Chapter Nine
T he thing was HUGE. Like, fucking massive . Not just length but the girth, too. Trish had no idea how it was supposed to fit.
How many men does it take to wrangle one ginormous Christmas tree through a double door into a ballroom?
At least three, by the looks of it.
Niall grunted. ‘This bloody thing’s got a mind of its own.’ He glared at the pine as if it had personally offended him.
‘It’s what they call a beast.’ Jack tried to manoeuvre his end without stepping on Bert’s foot. ‘Why did you have to fell the mother of all trees, mate?’
Bert, who had somehow managed to wedge himself sideways between the door frame and a particularly obstinate limb, snorted. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a professional tree guy, Niall?’
‘Haud yer wheesht and pull.’
Bert laughed.
Trish watched from the sidelines, arms folded and lips quirked in a half-smile. She was reminded of a circus act, with each man playing his part in the slapstick routine of man versus tree.
‘Do you need help, guys?’
‘We’re awright,’ Niall fumbled with the rope securing the tree’s netting, which promptly slipped from his grasp, sending a cascade of needles onto the polished floor. Jack cursed under his breath as he stumbled to regain his footing while Bert, now freed from his wedged position, shot Trish a wry glance.
‘Awright, eh?’ Bert dusted off his jacket. ‘I think we’ve established that’s a lie.’
Niall, his face reddening, growled, ‘Shut it, Bert. We just need…a bit more…finesse.’
Trish’s half-smile stretched into a wide grin as she pushed off from the wall, strolling over to the three guys. ‘Do you mind if I take a picture? Men against nature, that’s an intriguing motif.’
This was great for her Wanderlust Highland Christmas job. The camera shutter clicked, followed by Trish’s snorting laugh. ‘Scots Succumb to Evergreen Overlord.’
‘Careful, lass,’ Bert joked, ‘we don’t take too kindly to overlords here in Scotland.’
Accompanied by lots of grunting, the tree finally cleared the doorway, and the trio exhaled collectively.
As the last branch was wrestled into submission, Trish lowered her camera. ‘Tis the season for mortal men to be humbled by flora.’
And one step closer to getting her assignment right. At least, that was her hope.
Two hours later, the eleven-foot pine was standing there, looking all tall and smug, decked out from tip to trunk and ready for Marla’s big debut tree-lighting. Trish’s finger hovered over the shutter button as Niall reached for the switch. The room buzzed, faces glowing in the flicker of candles and fairy lights like they were all waiting for some magic to happen.
Click.
The second the tree blazed to life, gasps rippled through the small crowd as if someone had just announced free booze and food. Trish’s camera whirred, catching every wide-eyed, awestruck expression. But even as she framed her shots, doubt gnawed at her gut like a cat with a grudge.
Is this enough? Will it be ‘high concept’ enough for Wanderlust and their highbrow Photo Director Seraphina?
She’d already sent in a batch of photos, and the lukewarm response still burned.
‘Nice, but we need more,’ Seraphina had said, with all the enthusiasm of someone ordering dry toast. ‘We want that expected surprise. Something familiar but fresh.’
Trish pressed her lips together, flipping through her shots. They were good – capturing the joy, the sparkle in everyone’s eyes, Marla’s hand slipping into Niall’s like they were in a cheesy rom-com. But were they ‘extraordinary’? ‘Fresh and familiar’? Or just…plain predictable?
A tug on her sleeve yanked her out of her spiralling thoughts. She looked down, and there was Phil, grinning like he’d just won a gold medal. ‘Did you see? I helped with the top bit!’
Trish crouched down, getting on his level. ‘Did you now? I’d say you nailed it, kiddo.’
Phil puffed up his little chest, glowing with pride. ‘Da lifted me up real high. I was taller than a giraffe!’
The second she heard that familiar chuckle, her insides tingled.
‘Nearly took out my back in the process.’
Trish straightened up, trying to ignore the way her pulse sped up just looking at him. Jack standing there, all casual and happy, did things to her. Warm, fuzzy things she wasn’t ready to deal with.
‘What an acrobatic stunt.’ She picked imaginary lint off her jeans. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t topple the whole tree.’
Jack’s smile turned sly. ‘What can I say? Man of many talents here.’
‘Really?’ Trish shot him a teasing look. ‘What other secret skills are you hiding, Postman Pat?’
