Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
AINSLEY
The morning sun filters through the whitewashed windows, casting the salon in soft, diffused light. Struan’s clearly been hard at work since I was last here two days ago. Things are starting to take shape.
“The colour makes such a difference,” I say as he walks me through his progress.
The rose-gold feature wall glows at the far end, warm and inviting, while the other walls—a softer, toned-down blush—balance it out perfectly.
It’s exactly how I pictured it when I picked the colours from tiny sample cards.
“Glad you like it.” Struan flashes a smile that probably gets him free coffee all over town.
Ugh. No, I’m here to inspect walls, not grins that belong in a toothpaste advert. If there’s something pleasant about his smile, that’s completely irrelevant.
“Thanks for the Wi-Fi, by the way,” I say, keeping my tone brisk. “Got a lot done. Anyway, I should—”
“Here, I’ve got a few more things to show you.”
His tone is warm—annoyingly warm. This is exactly the kind of charm that got me into trouble before. Easy smiles, helpful gestures, making me feel like I’m centre stage and everyone else is scenery. I know how this story ends.
He flips a switch, and instead of the old harsh spotlights, soft white bulbs bathe the space in a relaxing glow, the kind that’ll make clients look good even before I’ve touched their hair.
“Less dentist, more salon?” he suggests.
“They look great,” I admit, and a little thrill runs through me that has nothing to do with the man standing beside me. Because this is actually happening. My salon is coming together, piece by piece.
I pull out my phone and snap a quick selfie in front of the feature wall, captioning it “transformation in progress!” before uploading it to Instagram.
“And now for the big reveal.” Struan strides to the front of the salon where something large sits under a tarpaulin. He whips it off with a flourish, the movement pulling his jeans tight across his arse, and for a moment I’m embarrassingly distracted by—
“What do you think?”
My eyes snap up, heat flooding my cheeks. Oh God, he caught me staring at his—
But no, he’s looking at the bench. The gorgeous custom-built waiting bench he’s made, all smooth lines and elegant curves.
For God’s sake, Ainsley. Get a grip.
I dig my nails into my palm, using the small sting to pull myself together. I didn’t come to Ardmara to ogle joiners. I came here to build something stable for Lily and me. Not to make the same stupid mistakes all over again.
“It’s . . .” I clear my throat. “You’ve done a brilliant job. Really.”
“Glad you think so.” He gives the bench a once-over. “Won’t fix it in place until the flooring’s sorted, of course.”
I fish my planner from my bag, grateful to have something to do with my hands. “And the new flooring’s going down when?”
“First thing Monday.” He glances at the tired vinyl tiles. “Da’s helping, so we should have it done by Tuesday afternoon at the latest. Then I can start assembling the rest of the furniture.”
I jot the details down and make a mental note to double-check the furniture delivery dates. I can feel his gaze on me as I write, and when I glance up, he’s looking at my hair.
I wore it down today, curled at the ends in soft, bouncy spirals.
It took me forty-five minutes this morning—an indulgence I can rarely afford with a four-year-old.
I didn’t do it for him, obviously. No, I need to look the part if I’m going to convince this town to trust me with their hair. It’s branding. Professionalism.
His gaze lingers a heartbeat too long, warm enough to make my stomach tighten, and that just irritates me more. I don’t want to react to him. I don’t want to feel anything when he looks at me.
Then the door opens, pulling Struan’s focus from me.
“Cooey!” Mum bustles in, carrying a stack of flyers. “Oh, this place looks great!”
“You must be Mrs Reid.” Struan extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Struan.”
Mum beams at him. “So polite. And handsome too! Lucky you, Ainsley, having him live next door.”
Oh God. Could she be any more embarrassing?
“We should get going,” I say. “Lots of ground to cover today.”
“Of course.” Struan’s lips twitch. “Well, I’ll just be here, working on your salon and being handsome.”
Mum actually giggles. Giggles! Like she’s sixteen instead of sixty-two.
Kill me now.
I grab her arm and steer her towards the door before she can mortify me any further. “Thanks for the update, Struan. See you later.”
As soon as we’re safely outside, I release Mum’s arm and round on her. “You’re terrible!”
“What? He is handsome. I tell you, if I were thirty years younger and single—”
“Mum! Does it not occur to you that he’s exactly like Danny was? All grins and patter. How did that work out for me?”
Mum’s expression softens. “Sorry, love. Honestly, I was just being friendly.”
I blow out. Maybe I’m overreacting. But the wound is still too raw, and Struan’s particular brand of casual confidence hits too close to home.
