Technically, I’m not, but I appreciate the gesture.
“Derrick, you’re here.” Tavish grabs me, pulling me away from his dad before Arran comes over and hugs me, too, both acting like excitable puppies.
“It’s cold out, guys, let’s move inside,” Lord Fraser says.
“I’ll grab the bags,” Rowan states.
“I’ll help,” Tavish says.
The Sinclairs lead us inside their holiday castle, and I’m blown away, it’s gorgeous. The foyer alone looks like something ripped straight from a period drama. The ceilings are impossibly high, crisscrossed with dark timber beams polished to a warm sheen. A massive iron chandelier hangs above us, dripping with candles that flicker golden light across the stone walls. Everything feels ancient and grand … but also lived in. Loved. Soft tartan runners stretch over the old flagstone floors. The walls are lined with framed oil portraits, stern-looking men in kilts, women in ballgowns, and it hits me that these are their ancestors.Actual ancestors.Not reproductions. Hundreds of years of real family history staring down at us. A huge fireplace dominates the far wall, flames crackling warmly, filling the space with the smell of woodsmoke. Someone, probably Davina, has decorated the mantle with fresh greenery, red ribbons, and fairy lights that cast little glitters across the room. And despite the castle vibe, it doesn’t feel cold or intimidating. It feels … welcoming. Cozy, somehow. A place built for noise and for family.
Charlie squeezes my arm with a quiet, “Wow.”
“I know, right?”
Lord Fraser is ushering us forward like proud parents showing off their home as he lists off the historical content like our very own tour guide. To our right is a sitting room with oversized tartan couches, wool blankets draped everywhere, and a Christmas tree big enough to have its own postal code. There’s a stack of board games, a whiskey cart gleaming amber in the firelight, and a black Labrador asleep by the hearth like he owns the place.
Further down the hall, the castle opens into a huge dining area, the table long enough to seat a small army. A candelabra sits in the center, surrounded by evergreen branches and silver ornaments. Everything smells like cinnamon, pine, and something delicious cooking, roast meat maybe, or some kind of Scottish feast I’m not emotionally prepared for.
My boots click softly against the stone as we walk deeper inside, and I swear every room feels like a secret revealed. The ceilings grow higher, the hallways narrower, then suddenly open to grand spaces lit by firelight and lamps instead of harsh bulbs. It’s warm, intimate, even with all the grandeur.
Davina turns back to me with a bright, excited smile. “I have a room especially set up for the two of you.”
“Hope you like plaid,” Arran teases, his mother shakes her head at his teasing.
I laugh. “I can handle plaid.”
“Good. I knew you had taste.” She smiles. “This way.” She gestures down the corridor. “We wanted you to have your own space, so you feel comfortable. And if there’s anything you need, anything at all, you just tell me.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “Really. This means … a lot.”
She reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “You’re part of us now, Derrick. And we take care of our own.” My heart cracks open right there on the castle floor.
Davina releases my hand and sweeps forward, her velvet skirt sliding against the stone floor as she leads us down one of the long hallways. The castle somehow gets more beautiful the deeper we go. Antique sconces glow warmly on the walls. A suit of armor stands proudly in an alcove, polished to a shine. A massive tapestry hangs along one side, depicting horses and a hunting party, and Tavish winks at me as we pass.
“That’s our great-great-great something-or-other,” he whispers. “Total dickhead, apparently.”
Davina spins around, scandalized. “Tavish Fraser Sinclair, mind your language in the house!”
“What?” He shrugs. “History’s history.”
Arran nudges him. “He means sorry, Mum.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Callum corrects, laughing.
“Boys.” Davina sighs, but her eyes sparkle with affection. “Honestly, Derrick, they’re feral.”
“They’re perfect,” I say before I can stop myself.
And they are. Chaotic. Loud. Ridiculous. But pure family.
Charlie slips his fingers between mine as we continue down the hallway. “You fit right in,” he whispers. And for the first time, I believe it.
Davina pushes open a wooden door with an ornate brass handle. “Here we are, darling. Your room.”
I step inside and stop dead. It’s … stunning. A huge four-poster bed sits in the center, draped with tartan blankets and crisp white linens. Candles flicker on the dresser. A giant window looks out onto endless snow-covered hills, the horizon glowing softly in the fading winter light. The room smells faintly of cedar and something sweet. There’s even a little basket onthe bed filled with toiletries, slippers, snacks, and a handwritten note tucked on top.
Welcome home.
