Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
STRUAN
The sound hits me before I even open the salon door—high-pitched wailing mixed with words I can’t quite make out. I pause, hand on the handle, wondering if I should come back in five minutes. But then I hear Ainsley’s voice, stretched thin as wire, and curiosity wins.
I push inside to find Lily flat on her back on the floor, face tomato-red, fists balled at her sides. Full-blown tantrum mode. Ainsley’s crouched beside her in fitted jeans that do excellent things for her arse—not that I’m looking—trying to reason with a four-year-old who’s gone nuclear.
“Lily, nursery lunch is lovely. It’s baked potatoes today. You like potatoes.”
“No! They’re yucky!” Lily’s legs kick against the floor. “I want a packed lunch!”
“I’ve not had time to do a proper shop. We’ve only just moved in, remember? I promise I’ll get you a packed lunch sorted for tomo—”
“I want it TODAY!”
Ainsley’s shoulders slump. Then she glances behind her and spots me in the doorway. For a second I see it all—the exhaustion, the frustration, the embarrassment. Then her walls slam back up, shoulders tightening, chin lifting.
“Oh, Struan.” She straightens. “Sorry about this. We’ll be out of your way in a minute. I need to drop this one off at nursery.”
I set down my toolbox and crouch down by Lily. “Hey there, Lily. What’s all this about?”
Ainsley stiffens—a flicker of tension I can’t quite read.
“I don’t have a packed lunch and nursery lunch is horrible,” Lily announces, still lying flat on her back, delivering her grievances to the ceiling.
“Oh dear, now that is a problem,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. I unzip my rucksack and pull out my lunch bag. “Tell you what, how about you have mine? It’s just a cheese sandwich, nothing fancy. Oh, and an apple too.”
Lily sits up so fast she nearly headbutts me. “Really?”
“Course.”
She snatches the bag out of my hand before I can change my mind, then peers inside like it contains treasure. “Mmm! This is a good lunch!”
I glance at Ainsley. She’s staring at me, lips slightly parted in . . . relief? Or annoyance? Hard to tell with her. She’s a puzzle I haven’t worked out yet. Whatever it is, she quickly schools her expression, forcing on a polite smile—all surface, no warmth. “Lily, what do you say to Struan?”
“Thank you, Stwuan!” Lily beams up at me, tears already drying on her cheeks. Crisis averted, just like that.
I stand, and Ainsley smooths down her top—that same nervous gesture from the other day. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“It’s just a sandwich.” I shrug. “I can pick myself up something from the Lighthouse Café instead.”
“Even so . . . thanks. Really.” Her voice is tight, like thanking me is the last thing she wants to do. Strange. I’m not used to women being this frosty with me. Maybe she’s just proud. Or private. Or both.
“No bother.”
Lily peers up at me. “Where’s Isla?”
“She’s with her mummy, getting ready for school.”
“Oh.” Lily’s brow furrows. “You don’t live with her mummy, do you?”
Ainsley winces. “Sorry, she’s four. There’s no filter.”
“It’s all right,” I say with a smile. “And no, I don’t live with Isla’s mummy.”
“I don’t see my daddy. Mummy says he’s a bloody b—”
Ainsley clamps a hand over Lily’s mouth. “Lily! We don’t repeat grown-up words, remember?”
I press my lips together, fighting back a laugh. Lily’s eyes sparkle with mischief above her mum’s fingers.
“Right,” Ainsley says, releasing Lily’s mouth and grabbing her hand instead. “We need to go. Nursery drop-off, then I’ve got a few errands to run.” She looks at me, all business now. “You know what you’re doing here? You and your da went over everything?”
“Aye, all sorted. First, I’ll remove the old fixtures, then I’ll start sanding, patching, and prepping the walls. Actually, I should get your number.”
Her eyes narrow. “My number?” The suspicion in her voice could curdle milk.
“In case anything comes up I need to run by you. Don’t worry, professional purposes only.”
She watches me for a long moment, like she’s weighing up whether this is some line. Then she exhales and recites the digits like she’s handing over state secrets.
“Let me just check I entered that right.” I hit call, and Ainsley’s back pocket erupts with the sound of ducks quacking. Loud, enthusiastic quacking.
I can’t help it—I quack back. Lily dissolves into giggles.
“Lily chose it,” Ainsley says a little defensively.
“It’s brilliant.” I save the number. “Good choice, Lily.”
“Anyway,” Ainsley says, “I’ll be back later.”
