Making Christmas Special Again

скачать книгу бесплатно


Rule number one was going to be tough.

Esme gave what she hoped was a briskly efficient nod and ran through a few things, including what clothes to bring, what sort of weather to expect and asking about any dietary requirements.

Max looked at Euan. ‘I think just about anything beyond a sausage roll will be a new one on this lad.’

Euan jabbed him in the ribs. ‘I’m not that bad. I’ve heard of...um...sushi.’ He abruptly leant in and whispered something to Max.

Max answered quietly then gave the lad’s head a slightly awkward scrub. ‘Maybe we can scratch the sushi.’ The two of them threw each other a shy grin.

If there was any time to wish for some Christmas magic, now was it. Esme had a feeling it wasn’t just Euan who needed a bit of TLC from a service dog. Max looked as though he had a wound or two himself that could do with being salved.

Esme glanced down at the stray pup one of their physios had found who was curled up at her feet. Dougal. Maybe she could convince Max to give him a forever home? Dougal was cuddly and responsive enough that he’d easily be a therapy dog, but...

When she looked back up at the screen Max was all business. Times. Schedules. Anything else they needed to bring. She answered his questions as efficiently as possible, all the while telling her hammering heart that she could do this. She could survive a week with Max Kirkpatrick. Besides, the second her brother Charles laid eyes on him she knew he wouldn’t pass the big brother approval check list. Not that Charles was officially in charge of who she dated but having a second opinion after her disastrous elopement had seemed pretty wise, all things considered.

She followed Max’s hand as it stuffed a few of his wayward curls back into submission.

What Charles didn’t know...

As they signed off, Esme looked out the window towards the castle, merrily twinkling away in the early evening gloaming. It looked like something out of a fairy-tale. It was far too easy to imagine that long dreamed-of kiss under the starlight with all of the glittery warmth still swirling round her chest. Glittery warmth brought to life by one dark-haired, reluctant hero.

Good grief.

What had she just agreed to?

‘How long’s it going to take, Doc?’

Max gave his back-seat passenger a quick glance. ‘As long as it takes, Euan.’

About eight days with any luck. Then he wouldn’t have to go through the hoop-jumping Esme had no doubt set up for him. Attending Euan’s training classes. Ensuring Fenella, his other ‘volunteer’, was all right as her elderly mother couldn’t come along either, owing to previous commitments. Day in. Day out. Dining together. Training together. ‘Fun time.’ Whatever the hell that was. Together.

Bonding.

He didn’t bond. He assessed, treated, then moved on. Precisely why he’d opted to work in A and E after hanging up his camos. Move ’em in, move ’em out. Zero time to bond.

Bonding made you start Plants to Paws, mate. You’re going to have to own it one day.

Unbidden, an image of Esme introducing the dogs via the video call to Euan and Fenella popped into his head. He was pretty sure he was the only one who’d caught the little surreptitious swipes she’d made at her cheeks when the patients’ eyes had first lit on the pooches. He was positive he was the only one in the room who’d itched to reach out and wipe them away.

‘D’you think Ajax is going to be allowed in the castle?’

‘How would I know? Do I look like I was raised in a castle?’

Euan snorted then asked, ‘Hey, Doc, I was supposed to do a maths quiz today. Epic thanks for getting me out of school, mate!’

Max glanced into the rear-view mirror of his clunky old four-by-four and meet the lad’s eyes. ‘I’m not your mate and this isn’t a jolly, pal. There will be homework tonight. Of that you can be sure.’

‘Why’re you so tetchy?’ Euan countered in a tone that suggested he was well used to cranky adults.

‘I’m not tetchy.’ Max’s knuckles whitened against the steering wheel.

‘Actually,’ Fenella gently cut in, ‘you are a bit tetchy.’

Max harrumphed. Whatever. So he was a bit out of sorts. Spending a week with a fairy dogmother who, via numerous phone and video calls, had managed to do all sorts of things to the steel walls he’d built round his psyche wasn’t exactly something he’d been looking forward to.

Not to mention the annoyingly inviting visions that kept popping into his head of Esme in a ski suit. Esme in a onesie sprawled in front of a roaring fire. Esme in nothing at all.

He pulled off the multi-lane motorway that led north from Glasgow. The fastest option. ‘We’ll go the scenic route,’ he growled.

Esme checked her watch. Again.

‘The more you look, the longer he’ll be,’ her colleague Margaret teased, then gave Esme’s shoulder a little pat. ‘Don’t worry. Lover boy will be here soon.’

