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 shrouded in painful memories, but it didn’t mean she took it out on others. Quite the opposite, in fact. The Christmas ball was her attempt to recapture the love she had for the festive season. Ten years and counting and it still had yet to take.

      He opened his hands out wide. ‘How would you feel if the one thing you’d poured three years of hard graft into was going to be paved over for a pay by the minute car park? At Christmas.’

      ‘I’d do everything in my power to save it.’

      ‘Trust a stranger I’ve never met to save a charity she’ll most likely never make use of? I don’t think so.’

      She was hardly going to tell him to search the internet because, depending on which site he hit, he could definitely get the wrong impression. She took a deep breath and started over. ‘The donors are personally selected by me. People who believe in giving back to communities that have treated them well.’ The look he threw her spoke volumes. He wasn’t biting. She spluttered, ‘Think of it as your first Christmas present.’

      ‘I don’t trust things that come in pretty wrapping.’

      The way he looked at her made it crystal clear he wasn’t talking about ribbons and sparkly paper. He was talking about her.

      Now, that was irritating.

      She wasn’t some little airhead who bolstered her ego by doing seasonal acts of charity.

      He shoved up his sleeve to check his watch. ‘I’ve got patients to see and bad news to dispense, so if you don’t mind…?’

      ‘I do, actually. I mind very much.’

      He rolled his finger with a ‘get on with it’ spin.

      What was with the attitude? Founders who believed in their charities tended to drop it. Not this guy. Either he’d been royally screwed around at some point or was just plain old chippy. Even worse, somehow, in a handful of seconds, Max Kirkpatrick had slipped directly under her thick winter coat, beneath her cashmere sweater and burrowed right under her skin, making this interaction feel shockingly personal.

      The Heatherglen Foundation wasn’t a platform for her to prance about Scotland, giving away her family’s money. It was the one good thing that had come out of the most painful chapters in her life. As quickly as she’d been unnerved by his attitude, she’d had enough. She wasn’t going to beg this man to take her money. He didn’t want it? He couldn’t have it.

      She wiped her hands together as if ridding them of something distasteful. ‘I came here with a genuine offer of help and a list of donors as long as my arm. If you’re not interested in stopping Gavin Henshall from paving Plants to Paws over, I’ll be on my way.’

      He blinked. Twice.

      Ooh. Had she found a chink in the strong, silent man’s armour?

      ‘I suspect it’ll take more than a few thousand to keep Henshall at bay.’

      He was right. She told him how much the last charity she’d sponsored had received.

      He blinked again. ‘Can we skip straight to the what do I need to do to get the money part?’

      Blunt. But it was a damn sight better than being dismissed as a bit of society fluff.

      Her frown must’ve deepened because he suddenly folded into a courtly bow before unleashing an unexpectedly lavish charm offensive. ‘I do humbly ask your forgiveness. Etiquette school clearly failed me. I didn’t mean to be rude, Miss Ross-Wylde. Or is it Mrs?’

      ‘Ms,’ Esme snipped.

      His eyes narrowed. Probably the same way hers had when he’d stiffened at the mention of Gavin Henshall.

      He’d found her chink. She’d found his. Normally this would be her cue to run for the hills. But something about him made her want to know what made him tick. Sugar. Why couldn’t Max Kirkpatrick have looked like a troll or been long since married to his childhood sweetheart? She checked his ring finger.

      Empty.

      Her heart soared so fast she barely knew what to do with herself.

      Explain the details. Accept his refusal—because