Every unspoken word crowded the space between them like static before a storm. Jack opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, a small hurricane named Beth crashed into his legs.
‘Da! Da! Hot chocolate time! You promised!’ She shoved a bunch of candy canes into his hand. ‘We can use those.’
Jack smiled, stuffing the sweets into his pocket. ‘But only if you’ve been on your best behaviour for Auntie Marla.’
Beth’s eyes went wide, all innocence. ‘I have. I’ve been an angel!’ She twirled on the spot.
Trish bit down on a laugh, remembering how Beth had turned the banister into a glitter-bombed winter forest earlier.
‘An angel, eh? I take your word for it. Guess that means hot chocolate’s on the menu then.’
As Jack wrangled his herd towards the refreshment table, something twisted low in Trish’s gut. Longing? Envy? Perhaps a weird cocktail of both. She stuffed the notion into her inner darkroom, lifting her camera and zeroing in on the villagers instead.
Mrs Bellbottom strutted in her leopard print blouse, looking like she’d just burst out of a maximalist Christmas catalogue. Meanwhile, Gwen was sneaking what looked suspiciously like whisky into the punch bowl for the grown-ups, her green hair catching the light as she grinned like she’d just got away with murder. And Marla… Jesus, Marla was glowing, nestled against Niall’s chest like she’d won the romance lottery.
Which she most definitely had.
Click.
Trish snapped away, fingers flying, capturing it all. A gust rattled the windows, and her focus shifted. Outside, the snow had started, fat flakes swirling down in a postcard-perfect scene. Her pulse kicked up. This – this would be the money shot. The kind of thing Wanderlust’s picky Photo Director would kill for. Probably. The idyllic backdrop for those dreamy winter shots. Even though lasting snow was rare here in Scotland’s west, that was what people expected. The universal fantasy.
Trish made her way to Marla, who was deep in conversation with both Bellbottoms.
‘This snow is fab.’ She nudged Marla with her elbow. ‘Perfect timing for those photos.’ Her voice was bright, but a sliver of anxiety tightened her chest.
Marla beamed like a child on Christmas morning. ‘Isn’t it stunning? Niall says it’s the first proper snowfall in years. Except for that January blip…’ She flashed Trish a grin, eyebrows doing a little dance that screamed ‘you know what I’m talking about.’
Trish had heard all about Marla and Niall’s fateful, steamy-stormy, snowy night at least two million times.
‘Kilcranach’s about to turn into a postcard. Let’s hope we’re all right.’ Marla’s gaze slid over to where Niall was standing, chatting with Bert by the fire, a mug in hand, looking like a lumberjack fantasy. Marla’s expression softened, all gooey-eyed affection. And while Trish was genuinely thrilled for her bestie, the whole thing was tinged with a bittersweet awareness of her own situation.
Thirty-six, single again, and struggling to make my dream career work.
‘Och, dearie, this snow’s nothing to worry about,’ Janet Bellbottom chimed in. ‘So long as we’re dressed properly – not gallivanting about in open-chested, flimsy Santa suits.’ She leaned in slightly, dropping her voice as if about to reveal a secret. ‘Not that I’m biting, though. This fish swims in a different pond entirely, as you know. But even I must admit, our Jack’s looking quite the picture.’ She gave Trish a knowing wink. ‘Or should I say, the internet’s favourite “Sexy Santa”?’
Trish coughed into her mulled wine.
Marla rolled her eyes with a pointed grin. ‘Mrs Bellbottom, you’ve been trawling through those comments, haven’t you?’
Mrs Bellbottom grinned, unabashed. ‘Can you blame me? It’s harmless fun. Besides,’ she patted Trish’s arm, ‘we should be thanking this one for putting Kilcranach on the map. Mind you,’ she added, ‘I’m not sure the village can handle those ladies all clambering to see a certain postie’s…deliveries.’
Trish’s face burned. She shouldn’t have posted that picture without thinking it through. ‘It wasn’t meant to blow up like—’
‘…confetti at a hen do?’ Marla cast her a glance somewhere between amusement and something more guarded. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not like they’re hunting Sam Heughan here. Although…’
Her gaze lingered on Trish for a beat longer than usual, a shadow of something unreadable crossing her eyes. A slight unease unfurled in Trish’s chest.
Jack waded through the throngs of people, Niall at his side. Every few steps, another cheeky jab was thrown his way, and Jack took it all with that signature grin. But Trish noticed the faint clench in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his leg.
