the lady of the manor. Though I think your photographer might be more interested in capturing the local wildlife than the house.’

Marla rolled her eyes. ‘She’s been out there since dawn. I swear, nothing gets between that woman and her camera.’

Jack gave a dry laugh, the sound barely making it past his throat. ‘Duty calls. Places to go, post to deliver, you know how it is. Busiest time of year. Ta!’

As he turned to leave, his gaze drifted to Trish. She was crouched by a flower bed, her camera pointed at something he couldn’t see. As if she was actively trying to look busy. Jack hurried back to his van. He had a job to do and kids to pick up later. No time for complicated women with eyes that saw too much.

As he drove away, the rough leather of the wheel bit into his palms. Jack gripped tighter, willing his body to behave and his mind to focus on literally anything else.

Fucking Christmas indeed.