Chapter 4

Chapter Four

T he joy in the room was real, but Trish felt like she was borrowing it.

The Blue Bonnet pulsed with Christmas cheer, a swirl of belly laughs, and clinking pints. Fiona’s fiddle had Trish’s foot tapping under the sticky table. The pub sprawled in a straight line, a series of rooms strung together like beads on a thread. Fairy lights blinked above like drunken fireflies. The place reeked of mulled wine, pine twigs, and what Trish could only categorise as unbridled Scottish fun. The air thrummed with it, thick enough to taste, like a shot of something bold that burned all the way down.

The ceilidh in the back room was in full swing. Gwen’s parents, visiting from Alicante, whirled across the worn floorboards in the back room. Sylvia Bellbottom’s silver hair glinted in the light as she twirled with William Collins. The solicitor had loosened his bow tie and was cutting a nimble figure as he led her through a complicated reel.

And Marla… Oh boy, Marla was thriving .

Her skin glowed, and she laughed so hard she could barely keep up with the dance steps. Trish couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her friend this alive, this carefree. Like…ever.

Trish tried to share in the moment, to catch that same spark, but it danced just out of reach. A perfectly timed snapshot of what happiness should look like. Everyone seemed to belong. But her? A passing shadow on someone else’s canvas.

Two seats next to her, Kilcranach’s retired teacher Janet Bellbottom swayed on her barstool, wrapped in a leopard-print cardigan. Here in the front room, a trio of burly crofters in the corner belted out Robbie Williams’ Angels for some reason, the lyrics slurring into each other, drinks splashing as their arms waved dramatically and they kept hugging each other.

Trish leaned against the bar, the smooth surface grounding her as she cradled a ginger beer, the bottle slick with condensation. Her camera sat in her room in Hazelbrae. Marla had forced her to leave it behind. ‘You need to be in the picture tonight, not taking them.’

Inevitably, Trish’s gaze latched onto Jack on the makeshift stage, the double bass cradled between his thighs like she wished she was. His fingers danced over the strings, creating a beat that curled around her like smoke.

Jack’s roguish grin lit up the stage, his easy charm pulling her in. But she knew better. He’d made her feel things – things she wasn’t ready for. Ghosting him had been the shortcut to protecting herself, even if it meant leaving things unfinished.

And awkward AF.

Trish’s breath caught as she remembered their collision at Hazelbrae two days ago. Mortification crept up her spine like ivy. God, she’d been sprawled in the dirt on her stomach like a clumsy starfish.

Real dignified, Patricia Gabriela Lucia Velasco-Whitmore.

She still smelled the scent of his fresh aftershave mingling with frost-tinged air. That’s how she’d known it was him within a fraction of a second. That – and the hard, undeniable ridge pressing into her ass. She’d recognised that anywhere.

But the worst part? How her body had melted into his touch like butter on a hot scone. For one breathless moment, she’d wanted nothing more than to grind up on him, to feel that sweet pressure…

Trish took a long sip of her drink, hoping the cool liquid would douse the flames rising within her.

And then she kept staring at him through the door like some kind of creep.

Every laugh Jack shared with Niall on stage – and there were plenty – made his eyes crinkle and shimmer. The lights danced across his hair. Hazel shot through with gold and single threads of silver, gleaming like burnished wood. He was a year younger than Niall, so in his late thirties? They’d never talked age. Hadn’t mattered.

Trish bit her lip as she traced the strong line of his jaw. When Jack threw his head back, laughing deeply, the tendons in his neck flexed and he looked like a chiselled statue. She wanted to capture that shape in stark black and white. On analogue film, watch it slowly develop in a dark room. She still did that sometimes, even in this digital age.

As a photographer, Trish had long inhabited the background, a silent observer. She snared moments as they slipped through time, keeping them at arm’s length. That was her safe space, her place in life. Always the photographer, never in the photo. Through the lens was how the world made sense to her. But tonight? Tonight, she felt the pull of the present. A taut thread, just waiting to snap.

Nope .

No matter how much she ached to chase the orgasm Jack had almost lured out of her, no matter how she yearned to feel that again, it was a lost cause. Like trying to develop a perfect print from a roll of film exposed to the harsh light of reality.

If she crossed that line with Jack and things fell apart, there would be hell to pay. Her friendship with Marla could take a hit. What if it got so awkward she couldn’t face coming back up here? Worse, what if it caused tension between Marla and Niall, forcing them to pick sides? And Kilcranach was a tiny town. Word would spread, and while Trish could brush off gossip, it might stick to Marla, dragging Hazelbrae into the drama and damaging her business. After everything Marla had been through – the grief, the loss, the fight to rebuild her life – she deserved happiness and success. Not complications born of Trish’s poor choices and raging hormones.

No. It wasn’t worth the risk.

‘Alright there, hen?’ Gwen appeared in front of Trish, wiping the bar down with a grin that said , ‘I’ve already figured you out’ . Her emerald green hair was festooned with tinsel, making her look like some punk-rock Christmas elf. ‘You’ve been eyeing him like a steak pie since you sat down.’

Trish choked on her drink. ‘Um… What? No. I’m just taking it all in.’

‘Aye, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.’ Gwen snorted. ‘Keep telling yourself that, hen.’ She winked and sauntered off to serve another patron.

Gwen was right, of course. But Jack was Marla’s boyfriend’s friend, a divorced dad of three, a serial shagger. And Trish was reeling from her breakup. A lot less so now than three months ago, but still.