‘Oi, Jack!’ Bert called out from the back. ‘When’s the calendar dropping? I need something to jazz up my bookstore window!’
Laughter spread through the crowd, and Jack didn’t miss a beat. ‘Sorry, lads. This festive dad bod? Strictly limited edition, reserved for a very special someone – me.’
Dad bod. As if.
Those muscles? Burned into Trish’s brain like a guilty pleasure, every ridge and dip. Completely unfair for a guy who claimed he lived on whatever the kids didn’t finish.
She noticed the way the people lit up around him, leaning into his easy charisma. Jack wasn’t just a postman here. He was a pillar, sewn into the quilt of this place in a way she could barely comprehend.
Prickling unease crawled along her skin as Trish looked at the notifications. A fresh wave of thirsty DMs flooded in for Jack – or rather, ‘Sexy Santa’ – each one hornier than the last:
Santa, I’ve been a very naughty girl. Come spank me. ??
Milk and cookies? Nah, I’ve got something else for you to munch on, babe. ??
It was pathetic; she really shouldn’t care. They barely knew each other and were just becoming friends. But every message was like a jab to the ego. Her self-doubt crept in, a sour undercurrent to the festive cheer. Each shameless flirt, every suggestive emoji, was like a glowing neon sign flashing, ‘NOT YOU’. Not tall enough, not sleek enough, not hot enough. Whatever that even meant.
That one time in the linen closet had probably just been a slip for him.
Trish knew damn well how a camera could bend reality – hell, she was trying to make a living doing just that. Angles, lighting, pose, make-up, a little bit of Photoshop magic, and voilà, anyone could look like a half-decent goddess. But even with all that knowledge, the primitive part of her brain was still whispering, not you . Her body – real, unfiltered, and unapologetically hers – suddenly felt like it didn’t quite belong. Not in the glossy, Instagram-perfect world those other women seemed to float through without breaking a sweat.
And certainly not in Jack’s bed.
Her passion for analogue and digital photography? Definitely not the sort of thing that got a man’s blood pumping.
Nerd.
She’d heard it so many times before: at boarding school, from Marc, even her parents.
Maybe that closet fumble had been a fluke. A bit of charity work from a nice guy helping a friend’s friend through a post-breakup crisis.
The idea stung more than she cared to admit.
Marla’s voice broke through her reverie. ‘You okay, Trishy? You look like you’ve seen one of my ghosts.’
Trish slapped on a smile. ‘Just the festive spirit, I guess.’ She waved vaguely toward the snowy wonderland outside. ‘And I’m only haunted by those damn Wanderlust shots.’
Marla’s brow crinkled. ‘You’ve been fretting over that for days. Chill out, it’s Christmas time. Try relaxing for once.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Trish muttered, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. ‘You inherited a castle, a hunk, and a whole damn village. Lucky cow.’
Marla laughed, totally unbothered. ‘I know, right? And now our postie’s a local celebrity.’
Trish forced out a laugh, but it felt like eating sandpaper. ‘Yeah, who knew delivering the mail could be so…marketable.’
‘But seriously, I’m getting worried about this whole “Sexy Santa”-thing,’ Marla went on, her brow knitting. ‘It’s great for business, sure. But there are only so many tourists a tiny community can handle. Just yesterday, a bunch of gals trampled through Fiona’s flowerbed, looking for “that Highland Hottie”. What if some nut job shows up demanding a private meet-and-greet with Father Christmas? Or worse,’ she lowered her voice for dramatic effect, ‘what if they start stuffing their old knickers in the post box?’
Trish snorted. ‘For fuck’s sake, Marl. You’re not making any sense.’
‘Am I not?’ Marla shot back with a raised eyebrow.
Before Marla could grill her any further, Niall’s voice sliced through the room. ‘Oi, Jack! The Highland Herald wants to know if you’ll do a centrefold. Maybe with nothing but a sack of letters?’
‘I’d have to charge extra for that, mate. Premium goods don’t come cheap.’
The room burst into titters, but Trish’s stomach flopped. She’d started this. One click of her camera, one post, had thrown Jack into this bonkers spotlight. Various websites and newspapers had even dangled money for an exclusive interview, but Jack had declined, fierce and unbending in a way that didn’t match his usual easy-going swagger. He didn’t want it to snowball any more than it already had, he’d said, and passed all inquiries straight along to the Royal Mail’s media relations team to handle the circus.