Esme gave a dismissive click of her tongue. Good thing they were friends as well as co-workers.

‘He’s not lover boy! And I’m definitely not worried.’ Esme flounced away from the window. Worry wasn’t her problem. Lust was. And the last person she was going to tell was Margaret—a woman on a single-track mission to get Esme to date someone ‘interesting’. Just because Margaret was now madly in love, it didn’t mean Esme had to be as well.

‘What’s he like? Your sexy doc? And don’t trot out the line about how you can’t say until Charles meets him because we both know what the men he approves of are like.’ She feigned an enormous yawn to show just how interesting she thought his choices were.

Esme laughed. Her brother did have a tendency towards introducing her to men who...well...lacked lustre, but she’d told him she wanted a man who didn’t have a single surprising thing about him. He’d taken her at her word. Not that he played cupid all that often, but when he did? Suffice it to say there had yet to be a love match.

‘Ez? C’mon. Details, please.’

‘I told you. He’s a Glaswegian A and E doctor.’ With gorgeously curly brown hair and the darkest, most fathomless brown eyes she’d ever seen. He’d been a bit stubbly when they’d had their last video call. She could just imagine his cheek rasping against hers when he—No! No, she could not.

Margaret grabbed a gingerbread man from the tray Mrs Renwick, Heatherglen’s long-term cook, had given the therapy centre staff and held it in front of her face. ‘Won’t you tell your dear friend Mags something more interesting about the big handsome doctor?’

‘Who said anything about him being handsome?’

Margaret just about killed herself laughing. ‘You didn’t have to. The way your cheeks go bright pink each time you come off a video call with him tells me everything I need to know.’ She began to chant in a sing-song voice, ‘Esme needs some mistletoe!’

Esme picked up another gingerbread man and stuffed it into her friend’s open mouth.

‘Do not.’

Margaret tugged on her staff hoodie. When her head reappeared she grinned. ‘Suit yourself.’ She pulled on a gilet over her hoodie. ‘I’ll see for myself in a few seconds.’ She flicked her thumb towards the window. ‘Lover boy’s here!’ Before Esme could protest—again—Margaret was on her way out the door, saying she’d get the dogs ready.

Esme tried to ignore the tiny tremor in her hand as she took a distracted bite of the gingerbread man, her eyes glued to the battered four by four that would give their new vet Aksel’s bashed-up staff vehicle a run for its money. His arrival had been a godsend at the busy veterinary clinic. Running it and the canine therapy centre was a Herculean task and Aksel tackled everything Esme put his way with a fabulous mix of pragmatism and care. Mind you. Aksel was so loved up these days they could’ve issued him a wheelbarrow and a workload for ten men and he would’ve accepted with a smile.

Her thoughts landed in a no-go zone. It was a bit too easy to picture Max gazing at her in the same adoring way Aksel lit up whenever Flora, the rehab centre’s physio, appeared.

The last time Esme had looked at someone like that she’d lost her heart and hundreds of thousands of pounds of her family’s money. Not to mention her dignity, sense of self-worth and, yes, she might as well admit it, since the divorce papers had been finalised, nearly nine years ago now, she’d found it hard to believe she was worthy of love. All the compliments Harding, her ex-husband, had lavished on her had turned out to be lies. Lies she’d vowed never to fall for again.

Her tummy flipped when she caught a glimpse of Max behind the wheel.

She bit the head off the gingerbread man.

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 happy marriage. Her father had passed away three years after Nick had and their mother was now married to a Greek shipping magnate, so it was just Esme and Charles now, neither one of them doing all that well at re-injecting joy into Christmas.

No doubt as a former soldier, Max had his own particular days he didn’t like. Unlike her, he didn’t seem all that interested in trying to tap into any tendrils of Christmas cheer lurking somewhere in his heart. For the past thirteen years it had been like a mission for her. Which maybe defeated the purpose—pounding a square peg into a round hole—but there was something about Christmas that sang to her and she wanted to find that music again.

From a very early age she had believed that Christmas was magical. The decorations, the frenzied build-up, the secrets. More than any of those, though, she’d always loved the giving. Much more than the receiving. Seeing the joy on someone’s face when they opened an unexpected present, or a child who had their first proper spin round the ice rink at the Christmas carnival, or someone’s eyes widening as the first snowflake of the season landed on their mittened palm...she loved it. She just wished that the joy of the season touched her heart the way it used to.