“Yes, boss.”
Her mouth tightens—she doesn’t love that—but she lets it go. She steers Lily towards the door, though Lily turns back and waves before she leaves. “Bye, Stwuan!”
That little lisp on my name—Christ, it’s adorable. “Bye, Lily. Enjoy the sandwich.”
The door closes behind them, and I’m left in the sudden quiet of the empty salon.
I should get straight to work—there’s plenty to do—but I hover a moment longer, replaying that interaction.
Ainsley’s a hard one to read, all edges and defences, but there have been a couple of times now when I thought something else was about to crack through.
And then the walls came back up again.
I shake my head and grab my tools.
Focus, Walker. She’s your neighbour. Your boss for this refurb. And she’s clearly dealing with some shite involving her ex.
But as I set to dismantling the first of the old styling stations, my mind drifts back to Saturday. How she felt in my arms when I caught her—both times. There had been this spark . . . this pull.
Or at least, I thought there had been. Seems I was the only one feeling it.
Yesterday I’d kept finding excuses to be in the back garden with Isla, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ainsley.
Pathetic, really. She and Lily didn’t make an appearance, though I did hear them through an open window at one point—Ainsley doing silly voices while she and Lily played some game, both of them laughing.
In those moments she sounded very different to the woman who keeps me at arm’s length with clipped words and cool stares.
Aye, she’s a bit of an enigma, my new neighbour.
Professional, I remind myself, attacking a stubborn screw with more force than necessary. Keep it professional, Walker.
When Ainsley returns just before noon, I’m crouched by the far wall, attacking years of neglect with sandpaper, sweat making my T-shirt stick to my back. My forearms burn from the repetitive motion, but it’s good, honest work.
I turn to greet her only to notice her blinking once, twice, then jerking her gaze away from me. Interesting. Maybe the attraction between us isn’t one-way. She smooths down her top then strides towards me with a paper bag in hand.
“Replacement sandwich.” She thrusts it at me like she’s paying off a debt she desperately wants cleared. “From the Lighthouse Café.”
I stand and wipe my hands on my jeans. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Aye, well, you shouldn’t go hungry because of Lily.” Her words are to the point but not unkind. “Cheese and pickle. Hope that’s fine.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
She nods once—transaction complete—and looks around the salon, taking in the bare walls and the empty spaces where the old stations used to be. “You’ve cracked on, I see.”
“Aye.” I bob my head towards the street. “Already loaded the van with all the old fittings and furniture for the skip.”
“Good.” She pulls out her phone and angles it for a selfie—even her closed smile is professional. “For the salon’s socials,” she explains, then disappears into the small kitchenette at the back.
I follow with my sandwich. “Mind if I sit at the bar for lunch?”
A pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.
“Oh. Aye, sure.” She sits on a stool, eyes on her phone. “I’ll mostly be working, though.”
Translation: don’t expect conversation. Don’t expect friendliness. Don’t expect anything.
Jesus. I’m going to be here for two weeks. We don’t need to be pals, but a bit less frost wouldn’t hurt.
I settle beside her at the cramped breakfast bar. She immediately shifts a few inches further along, creating whatever space she can between us. Even so, I catch a glimpse of her phone, open on her Instagram profile, “The Lily Room”.
“Nice,” I say. “You’re naming this place after your wee girl?”
She glances up, and for once there’s no guard, no walls. A real smile lights her face—and wow, it’s a good one. She really is stunning.
“Aye. She drives me up the wall sometimes, but she’s my world. Felt right to name the salon after her.”
I nod, the corners of my own mouth lifting. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “And how are you settling in?” I ask, keen to keep the conversation going. “Ardmara treating you well so far?”
“It’s fine.” Her smile dims slightly. “Different from where I was before, but that’s not a bad thing.”
“Where were you—”
“Sorry, I’ve got things to do.” Her tone returns to arctic in a heartbeat. She takes out her laptop, opens it, and angles both it and herself away from me, radiating a quiet but unmistakable “don’t talk to me” energy.
Bloody hell. Seriously, what did I do to this woman?
With no further hopes of conversation, I pull out my phone and scroll through the news while I eat, but my attention keeps drifting.
Ainsley is close enough that I catch hints of her perfume—something warm and sophisticated, like vanilla mixed with something spicy.
Expensive-smelling. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in closer, find out exactly where she’s dabbed it on her skin.
Keep it professional, I remind myself.
I try to focus on the sports article I’m reading, but when Ainsley lets out a small noise of frustration, I glance up.
