Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
T rish nestled into the overstuffed armchair, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. Her attic room at Hazelbrae was a cosy cocoon, all soft lamplight and antique charm. Frost silvered the windowpanes. The promised snow hadn’t arrived yet, but it was in the air. Ice crystals shimmered like powdered glass scattered across a velvet cloth.
Trish sipped her tea, scrolling through the day’s photos, each click a tiny time capsule of Kilcranach’s Christmas magic. A group of kids, faces smeared with chocolate, beamed up at the camera. Mrs Bellbottom, resplendent in her leopard coat, doled out hot cocoa with military precision. Hamish McTavish stealing a swig from his flask immortalised in pixels.
Her lips quirked like she was sharing a secret with herself as she scrolled through the images, her fingers hovering over the trackpad. The warmth of community connection radiated from each shot, a contrast to the loneliness she’d felt in Edinburgh and London.
And then…Jack.
Trish’s finger hovered over the trackpad. There he was, Santa suit half-shed, jacket open, chest bare, that cocky grin lighting up his face, eyes half-lidded in an expression that was pure sin.
Her gaze traced the defined planes of Jack’s torso. She zoomed in, drinking in every detail. A small scar near his ribs. She wondered what the story was. The faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. His abs were a masterpiece of light and shadow, each ridge and valley begging to be captured in black and white. Or touched. Definitely touched.
No way this came just from lugging parcels. He had to be working out. A tremor teased at Trish’s lips before she caught it with a quick bite. The thought of Jack, sweaty and focused, lifting weights in some dimly lit gym sent a torrid rush through her. The play of muscles beneath his skin, the way they’d bunch and release with each movement. His grunts of exertion primal and raw.
Oh, boy.
Trish shifted in her seat. She was getting turned on again just by imagining him. This was insanity. Her mind wandered back to their reckless moment in the pub – the pressure of his body, the rough scrape of his unshaven jaw, his deep voice tickling her ear. And then his words, laced with self-debasement: ‘I’m a fuck-up, plain and simple’.
It hit too close to home, like a film negative of her own self-doubt. God knew she’d beaten herself up with similar thoughts often enough. Or heard that sort of thing from others.
Too awkward, too intense, too much. And yet, somehow, never enough.
Trish had been so used to the idea that if she wasn’t what people wanted, she’d rather be invisible.
Marc’s voice floated through her memory: ‘You’re impossible to please, Trish. Chasing something that doesn’t exist. Do you have to analyse everything to death?’.
Said the analyst… Men in finance. The fucking worst.
Trish shook her head, banishing the thought. Jack saw her differently. When he looked at her, she felt like a photograph developed in a darkroom, slowly emerging from the shadows. Not a project to be fixed or a disappointment to be managed, but becoming herself.
Her heart raced with a new kind of thrill. The kind that made her want to be seen, to be bold. To stop overthinking. The shots of today were good. No, they were brilliant. Raw and real and alive.
Trish selected the photo of Jack and a few others from the fair and typed out a caption: ‘Kilcranach’s unconventional Santa brings the heat (and the mail). #HighlandChristmas #SexySanta’. The way the light sculpted Jack’s body… It was art, wasn’t it? And if posting those pictures happened to show certain people that she wasn’t just the safe, predictable Trish anymore… Well, that was just a bonus.
Here’s to making people see and feel seen.
Without blinking, she hit ‘share’.
A knock interrupted her thoughts. ‘Come in!’ Trish closed her laptop.
Marla breezed into the room, brandishing a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Thought you could use a nightcap after all that festive chaos.’
Trish’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Marl, you’re a bloody mind reader.’
Marla poured two glasses of Bordeaux and plopped down on the bed, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of her glass. ‘So, spill. What’s the deal with you and Jack?’
Trish took a long sip. ‘There is no deal.’
‘Bullshit.’ Marla’s eyes twinkled. ‘I saw you today. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that cupboard incident. The image of his moving arse is tattooed on my brain forever.’
A tell-tale blaze worked its way up Trish’s neck. ‘Ancient history.’