The band stopped for a break and Marla came prancing over to the bar in the front room, positively glowing.

‘You look so happy, it’s gross,’ Trish said with a smile.

‘I know. And I am. Kilcranach is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Other than you, of course. These weirdos… They are my family. Zero doubt.’

Trish flattened her tongue to the roof of her mouth and made a clicking sound. ‘And who knew you were such a light-footed dancer?’

‘Jesus, no! More of a motivated moose, making up for skill with enthusiasm. But it works.’ She leaned in to Trish’s ear. ‘Mr Collins gave me a few lessons. What about you? Are you enjoying your first ceilidh?’

Trish nodded. ‘Absolutely! Great party.’

Just a little fib.

Just then, Niall appeared behind Marla and snaked his arms around her. ‘Finally, I get to kiss my favourite groupie.’

They were so cute together, it was ridiculous.

And then he was there, too, and Trish’s stomach did a little flip. Jack was close enough that his arm almost touched hers, and the warmth of him seeped into her skin, even though they weren’t touching. It made her want to edge closer, just to see if that fire would spread.

Which she very much mustn’t.

‘Well, well, Shutterbug.’ Jack turned his head to face her. ‘Didn’t expect to see you in the Bonnet.’

‘Didn’t expect or didn’t dare to dream? It’s a small town. Where else would I be on a Friday night while I’m here?’

She told herself to focus on the music, on Marla’s laugh from across the room, on anything but the magnetic pull of his presence. Yes, they were bound to bump into each other. But did he have to be so…distractingly close?

‘Fair point.’ He signalled Gwen for a pint. ‘Enjoying the show?’

‘It’s not completely terrible.’ Trish fought a smile. ‘For a bunch of amateurs.’

Jack clutched his chest in mock offence. ‘You wound me. We’re basically the Beatles of Kilcranach.’

‘More like the Monkees.’

It was easy. Too easy to fall into the banter, the chemistry. She wasn’t looking for this. Except every time he smiled at her, certain parts of her seemed to graciously forget all about the repercussions.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘So, uh, how’s the photography going?’

She blinked, snapping out of her daze. ‘Oh, good. Yeah. Lots of…shots.’ She focused her eyes on her drink. ‘But sometimes I think I’m not cut out for this gig, you know? It feels like every job could be the one that proves I’m not good enough.’ She didn’t mean to say it – it just slipped out, like a secret she’d been keeping from even herself.

‘I’m no expert, but I highly doubt that. Marla mentioned you’ve been up at the crack of dawn every day.’

‘Early bird gets the picture of the worm.’ Trish lifted one shoulder. ‘The light’s best then.’

Jack’s eyes twinkled. ‘I remember. You were eager to get the right angle that morning.’

Before she was able to respond, a cheer went up from the crowd.

‘Awright, ya drunken numpties!’ Gwen bellowed, climbing atop the bar. ‘Time for a proper Christmas tradition! Kissy times!’

She waved a sprig of mistletoe over Niall and Marla’s heads. Not that those two lovebirds would’ve needed an incentive. Without waiting a split second, Niall kissed his woman. His brooding features softened with an affection so raw it was almost indecent, his hand cupping Marla’s cheek like it was the most precious porcelain.

Jesus, those two.

Next were the two Mrs Bellbottoms. ‘Dearie, we’ve been married for ages. We don’t need some overpriced greenery for a sneaky smooch.’

Gwen wiggled the twig. ‘It’s tradition. Nae excuse!’

They laughed and then their lips met – not for a chaste smooch, but a proper, full-throttle kiss – before they pulled back. A rosy flush bloomed on Sylvia’s cheeks, and Janet Bellbottom beamed.

‘Wooohooo!’ Marla cheered.

Then Gwen moved over to…Trish and Jack.

Oh no. No, no, no.

Gwen brandished the sprig like a weapon, her chipped tooth gleaming. ‘Pucker up, you lot!’

Trish’s hands curled reflexively at her sides. ‘Oh, we’re not—‘

But the crowd was already chanting, egged on by a tipsy Janet Bellbottom. ’Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’

Jack quirked an eyebrow and grinned. ‘What do you say, Shutterbug? For tradition’s sake? You don’t want to mess with the traditions here. Townsfolk tend to react badly to that.’

Trish’s heart hammered against her ribs. ‘Okay. If we must.’

‘Oh, you definitely must,’ Gwen said with a wink.

He leaned in, his lips drifting over hers in a chaste peck. And even that fleeting contact sent sparks skittering across Trish’s skin like flaming glitter. She pulled back, breathless, acutely aware of the pub’s eyes on them.

‘There,’ Jack said, his voice a touch husky. ‘Tradition preserved. All is well.’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. His low chuckle made her toes curl in her boots. He was still too close, radiating heat like a furnace. A measured step back, a casual glance around the pub, as if the raucous crowd held more fascination than the man beside her.

Nothing. It had been nothing. A feather-light dusting of lips, barely a whisper of contact. But a flare of excitement pulsed in her belly and refused to be snuffed out. She swept her fingertips over her lips. Half startled, half hoping to trap the feel of his kiss, to stop it from slipping into memory.

Don’t get involved, don’t touch him again. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

It was a silent mantra, but it wasn’t working. Trish let out a shaky breath. She needed air. Another ginger beer. And possibly a deep-dive into an ice bucket.