Making Christmas Special Again. Annie O'Neil

have had to break some rules.

      ‘I was looking for you.’ She held up a familiar-looking scarf.

      ‘How’d you get that?’ He knew he sounded terse, but with his luck she was the developer. If she was trying to sprinkle some sugar in advance of telling him when the wrecking ball would swing, she may as well get on with it.

      Esme was unfazed by his cranky response. She tipped her head towards the garden shed as she handed him his scarf. ‘A member of your fan club gave me this to give Skye a go at “search”.’

      He glanced over at the shed and, sure enough, there were a couple of patients from the oncology ward waving at him. Cheeky so-and-sos. They’d been trying to blow some oxygen onto the all but dead embers of his social life ever since they’d found out the nurses not so discreetly called him The Monk. He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Esme Ross-Wylde. ‘I presume that means you’re here for the “rescue” part?’

      She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If you’re interested.’

      Skye’s tail started waving double time.

      If he wasn’t mistaken, the corners of her rather inviting lips were twitching with the hint of a smile.

      Something about this whole scenario felt like flirting. He didn’t do flirting. He did A and E medicine in Glasgow’s most financially deprived hospital. Then he slept, woke up and did it all over again. Sometimes he came out here and dug over a veg patch. There definitely wasn’t time for flirting.

      When he said nothing she asked, ‘How do you fancy keeping Plants to Paws the way it is?’

      His eyes snapped to hers, and something flashed hard and bright in his chest that had nothing to do with gratitude. It ricocheted straight past his belt buckle and all the way up again. By the look on her face, she was feeling exactly the same thing he was. An unwelcome animal attraction.

      Oh, hell. If life had taught him anything, it was the old adage that if something seemed too good to be true, it usually was.

      The Dictator had taught him that everything came with a price. Best to rip off the plaster and get it over with. ‘What’s the catch?’

      ‘Charming.’ Esme quirked a brow. ‘Is this how you win all the girls over?’

      ‘It works for some.’ Dr Kirkpatrick’s shrug was flippantly sexy.

      ‘Not this girl.’ Her hip jutted out as if to emphasise the point she really shouldn’t be making. That she fancied him something rotten and her body was most definitely flirting without her permission.

      ‘Suit yourself.’ His full lips twitched into a frown. Something told her it was for the same reason her mouth followed suit. They’d both been burnt somewhere along the line and if she was right, those burns had been slow to heal. If at all.

      She sniffed to communicate she would suit herself, thank you very much, but the butterflies in her belly and the glint in his eye told her Max Kirkpatrick knew the ball was very much in his court.

      He wasn’t at all what she’d expected when she’d heard about an A and E doctor who’d set up a multi-purpose garden where patients could grow carrots and play with their pets. For some reason she thought he’d be older. Like...granddad old. And not half as sexy as the man arcing rather dubious eyebrows at her.

      She called Skye to her and gave her head a little scrub. Here was someone she could rely on. Even as puppies, dogs were completely honest. Constant. Loyal.

      Men? Not so much. Something she’d learned the hard way after her entire life had been splashed across the tabloids as a naive twenty-year-old who’d been taken for a fool. These days the Esme Ross-Wylde people met was friendly, businesslike and, despite the inevitable tabloid update on her charitable activities, able to keep her private life exactly that. Private. Which was a good thing because the rate of knots at which she was mentally undressing him would’ve won a gold medal.

      ‘Are you going to tell me what the catch is or are you going to make me beg for it?’ His frown deepened. As if he was fighting exactly the same onslaught of images she was. Sexy ones that most definitely shouldn’t be drowning out any form of common sense.

      Normally sponsoring a struggling charity was incredibly straightforward.

      Normally she didn’t feel as though her entire body was being lit up like a Christmas tree. Flickering and shimmering in a way she hadn’t thought possible after years of protecting her broken heart. All of which was tying her insides in knots because feeling like a lusty teenager was not a safe way to feel. And yet...she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

       C’mon, Esme. You know the drill. Find a charity. Offer a lifeline in the form of a Christmas ball. Donate a couple of service dogs after two weeks of training up at Heatherglen. Job done.

      She forced herself to answer. ‘From what I hear, you might need my help.’

      The doctor crossed his arms and squared his six-foot-something form so that she could see nothing else but him. Classic macho male pose. Designed to intimidate.

      Although...she wasn’t really getting that vibe from Dr Kirkpatrick. It was more protective than aggressive. There was something about the ramrod-straight set of his spine that suggested he’d done some time in the forces. Her brother had had the same solid presence. Unlike everyone else, who was bundled up to the eyeballs, Max Kirkpatrick wore a light fleece top bearing the hospital logo over a set of navy scrubs and nothing else. A normal human would’ve been freezing.

      A normal human wouldn’t be messing with her no-men-for-Esme rule. This guy? Mmm... Dark chestnut-brown hair. A bit curly and wild. The type that was begging her fingers to scruff it up a bit more. Espresso brown eyes. The fathomless variety that gleamed with hints of gold when the sun caught them. Everything about him screamed tall, dark and mysterious. And she liked a mystery.

       No!

      She did not like mysteries. She liked steady and reliable. Although...steady and reliable hadn’t really floated her boat the last few times her brother had presented her with ‘suitable dating material’.

      Dr Kirkpatrick broke the silence first. ‘Any chance you’re going to explain this rather timely offer to rescue me?’

      Ah. She’d forgotten that part. An oversight she was going to blame on Skye for unearthing the softer side of this impenetrable mountain of man gloom towering over her. Sometimes being short was a real pain.

      ‘I run the Heatherglen Foundation. I founded it after my brother—an army man—and his service dog were killed in a conflict zone.’

      A muscle twitched in his jaw. She’d definitely been right about the military.

      She continued with more confidence, ‘I am particularly interested in helping charities that use animals as therapy and who, more to the point, are in danger of closing. It’s relatively straightforward. I select the charity, and in a few weeks the foundation will be hosting a Christmas ball, where the bulk of the funds raised will be donated to said charity, and ongoing support from the Heatherglen Foundation will also be provided.’

      ‘Sounds great. Have a good time!’ Max said in a ‘count me out’ tone.

      ‘But—it’ll save Plants to Paws.’ Didn’t he want his charity to survive? ‘The ball’s just before Christmas. It truly is a magical event.’

      He rolled his eyes. ‘So...what? Is this your stab at being Scotland’s very own Mrs Claus?’

      ‘There’s no need to be narky about it. I’m trying to help.’ She didn’t like Christmastime either. Her brother had been killed on Christmas Eve and ever since then her favourite time of year had been