‘Mm-hmm.’ Marla took a sip. ‘And the way you were eyeing him like the last slice of pizza? You’re not as subtle as you think, Trishy.’
‘I was not—’
‘Please. I’ve seen less hungry looks at an all-you-can-eat buffet.’
Trish groaned and buried her face in her hands. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Only to anyone who knows you.’ Marla’s tone softened. ‘Listen, I get it. Jack’s…Jack. He’s fun and a good bloke, deep down. But…’
An uneasy tension pulsed through Trish’s middle as if every nerve beneath her ribs anticipated a hit.
Here it comes.
‘He’s…complicated. Three kids, an ex-wife who’s a right piece of work when it comes to him and the kids, and a history of… Let’s just say he’s not known for his commitment.’
‘Thanks for the warning, but I’m a big girl.’ Trish’s voice came out harsher than intended.
Marla held up her hands. ‘I know, I know. It’s just… You’re still raw from Marc. And Jack, well, he’s got more issues than a newsstand. Before the internet. You should take care of yourself, love.’
Pressure pinched behind Trish’s navel. She understood Marla’s concern, but a tiny, petty part of her bristled. Was her friend truly worried about her, or more about maintaining the balance of her new life? Either way, she couldn’t blame her for it. And she wouldn’t. The more Trish got to know this place, the cosier it felt. And what it had done to heal Marla’s heart from all the grief… Immeasurable.
‘We’re just friends, Marl.’ The little lie tasted bitter on her tongue. Because that’s what they’d agreed to, not what she actually wanted. ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’
Marla’s eyebrow arched. ‘Nothing? Not even a repeat performance?’
‘Nope.’ Trish popped the ‘p’. ‘Strictly platonic.’
‘Uh-huh. And I’m the tooth fairy.’
Trish got up and refilled their glasses. ‘Look, I appreciate the concern. But it’s fine. We talked about it. We’re friends without benefits.’
‘If you say so.’ Marla didn’t seem convinced. ‘Just be careful, okay?’
Her concern was well-meaning, but it grated. Trish didn’t need Marla’s commentary to remind her of the glaring ‘extremely bad idea’ flashing in her mind every time she thought about Jack. Much like her own, his life was a maze of complications she had no business wandering into. Not after everything it had taken to untangle herself from Marc’s shadow. Still, her friend’s worries felt like a spotlight aimed at something Trish was trying to keep in the dark.
‘I’m not some damsel in distress, Marl. Put down your sword. I can handle myself.’
‘I know. But you’re my best friend, and I don’t want to see you hurt.’
The sincerity in Marla’s voice doused Trish’s irritation. She softened, guilt gnawing at her insides. ‘And I love you for it, Babes. But really, there’s nothing to worry about.’
Marla studied her for a long moment, then she nodded. ‘Alright. But if he does anything stupid, I’ll personally ensure his next delivery is to the bottom of Loch Ness.’
Trish laughed, the tension easing. ‘Deal.’
As they chatted about the success of the Christmas Village Fair and Marla’s plans for Hazelbrae House, Trish savoured this rare one-on-one. She’d come to Scotland to escape, to find herself as an artist, but mainly to spend long-overdue quality time with her bestie. They hadn’t spent enough time together over the past year. No room for distractions, not even from Sexy Santa and his tempting package. She wasn’t about to muck it all up by falling for the local postie.
Trish’s phone buzzed like an angry hornet. She fumbled for her glasses, squinting at the screen. Her Instagram and TikTok notifications had exploded overnight, a flood of likes, comments, and shares.
‘What the fuck?’
She tapped the app, and her stomach dropped as she saw the cause of the commotion. The photo of Jack had gone viral. Over 100,000 likes and climbing.
‘Bollocks.’
Trish browsed through the comments, her face burning hotter with each one:
Forget milk and cookies, I’m leaving out whisky and a box of condoms for this Santa ????
Someone’s been VERY naughty this year ??
Where do I have to apply to be his Mrs Claus? ??
Marry me, Santa Daddy! ????
Does he deliver packages year-round? Asking for a friend ????
Forget James Fraser. I want sexy Scottish Santa to call me Sassenach. All. Night. Long. ??
