Chapter 6

Chapter Six

J ack tugged at the scratchy white beard, wondering for the umpteenth time how he’d let Marla talk him into this Santa gig. One day after the annual Christmas ceilidh no less. He was socially hungover, tired, overworked, and underfucked.

The memory of last night’s encounter with Trish struck him like an avalanche, crashing down before he had a chance to brace himself.

Not that he had thought of much else since then.

Christ, the way she’d melted against him. The curve of her hip under his palm, the little gasp she’d made when he’d pushed her against the wall. His mouth went bone-dry like he’d swallowed a handful of sand. It had been reckless, snogging her like that. Stupid. But the way she’d looked at him, all wide-eyed and wanting…

A heavy thud landed just below Jack’s sternum, a reminder he wasn’t as invincible as he thought. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d cocked things up somehow.

He groaned inwardly.

At least the kids were still with Melissa now until next week. He missed them – the giggles, the endless questions, and the constant faffin’ aboot that made the house feel alive – but it was nice to have some peace. Externally, at least.

Only now, he was the climbing frame for all the children of Kilcranach and the surrounding area.

But Jack simply couldn’t say no to Marla. No one could – least of all Niall. That bloke had been a goner for her the second she’d set foot into this tiny town. Jack smiled beneath his fake beard. Niall deserved this happiness. About time that daft bugger found someone who properly appreciated him. He’d been through enough shite with losing his da, his wife, and all that. And seeing his pal so besotted with Marla was brilliant.

The smile faded, and Jack’s thoughts turned inward, a familiar heaviness settling in his chest as he confronted the messy reality of his life – a divorced dad pushing forty.

This is it, mate. A washed-up postie’s small-town life.

Gwen sidled up, dressed as a Christmas elf. She’d traded her usual black, pointy hat for a red Christmas one and even sported elf ears.

‘Och, what’s with the face?’ She winked at him. ‘Cheer up, Santa.’

‘Piss off,’ Jack grumbled, though there was no edge to it. This was Gwen, after all. Petite, sweet, and only in her mid-twenties, but never to be messed with in any way, shape, or form.

‘I look like a twat.’

‘Aye, but a jolly twat.’ Gwen adjusted his fake belly. ‘Now smile and spread some Christmas magic. The children are watching.’

Jack plastered on what he hoped was a convincing ‘Ho ho ho’ grin. Who was he kidding? He was a part-time dad who could barely keep his own life together, let alone play Santa to a bunch of starry-eyed, sticky-fingered children. What right did he have to promise them anything? Wasn’t gonna happen anyway.

Jack surveyed the winter festival sprawling across the Hazelbrae gardens, feeling like he’d walked into a Hallmark movie. The makeshift grotto – a hodgepodge of hay bales, fairy lights, and what looked suspiciously like Niall’s old armchair – stood out like a sore thumb against Hazelbrae’s elegant facade. Festive lights twinkled in the bare branches of ancient oaks and evergreen pines. The cold air smelled of mulled wine, cake, and a whiff of desperation. Or maybe that was just him, trapped in this itchy Santa suit.

Marla and Mrs Bellbottom had gone all out for Hazelbrae’s first Christmas Village Fair, transforming the grounds into a festive dream. Stalls, covered in red and white striped tarpaulin, stood on the frosty grass, hawking everything from knitted scarves to Mrs McTavish’s infamous shortbread, guaranteed to chip a tooth.

There was a charm to it all, though. Familiar faces bustled about, cheeks ruddy from the cold and the generous servings of Niall’s mulled cider. Mrs Bellbottom fussed over a group of children, handing out steaming cups of hot chocolate. For all her eccentricities, his former teacher had a heart of gold. And Marla flitted from stall to stall like a Christmas fairy on speed. He’d never admit it out loud, but their efforts to bring the community together warmed his shrivelled little heart.

It almost – almost – made up for the fact that he was sweating his baws off in this ridiculous red polyester suit.

‘What in God’s name have I got myself into?’ He eyed the growing queue of overly excited children. A gaggle of mums huddled nearby, giggling and throwing not-so-subtle glances his way.

Naw, thanks, ladies. I’m awright.

