The next week was going to be a test of sheer willpower.
Via the Clyde’s administrator, she’d learnt that Max had done several tours in the Middle East. Two more than her big brother, Nick had done. As a surgeon in conflict zones he would’ve seen enough horror to make that difficult-to-read face of his even more practised—giving away no more than he was comfortable with, which, in her case, was just about nothing.
She’d get there in the end. She always did. She loved teasing apart the complicated webs of her clients’ personalities. Not that she ever bothered turning the mirror on herself. She knew what her problems were. Trust. Trust. And trust.
The car slowed as it climbed up the hill towards the castle. She craned her neck to watch as the passengers rolled down their windows and took a look. Max was the only one not to stick his head out of the window. As ridiculous as it was, she was a bit put out. Heatherglen Castle was more than a pile of rocks thrown together to impressive effect. It was her home.
The huge stone structure was framed by a crisp blue sky, the dozen or so chimneys puffing away with fires as the weather had turned so cold. Though some of the rooms were enormous, she and her brother had done their absolute best to make the castle feel as cosy and inviting as possible for the residents. Residents like Max who—because they were running at capacity—would be sleeping in her and Charles’s private wing. Just. Down. The. Corridor. When they’d put Euan’s mum there it hadn’t been a problem. When the thirty-something mum had turned into Mr Tall Dark and Utterly Off Limits, Esme’s stomach had swirled with far too much delight.
Silly stomach. Just because a good-looking man is on the grounds, it’s no reason to behave like a goofy lust-struck teen.
The car pulled up outside the clinic.
Right! Time to get to work.
Hamish, Mrs Renwick’s grandson, tucked a stack of files under his arm as she walked into the reception area then pointed at her jumper. ‘You going to leave any of those for us?’
She flashed him a guilty smile when she saw the crumbs. ‘Of course, silly billy. I was just doing a quality control test.’
‘Of Nan’s biscuits?’ He didn’t bother to disguise his disbelief that she could say such an outrageous thing.
Her guilty smile turned sheepish. They all knew Mrs Renwick’s biscuits were insanely delicious.
‘Can you take this plate back to the pooches, please, Hamish?’ She handed him a platter of dog-bone-shaped biscuits made to a special dog-friendly recipe. ‘Make sure Dougal gets one. He adores them!’
‘Aye aye, boss.’ Hamish gave her a jaunty salute and headed back to the kennels. He was openly enjoying his work experience at the clinic. She hoped he followed up his dream of becoming a vet one day.
She hurriedly wiped the gingerbread crumbs off her jumper and tuned into the loud laugh of a boy as the door opened and banged shut. Euan. A woman’s delighted giggle followed up the boy’s. That would be Fenella. Good to hear everyone was in such a good mood.
Before she could come out from behind the reception desk the door to the clinic flew open, slammed against the doorstop and whacked back again, only to meet a human doorstop. She shivered against the blast of cold air and looked across in time to catch the divot between Max Kirkpatrick’s eyebrows furrow in apology. ‘The door caught a draught.’ He scanned the large reception area in slow motion. There were the usual accoutrements of a veterinary clinic. Dog food displays. A wall full of indestructible toys. Educational posters.
As Max’s eyes narrowed and the divot between his eyebrows deepened, she suddenly saw what he saw. An insane riot of Christmas decorations covering absolutely everything. Hamish may have gone a bit OTT with the tinsel and glittery snowflakes. ‘You certainly like your Christmas decor,’ he said dryly.
‘Not your cup of tea?’
‘Not so much.’
She gave a nonchalant shrug. Drowning in tinsel wasn’t everyone’s idea of Yuletide joy. She was more of a warm twinkly lights and a few well-placed baubles girl herself but ever since Nick had been killed on Christmas Eve and the news of his death had reached them on Christmas Day thirteen long years ago, she’d struggled to recapture the love she’d always had for the festive season.
She glanced behind him. ‘Where’re your patients?’
‘Outside.’ He flicked his thumb over his shoulders, those dark eyes of his not leaving hers for as much as a millisecond. ‘They’re having a snowball fight.’
‘Brilliant!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Some say it’s good for the soul.’
‘Some say it’s good for getting pneumonia.’ His eyes left hers and landed on her jumper. It featured three polar bears ice skating along a river up to the North Pole. ‘Nice jumper.’ His eyes were not on her belly button.
‘Thanks.’ She tilted her head, forcing his eyes back up to meet hers. ‘I bought it in town if you want one.’
‘It isn’t my usual colour palette.’
She snorted. The man was dressed in top to toe navy blue.
‘At least you’re honest.’
‘Some say to a fault.’ He dropped her a wink that, judging from his follow-up expression, he hadn’t planned to drop.
Esme looked straight into his eyes and just as they had that first time they’d met, they released a hot, sweet glittery heat that swept through her bloodstream with a not-too-subtle message. Max Kirkpatrick floated her boat. She gave herself a little shake. This wasn’t a dating session, it was the beginning of a series of rigorous training sessions for the dogs and the new residents. And yet...
She forced her cheeky grin into a look of pure innocence. ‘Any chance you’re open to being converted? To the Christmas thing?’
A shadow tamped out the glints of fun in his dark eyes. ‘I’d say about as likely as one of Santa’s reindeer swooping down and taking me for a ride.’
No wiggle room in that response.
She rolled her shoulders beneath the thick wool of her jumper. Rough against smooth. Would she feel the same sensation if Max were to slip his hands...? Stop that!
She wove her fingers together and adopted a pious expression as she began the lie she told herself every year. ‘I happen to love Christmas and all of the ancillary—’ her voice dropped an octave ‘—accoutrements.’
They both looked surprised at her foray into ‘bedroom voice’. No one more so than Esme. The last thing Christmas was was sexy. Hot chocolate, cosy fires and Christmas trees, definitely. Sultry voices and shoulder wriggles in silly Christmas jumpers? Not even close.
The fact she even looked forward to the holiday was little short of a miracle.
Ever since Nick’s commanding officer had shown up at their front door on Christmas Day all those years ago, Esme had been trying to convince herself it was still the best day of the year. Impossible when they’d been told the rebel forces had taken advantage of the holiday to set intricately built tripwire bombs across the village where Nick had been stationed. Even tougher when they’d found out the only reason Nick had been out and about had been to deliver presents to a bunch of young soldiers who’d been finding it tough to be so far away from home.
Ever since that day Christmas had been like participating in a dreary panto. Each of them going through the motions, pretending they were happy, when all they wanted to do was weep for the golden boy they’d lost. Not that ‘they’ were much of a they any more. Esme’s doomed romance had taken up the first year after Nick’s death.
Her mother had reshaped her grief into a near pathological need to enjoy life. Parties, swanning around the globe, scandalous affairs that had quickly led to the end of her parents’ long and