Chapter Text
Claire Beauchamp was a successful paediatrician, a jazz bar enthusiast, and an unapologetic book nerd. She could now add “divorcee” to that list.
Thank God.
Claire and Frank Randall had been together ten years, married for eight. Unfortunately, Frank’s interpretation of til death do us part had translated loosely to til I find someone younger and easier to control and at twenty-nine, she found herself alone - legally free, emotionally bruised, but oddly lighter than she had felt in years.
She had always wanted a family. That part still hurt. An only child, orphaned at five, she’d been raised by her Uncle Lamb — archaeologist, adventurer, the only true constant in her life. He had died just before she graduated medical school. Frank had been her last remaining anchor.
When that dissolved, Claire realised she had been anchoring herself all along.
Paediatrics had found her early - one rotation in a children’s hospital and she’d known. If she could not build her own family the way she’d dreamed - and years of infertility had made that painfully clear - she would fight for other people’s children instead.
Frank had coped differently.
With PhD students. Men and women alike, which had been an unpleasant surprise Claire hadn’t anticipated.
But that was two years ago now.
This morning, she’d woken to the final email from her solicitor. Divorce finalised. Freedom delivered.
And somehow, here she was - being stood up again.
Claire checked her watch. Forty-five minutes. Ridiculous. This was meant to be one last attempt before she left London. A blind date arranged by her best friend and fellow doctor, Geillis Duncan. Apparently, this man had been “charming.” Charming men, Claire had discovered, rarely arrived on time.
Or at all.
She exhaled sharply and muttered under her breath, “What exactly am I doing wrong?”
“I think the only thing ye’re doing wrong, lass, is giving the man more time to disappoint ye.”
The voice was warm. Amused. Deep enough to vibrate in her chest. Claire looked up. And promptly forgot how to breathe.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tailored suit stretched across a frame that looked carved rather than constructed. Hair the colour of burnished copper, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. And eyes - God - blue enough to make the Thames jealous.
She realised she was staring.
“Lass?” he prompted, one brow lifting.
“Oh. I - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” He grinned.
“I dinna mind.” Her stomach flipped.
“You’re right,” she said, clearing her throat. “I have waited far too long.”
“Can I bring ye another drink then?”
Tempting. Very tempting.
“I really should go,” she replied. “You have a full restaurant.”
His smile twitched, as though he knew something she didn’t. “Aye. That I do.”
He stepped away and Claire allowed herself a slow breath.
Bloody hell.
Perhaps this night wasn’t entirely wasted.
He returned quickly - far too quickly for someone waiting tables - carrying two glasses of whisky.
He set one in front of her. And sat down.
“Mind if I join ye? I’m finished for the evening.” Claire blinked.
“Oh. Of course.” She extended her hand automatically. “Claire Beauchamp.”
He took it gently - his palm warm, calloused - and instead of shaking it, lifted her knuckles to his lips.
Her pulse jumped.
“James,” he said. A beat of hesitation - barely noticeable. “James… MacKenzie. But ye can call me Jamie.” His accent wrapped around her name like something intimate.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said softly.