There was so much more to him than the cheeky, chill postie act. She’d seen it in those quiet moments. The way he was with his kids, how his face lit up when he talked about his band, his connection with his community, the unexpected softness beneath the bravado.
Her gaze was drawn to him across the room, and the moment he noticed, Jack threw her a wink that hit her like a spark to dry tinder. For a heartbeat, the noise fell away, and it was just them sharing a private moment.
But reality snapped her back. By Christmas, in two weeks, it all would be over. His fame, along with their no-benefits-friendship. Trish squared her shoulders, raising her camera like a shield. She had a job to do.
‘Holy Mother of Mary’s undercrackers!’ Janet Bellbottom’s voice cut through the festive chatter like a rusty chainsaw. ‘Will ye look at that snow ootside!’
Everyone turned to the windows, where swirling white chaos had replaced the gently falling flakes. The wind whipped the flakes into a frenzy. Visibility was down to approximately bugger all.
‘Oops,’ Marla muttered, peering through the frosted glass.
‘That’s looking worse than the Beast from the East,’ Janet Bellbottom said. ‘Remember that? Easter, and we were snowed in up to our eyeballs.’ She shuddered dramatically.
‘Pablo Escobar thinks this is too much snow,’ Fiona added dryly.
Niall, Hazelbrae’s estate manager and ever the pragmatist, pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Right, I’ll go have a gander.’
He pulled on his wax jacket and returned a few minutes later, shaking snow from his sleeves. ‘It’s proper shite out there. Roads are blocked, drifts piling up faster than Hamish’s tab on karaoke night. We’re stuck. No way down the hill. Unless you want to end up with a broken leg.’
A groan rolled through the crowd like someone had just cancelled Christmas.
Jack, who’d been leaning back, taking it all in, clapped his hands together. ‘Looks like we’re having a Hazelbrae sleepover.’
His children exploded like they’d won the toy jackpot. Beth did a happy twirl, Phil leapt up like a spring, and even Jack Jr. smiled.
Trish’s chest did that weird, clenchy thing as she watched the chaos unfold. Red hair flying, cheeks rosy, all grins and giggles, Jack’s children were pure joy. Completely oblivious to anything, like mini Tasmanian devils with a talent for making you grin whether you wanted to or not. They were so cute it was almost criminal.
Trish helped Marla toss blankets and pillows at the stranded guests – those who couldn’t be moved into one of the guestrooms. The grand ballroom was quickly turned into a provisional camp, with people sitting on the floor like it was some sort of rustic Christmas-themed overnighter. Air mattresses and blankets scattered everywhere, the tree twinkling in the background, giving the whole scene a weirdly cosy vibe.
‘I think that’s everyone settled. I’m so glad we only have regular B&B guests and no NHS staff here at the moment. Too much chaos to recover from burnout,’ Marla said, hands on her hips like she was commanding an army. ‘Trish, you’re an absolute legend. Thank you.’
Trish forced a grin, though she felt like her body had been run over by a herd of reindeer. ‘Hey, happy to help. How often do you get to play hostess during a mad snow pocalypse?’
‘Thanks, honestly. But you seem shattered, babes. Go on, head up to your room. I’ve got this.’
‘You sure?’
People were huddled with hot chocolate or tea, and Mrs Bellbottom had a captive audience of kids, probably spinning some wild tale. Jack was sprawled out on a pile of blankets with his children draped over him like tiny, ginger-haired puppies. His eyes found hers, and he smiled – one of those secret smiles that reached right into her chest, making her heart trip over itself.
Marla waved a hand in front of her face, breaking the spell. ‘You still with me?’
Trish blinked. ‘Yeah, sorry. Just…thinking about tomorrow’s shoot. Angles and light and stuff.’
Marla’s eyebrow shot up. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Marla’s voice was all light and breezy, but something lurked underneath. ‘Just… Don’t forget that you’re leaving.’
That hit harder than it should have. Trish tried to laugh, but her sternum felt like a tensed fist. ‘Oh, trust me, I know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve also got a hot date with my laptop and a thousand raw files.’
Trish retreated to her attic room. She sank onto the bed, her camera a comforting weight in her hands.
As she worked on the day’s shots an hour later, a soft knock at the door made her jump.