She’s chewing her bottom lip, completely absorbed in whatever’s on her screen.
For a moment I can’t help but stare, drawn in by the way she unconsciously nibbles and sucks on that pouty lip.
Christ, Walker. Behave. Don’t be a creep.
Needing a distraction, I fire off a quick message to Sophie, Isla’s mum.
Struan
Isla left her water bottle at mine yesterday. I can swing by with it later, if you like
Sophie
LOL, you don’t have to drive forty minutes here and forty minutes back to drop off a water bottle. I had a spare. She took that to school today. It’s fine
Right. Of course it’s fine. Aye, I was hardly going to drive eighty bloody minutes to return a water bottle. I just . . . wouldn’t have minded seeing my wee girl for five minutes. Which is ridiculous, given I saw her only yesterday.
Sophie
Anyway, how’s the salon job going?
Struan
Good. The owner’s a bit prickly but the work’s straightforward
Sophie
Prickly? That’s not like you. Usually you charm everyone within five minutes
Struan
Maybe I’m losing my touch
Sophie
Ha! When pigs fly
Struan
Give Isla a kiss from me when you pick her up from school?
Sophie
Mei’s picking up Isla today, but I’ll give her one when I see her x
Struan
Okay. Cheers x
Mei is Sophie’s girlfriend. She’s great. I mean, sure, it took me a wee while to get used to it when things between them got more serious. It shifted the dynamic a bit. But we’ve settled into a decent routine now.
I finish my sandwich. “Right, I’m going to head back to work. Mind if I put some music on?”
Ainsley waves a hand without looking up. “Whatever you like.”
I connect my phone to my portable speaker and queue up some Fleetwood Mac. “Dreams” fills the space, mellow and familiar. Ainsley doesn’t object, which I take as a win.
The afternoon settles into a rhythm. Sand, wipe, check for rough spots, repeat. Ainsley types and clicks and occasionally makes these tiny frustrated sounds she probably doesn’t realise she’s making. Once, passing the kitchenette, I catch her tapping her foot to “Go Your Own Way”.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks after a while, peering out from the back. Her voice is polite but formal, like she’s ticking a box rather than offering an olive branch.
“Aye, please. Milk, one sugar.”
She nods and disappears again. A minute later she returns, coming over to pass me the mug. She rotates it just so, making sure I take the handle, as if determined our fingers won’t brush. I accept it with a nod of thanks and we go back to our separate tasks.
We don’t speak. The atmosphere isn’t frosty, but it isn’t exactly companionable either. Just . . . focused.
The peace holds for another hour. Then—
“Fuck’s sake!”
I’m working on the wall closest to the kitchenette. I look over and spot her scowling at her laptop screen.
“Everything all right?”
“Just a supplier being a pain in the arse.” She grabs her phone. “Give me a sec.”
I keep my eyes on the wall as I continue to work, but it’s impossible not to overhear the call, at least her half of it.
“Hi, yes, this is Ainsley Reid from the Lily Room . . . Right, about that delivery date we agreed . . . No, that’s not what we discussed . . .”
A pause, then—her voice as sharp as cut glass—“I’m not your ‘darling’. Now, about the delivery. We agreed on the eighteenth. I have it in writing . . . Yes, I’m sure you’re very busy, but so am I, and I need that stock in for my opening . . .”
Something tightens low in my gut—anger at whoever’s on the other end not taking her seriously. But Christ, the way she handles him, not raising her voice but not backing down either. It’s impressive. Pretty damn hot too.
“I’ll expect confirmation by email within the hour,” she finishes, and sets the phone down.
“You handled that well,” I comment.
She glances at me, and I catch a flicker of something—embarrassment, maybe, that I heard the whole thing.
But she schools her expression fast and, without further comment, packs up her laptop.
“I need to go collect Lily now.” She pulls a key from her pocket.
“Here. A spare, so you can lock up when you’re done. ”
I take it then she strides for the door. My gaze drops, unhelpfully, to the sway of her hips, the way those jeans hug her curves, before I drag my eyes back up.
Christ, Walker. Get a grip.
The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with mellow seventies rock drifting from the speaker and the faint trace of Ainsley’s perfume hanging in the air.
I scrub a hand through my hair, probably spreading sawdust everywhere.
She’s my neighbour. My temporary boss. And clearly not interested in anything beyond professional distance. I should not be drawn to her.
And yet . . . she’s hard not to notice.