Trish buried her face in her pillow with a long sigh. Panic welled up in her chest. What had she been thinking? She’d just wanted to share a bit of Highland charm, not unleash a tsunami of thirst across the internet. And as a photographer, she knew better than to post anyone anywhere without asking. Yes, the vendors and main participants of the fair yesterday had signed consent forms, including Jack.
But this had been kind of a private moment.
The photo had already been reposted by multiple accounts, many of which had far larger followings than hers. The sheer momentum of it had spiralled out of control. Worse, some of the reposts had sparked duets and memes. Jack as ‘Sexy Santa’ becoming a full-blown social media phenomenon. People weren’t just sharing the image; they were creating content around it, adding hashtags, captions, and even mock marriage proposals.
Deleting the original post wouldn’t make much difference at this point, and a small, guilty part of her worried it might even look worse. The whole thing felt like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teacup.
Trish groaned and peeked at her phone again. ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ she muttered and tossed the phone aside. She flopped back onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The antique chandelier seemed to mock her with its cheery twinkle in the dim morning light.
How was she going to face Jack? He’d probably think she’d done this on purpose, some desperate ploy for attention. Or worse, he’d be furious that she’d exposed him to this circus without his permission.
A gentle rap on the door startled her.
‘Trish?’ Marla’s voice came through the wood. ‘You awake, girl? We have gallons of fresh coffee downstairs. Extra-evil, pitch-black, just how you like it.’
‘Be right there!’ Trish called back, her voice unnaturally high.
She hauled herself out of bed, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her curls were a defiant tangle, eyes puffy from sleep. She looked like she’d been stuck in a hedge.
‘Perfect. Just how I want to look when facing the music.’
After attempting in vain to tame her hair into something resembling order, Trish threw on some clothes.
As she fumbled with her camera, an idea surged up. Maybe this was a gift. She could spin it. Use it. Turn it into something that grabbed people by the collar. Bring some well-deserved attention to Kilcranach and Hazelbrae.
‘Silver linings,’ she told her reflection. ‘Find the good shot in the mess.’
But first, Trish had to find Postman Pat to inform him about his little celebrity status and her hand in it.
Each heartbeat felt like a flashbulb going off in Trish’s chest as she approached Jack’s van on Hazelbrae’s driveway, its red paint faded and chipped like her resolve. She found him hunched over a mountain of parcels, his brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of him, so ordinary and unaware in his shorts, made her guilt surge. Her carefully prepared explanation evaporated like mist.
Trish took a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
‘Jack?’ Her voice cracked. ‘Got a minute?’
He glanced up with a smile. ‘For you? Always.’
‘I, um, need to show you something.’ She pulled her phone out of her back pocket.
Jack’s eyebrow quirked. ‘If it’s an artsy shot of my abs or my arse, I’m flattered, but—’
‘No! I mean, yes. But…’ Trish gripped her phone. ‘Remember the photos I took of you yesterday? The Santa ones?’
‘Aye.’ Jack’s brows drew together, wary.
‘See, I may have…posted one. And it might have…gone a little bit viral.’ She squinted and held her index finger and thumb just a hair’s breadth apart.
Jack’s jaw dropped. ‘You what?’
Trish winced and thrust the screen at him, bracing herself for his reaction.
‘Holy shite.’ A muscle in his jaw ticked. ‘Is that…me?’
Trish nodded miserably. ‘I’m so sorry. I posted it last night with the other pictures, thinking it was just a bit of fun. To showcase all Kilcranach has to offer. I never imagined…’
Jack raked a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. ‘One hundred thousand likes? For my silly Santa outfit?’
Then he scrolled through the comments, cheeks flushing. ‘Is that a haiku about my abs?’
‘It is,’ she squeaked meekly. ‘And there’s more… The Highland Herald wants an interview with Scotland’s sexiest Santa.’
‘Bloody hell, Trish. This is…a lot.’
‘I know.’
Tension rolled off him in waves, but it wasn’t anger. Not quite. The usual laid-back Jack was slipping beneath the surface, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something darker. A flicker of fear sparked behind his eyes, a shadow that seemed to tighten his jaw and stiffen his shoulders.
