‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have a warm house with access to a roaring fire, a bath and multiple clothing options thanks to my sisters … who will also be there, just in case you’re worried I’m an axe murderer,’ he added with a smile.

I couldn’t help but smile back.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘As long as your family forgive me for trespassing.’

‘Once they find out why, they’ll forgive you anything. This Christmas Eve will always be referred to as “that Christmas Eve the wildlife documentary-maker trespassed on our land”. Trust me, they’ll be delighted someone like you was the one doing it. What were you hoping to film here anyway, the bearded Scottish male?’ he asked, stroking his dark beard.

I shook my head. ‘I was filming a ptarmigan. I was actually lost and came across the loch.’

His handsome face lit up. ‘Beautiful birds. I see them a lot from the house, nestling up in the mountain there.’

We both looked towards the mountains and a hint of sadness flickered over his face. Then he turned to me, putting out his hand. ‘I’m Dylan, by the way.’

‘Gwyneth,’ I replied, taking his freezing hand and trying to ignore the spark of electricity between us.

As Dylan and I walked to the lodge, the sky turned a scarlet red, offering a stark contrast to the white of the lodge’s icy roof and the snow-fringed mountains beyond. It was really quite something.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ I said.

‘Yep,’ Dylan replied. But I sensed reluctance in his voice. I suppose he was used to the place.

When we got to the lodge, Dylan paused, taking a slug of whisky from his hipflask as he stared up at the windows. I couldn’t quite figure out the look on his face. It was like he was readying himself for battle. He turned and offered me some of his drink. I took his flask and had a quick sip before handing it back.

The lodge looked even bigger up close, fringed with a veranda and vast windows looking out over the lake. In one window was a Christmas tree that reached up towards a vaulted ceiling, scores of beautifully wrapped presents beneath it. A young boy of about four was sitting by a toy railway, watching in rapture as a small train letting out actual steam chugged by. Next to him, a black Labrador sat obediently. I wondered for a moment if the boy was Dylan’s son. Beyond the tree were two huge sofas facing each other, draped with fur throws, an ornate wooden coffee table between them, strewn with books and toys. Each window of the house had candles flickering in it, creating a warm, friendly glow.