“Anyway, where first?” Mum asks, wisely changing the subject.
We start with the boutique next door. The bell above the door chimes as we step inside, the scent of expensive wool and lavender potpourri wrapping around us. My stomach flutters—this is it, my first real pitch to the locals—but I push my shoulders back and paste on my brightest smile.
A woman behind the counter looks up, her faded blonde bob tucked neatly behind her ears.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Ainsley Reid. I’m opening the new salon next—”
“Oh, fantastic!” She brightens. “I’m Moira. So you’re taking over Maggie’s old place, eh? She did my hair for years, and I always went for the same thing. But honestly, I’ve been thinking for a while it’s time for a change. What would you do with this?” She gestures to her bob.
My stylist brain switches on instantly. I take in the colour, the texture, the way it frames her face.
“I’d add some lowlights for dimension, maybe a bit of honey to warm it up, and for the cut . . .” I tilt my head, visualising. “A graduated bob, slightly shorter at the back, would give you more volume and frame your face beautifully.”
Her eyes light up. “Sold! Book me in. For opening day, if you’ve got a slot.”
“I do.” I pull out my phone and bring up the booking app. “How’s ten o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
By the time we leave, Moira’s got a handful of flyers and has promised to put one in her window. I walk out feeling lighter, a spark of confidence flaring in my chest.
See? I can do this.
We continue along the seafront, popping into the bakery, where the owner promises to mention me to her regulars, then the Lighthouse Café, where I leave a stack of flyers by the till. With each friendly chat, my confidence builds.
Outside the corner shop, a group of older women stand chatting. They listen politely as I tell them about the salon, but when one flips the flyer over and scans the price list, her eyebrows shoot up.
“Maggie never charged anything close to this,” she says. “And this is with your opening discount?”
“Well, the services are quite different,” I explain, keeping my voice pleasant. “I specialise in modern cutting techniques, balayage, colour correction—”
The women exchange a look, the kind that needs no translation. As Mum and I walk on, fragments of their conversation drift after us:
“. . . daylight robbery . . .”
“. . . Maggie did my hair for twenty years . . .”
“. . . she won’t get customers with those prices . . .”
And just like that, my fragile confidence takes a hit. Because what if they’re right? What if I’ve completely misjudged this? I don’t just want this business to succeed, I need it to. There’s too much at stake for it to fail.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Mum says, patting my shoulder. “Folk can be resistant to change, especially the older generation. But they’ll come round when they see how fabulous you are.”
I want to believe her but doubt is already nibbling away at my resolve.
We’re down to our last few flyers when a voice calls, “Ainsley! Hi!” Blair appears with Gus trotting beside her, his tail wagging enthusiastically.
“Hello, Gus.” I give him a pat. “And hi, Blair. This is my mum, Pauline. Mum, this is Blair.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Mum says warmly.
“You too.”
We fall into easy small talk, about the salon, Mum’s first impressions of Ardmara, the mischief Gus got up to this morning. Then Blair asks, “Have you had any luck figuring out childcare? For that drink we talked about?”
I open my mouth to make my excuses, but Mum jumps in before I can speak.
“Oh, I’ll babysit! Tonight, if you like. Lily and I can have a wee girls’ night. Paint our nails, watch some cartoons, drink hot chocolate.”
I bite back the urge to tell Mum to stay out of this. Blair, though, is already running with the idea.
“Really? That would be amazing. Eight o’clock at the Ferryman’s Rest?”
And just like that, I’m trapped. “Er . . . okay, sure. Eight o’clock.” I manage a smile, pretending I’m a normal woman with a normal past who knows how to make friends.
“Awesome! See you then.” She heads off with Gus, leaving me to give Mum a pointed look.
“Thanks, Mum. I’ve got so much to do at the moment. Going out for drinks wasn’t on the agenda.”
“A night out will be good for you. And it’s a chance to meet new people, make new friends.”
“Hmm.” It’s one thing putting on a professional smile to drum up business. Quite another to sit in a pub with someone I barely know and let them see past the polished surface.
“Look,” Mum says, “I know how hard this has been for you, but you’ve got to see Ardmara as a fresh start. Not every man you meet will be like Danny. And not every woman will be like Rachel.”
Hearing their names is like pressing on a bruise that hasn’t healed. I’m saved from having to answer when a couple rounds the corner. I paste on a smile and hand them a flyer. “Hi! I’m opening a new hair salon on the seafront . . .”