‘Melissa’s gonnae have a field day if she sees this. I’m not some…internet sensation.’
A hard twist settled under Trish’s breastbone like someone had wedged a stone between her ribs. This wasn’t just about a viral photo or silly comments. Jack’s life wasn’t simple. He had responsibilities, a past, and people who could twist something as harmless as a photo into something far messier.
‘God, so sorry. I should’ve asked first, I can take it down. Not sure what good it’ll do, but I can try. I’ll explain it was a joke and—’
‘Wait.’ Jack said, cutting her off. His tone was sharper but not harsh. More like someone trying to get a grip on something slippery. Then the tension seemed to loosen, his mouth curving into a slow, cautious smile as he read the comments. ‘Some of these are actually pretty funny.’
Trish pointed to a reply from a local bakery offering him free mince pies for life.
‘So, should I take it down?’
‘Naw, it’s awright.’ Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘It’s not every day a postie goes viral as a thirst trap. It’s just… I like my quiet life, you know? Delivering the mail, playing with the band. This feels a wee bit…’
‘…overwhelming?’
He nodded. ‘Aye. That’s the word.’
She bit her lip, an idea forming. ‘What if… What if we used this? Turned it into something positive?’
Jack’s brow furrowed. ‘How?’
‘People are clearly charmed by the whole Highland Santa thing. We could get you a social media account, do a proper photo series, showcase Kilcranach. Boost tourism, maybe raise some money for the community centre?’
‘I dunno. I’m no model.’
‘You don’t have to be.’ She went up on tiptoe. ‘Just be yourself. That’s what people are responding to.’
‘And are you responding to it, Shutterbug?’ Jack’s gaze caught hers, locking her in place like she’d been yanked into focus. Trish’s pulse galloped. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ His voice was low, teasing.
‘I… um…’ she stammered, desperately grasping for a witty comeback. Her mind unhelpfully supplied images of his pecs and abs instead.
‘That would be tragic.’ He leaned in closer, his breath warm on her ear. ‘If I recall correctly, your tongue was very talented.’
A molten twist flared low in her belly, like metal softening in a forge, and her thighs clenched without permission.
He let out a chuckle. ‘Relax, I’m just pressing your buttons. It’s…fun.’
The way he pronounced ‘fun’ made it sound like he had a very specific kind of it in mind. Heat and relief flooded through her.
‘So, um, you’re not angry or in trouble or anything?’
‘Angry? I could never be angry at you, Shutterbug.’ His grin was wicked. ‘Though I might need your help managing this newfound fame. Think you’re up for the job?’
The air between them crackled with a tension that had zero to do with viral photos and everything with the way his hand brushed against hers as he handed her the phone back.
‘I used to be in marketing and a social media manager before I went all-in with photography, so…sure.’
‘Oh, look. Scotland’s sexiest Santa and his personal paparazzi, thick as thieves.’
Trish whirled around to see Marla sauntering towards them. The teasing tone in her friend’s voice made nerves flutter in Trish’s gut. She’d promised Marla and herself that nothing would happen with Jack, and here she was, looking for all the world like she was going back on her word.
‘We were discussing strategies.’ She took an instinctive step away from Jack. ’There’s been a bit of a viral post with Jack.’
Marla cut her off. ‘I know. I’m messing with you, Trish.’ She winked at Jack.
Trish’s cheeks flamed. She could’ve kicked her friend.
‘I’d best be off,’ Jack said. ‘Places to go, presents to deliver.’ He gave a mock salute. ‘Thanks for the heads-up about the madness.’
Her heart betrayed her with a traitorous thump as he rode off on his trusty steed, or rather, drove off in his battered red mail van.
Fuck.
Reality barrelled Trish over like a gritter. Thanks to her impulsive hit on the share button, Jack was internet-famous, and every female within a hundred-mile radius was sliding into his DMs.
What do I care? This is a benefit-free friendship .
Because she hadn’t come to Kilcranach to fall vagina first for Sexy Santa. And yet here she was, practically gift-wrapping herself for him, with fate playing the part of a smug little elf.
Yippee-ki-yay.