He’d tried to keep his escapades strictly elsewhere. This was his community. He was their postie. God forbid, what would happen if… Whispers spreading like wildfire through Kilcranach’s gossip mill. Hushed voices and knowing looks as he made his rounds. A cold weight settled deep in Jack’s guts at the thought. It wasn’t just about keeping his reputation intact. No, it ran deeper than that. The idea of mucking it up, of becoming the local pariah, pulled an icy scrape down his back.

He almost heard his aunt’s disapproving tsk. ‘Jack MacGregor, what would your mother think?’

Christ, as if he needed that ghost rattling around in his head. As if his maw had ever thought about anyone or anything but herself and the bevvy.

Don’t go there. Not now.

Twenty-nine years ago. He pushed the thought away. Now, he was Jack the postie – good for a laugh, keeping everyone at arm’s length while staying close enough to belong. The last thing he needed was trouble fucking up the life he’d built here. Better to keep his dick adventures to places where he was another face in the crowd. No expectations, no disappointed looks. No risk of running into anyone at the shops, or worse, delivering their mail the next day.

He couldn’t afford gossip getting back to Melissa. The 50/50 custody truce was precarious enough as it was. Jack Jr. had been an accident, Beth an attempt to make the family feel whole, and Phil the last-ditch effort to save it. And when it had all fallen apart, Melissa hadn’t seen him as fit to be a father. That’s why she’d pushed for full custody.

Maybe she hadn’t been completely wrong. Jack knew he’d made mistakes. But he loved his kids more than anything in the world, and the thought of losing time with them ripped his heart out, plain and simple. They’d eventually found a balance. For now.

‘If it isn’t Kilcranach’s very own Saint Jack.’

That voice. It knocked something loose in him, like missing a step on the stairs. Trish sauntered up, camera in hand. She looked fucking edible in a chunky knit jumper, curls peeking out from beneath a reindeer headband.

‘The opposite of a Saint.’

Trish adjusted her glasses, cheeks flushing. ’Oh, I know.’

He coughed. ‘Come to capture my descent into seasonal madness?’

‘Just documenting the event.’ Her eyes darted everywhere but his face.

‘I see. Because nothing says “Christmas spirit” like a sweaty postie in a dodgy beard.’

Trish lifted her camera, and his gaze zeroed in on the slight indent of her bottom lip, where she’d clearly been worrying it with her teeth.

Click.

‘I couldn’t resist. Um…because this is prime blackmail material.’

Jake’s mouth hooked upward. ‘This is some seriously mail icious intent.’

She snorted, then caught herself. ‘A postie making mail jokes.’

‘It’s all about the delivery.’

Her laugh burst out, warm and genuine like a bass string plucked just right.

‘It’s not that bad. The beard, I mean. Really brings out your eyes.’ Her gaze lingered on his mouth for a heartbeat too long before snapping back up.

‘Och, I feel like a joke.’

‘Jack, relax. You’re a postie. You wear a silly red outfit every day.’

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders. Their banter felt easy, natural. Jack squashed the warmth blooming in his chest.

‘Aye, but I don’t normally have this much padding.’ He patted his foam-stuffed belly for emphasis. ‘Or quite so many weans clamouring for my attention. I’m used to three max.’

Trish lowered her camera. The lens cap dangled precariously, and he had to fight the impulse to secure it for her.

‘Don’t you have some artsy shots to take?’ he deflected. ‘Go on, capture the magic of mulled wine and kids hopped up on sugar.’

Trish laughed again, the sound doing funny things to his insides. ‘Alright, alright.’ She winked – actually winked – before disappearing into the crowd.

Jack watched her go, admiring the way she moved through the festival. She meandered from stall to stall, camera raised, slipping in and out of moments like a ghost. She was almost invisible to others.

Not to him, though.

Trish captured small moments most people would miss. The way Janet Bellbottom’s eyes crinkled when she laughed. The look of joy on a toddler’s face as they bit into a candied apple. Hamish McTavish sneaking a nip from his hip flask when he thought no one was looking.

That again.

Once or twice, Jack had considered saying something to Hamish, but it wasn’t his place. Alcoholism was an epidemic in Scotland, and Jack had a bit of a genetic disposition for addiction. The last thing he wanted was to end up like his maw, especially with three kids. It was why he usually kept his intake under control and why last night’s two beers had been one too many.

Jack kept watching Trish weave through the crowd. The way she held herself apart… Observing but never taking part, never joining in. It rubbed him the wrong way.

A pull on his synthetic beard snapped Jack back to reality as an eager wee face peered up at him. ‘Santa!’ A small voice piped up.

Right. Back to the job at hand.

‘Ho, ho, ho, young Grant!’

The boy hesitated. ‘Do I no ken you fae somewhere?’

The afternoon wore on in a blur of sticky fingers, biscuit crumbles, and increasingly outlandish Christmas wishes.

‘A real, live unicorn? Aye, I’ll see what I can do, pal.’

Jack was just about ready to call it quits when he spotted a tiny figure hovering at the edge of the grotto. Iona Moretti, a little girl of five, clutched a crumpled piece of paper in her tiny fist. Her eyes were wide with wonder and trepidation. Her parents stood a few yards away, having a chat with Eddie.

Iona took a hesitant step forward, then froze. He knew that look; it was the same one Beth got when she was overwhelmed. Before he could say anything, a flash caught his eye. Trish materialised next to the Moretti girl, kneeling down to her level.

‘Hello there,’ Trish said softly. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Iona,’ she whispered.

‘That’s a beautiful name. I bet Santa would love to hear it.’ Trish’s voice was warm and patient. ‘Do you want to show him your list?’

Iona nodded, still uncertain.

‘How about we go together?’ Trish held out her hand. ‘I’ll be right there with you.’

Jack watched, transfixed, as Trish gently led Iona towards him. The tenderness in her eyes, the easy way she connected with the child… It stirred something in him, a buried ache. A fleeting image of stable family life, of lazy Sunday mornings and bedtime stories and lots of people around one big table.

He swatted the thought aside like an annoying fly.

Naw. Been there, done that. Didn’t work. That ship has sailed. Stick to what you know, MacGregor.

But as Iona climbed onto his lap, her small hand still clutching Trish’s, something warm and stubborn lodged itself in Jack’s chest.

Trish smiled, her camera forgotten at her side. For a moment, their eyes met over Iona’s head. Something passed between them. And whatever it was, it sent his pulse skipping.

‘Freedom!’ Jack declared, peeling off the itchy beard. He was undressing in Hazelbrae’s salon, surrounded by the detritus of his Santa costume. ‘Sweet fucking freedom.’

A soft snort from the doorway made him whirl around. Trish leaned against the frame, camera dangling from her neck, eyebrow arched in amusement. ‘Tad dramatic, don’t you think, Braveheart?’

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware he was half-naked. Luckily, only the top half.

‘Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one wrapped in synthetic fur all day.’

Trish’s eyes dropped to his chest, then quickly away. ‘Poor Santa baby,’ she teased, but her voice held a hint of breathlessness.

‘Careful there.’ He aimed for casual and missed by a mile. ‘Your perverted tendencies are showing.’

Trish rolled her eyes, but her cheeks darkened. ‘Please. I’m a professional.’

‘Aye, a professional perv.’

Her laugh eased the awkward tension. ‘You wish, Postman Pat.’ She raised her camera. ‘Hold still. I want to capture this…transformation.’

Jack leaned against the wall, half-closing his eyes, and grinned. ‘From jolly Saint Nick to village heartthrob in one easy step, eh?’

‘More like village comic,’ Trish muttered, but her smile was fond.

The camera clicked as she moved around him. Jack felt oddly exposed, and not just because of his state of undress. He didn’t like being photographed, though it was less intrusive with her.

‘So,’ he said, desperate to fill the silence. ‘Enjoying your Highland Christmas season?’

Trish lowered the camera. ‘It’s…different. Good different.’

‘We do know how to throw a party.’

‘That you do.’ She paused. ‘Jack, I—’

The salon door burst open, Marla’s voice cutting through whatever Trish had been about to say. ‘There you are! I need help with the— Oh!’

Jack grabbed his shirt, suddenly feeling like a teenager who got busted making out behind the bike sheds. ‘Just, uh, de-Santafying.’

Marla’s gaze flicked between them. ‘I see. Well, when you’re done, we could use a hand in the kitchen.’ She retreated and left them in awkward silence.

‘Right.’ Trish rubbed at an invisible smudge on her camera body. ‘I should go and help.’

‘Aye, me too. Have to pick up the menace.’ Along with the last bit of his dignity.