Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
AINSLEY
Blair sets two glasses of white wine on our tiny table, one of the last free ones, tucked against the old stone wall where the din dips from deafening to merely chaotic.
The place is heaving: crowded but cosy, voices layered over one another, the whole pub buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the kind of debates that sound fierce but are really just friendly noise.
“I’m so glad you came out.” Blair slips into her chair. “I mean, I’ve got a few friends here now, but I’m still fairly new myself. Figured us newbies should stick together.” She lifts her glass in a toast.
I clink mine against hers. “Aye, of course.”
It’s just a drink, I remind myself. No big deal.
The wine is cool and sharp on my tongue, exactly what I need after a long day of smiling at strangers and trying to look like I’ve got everything under control.
“You look amazing, by the way.” Blair gestures at my outfit. “That dress is gorgeous.”
I smooth a hand over the soft fabric, a deep plum wrap dress that sits just above my knees. “Thanks. I do like to dress up, but I don’t get many chances these days.”
Even though Mum basically volunteered me for this, I did enjoy getting ready. Same soft-glam make-up I always wear, just dialled up a notch. Dress instead of jeans. Ankle boots with a heel.
Maybe a bit fancy for the Ferryman’s Rest, but it feels like armour. Like I’m still the version of myself who had her shit together before everything fell apart.
“So,” I say, leaning forwards, “the other day you mentioned falling for your boss. Sounds like there’s a story there.”
Blair arches an eyebrow. “SparkNotes or novel version?”
“Novel. Definitely novel.”
She launches into it—losing her gran, breaking up with her ex, and getting pushed out of her dream job in children’s publishing, all within a year. Heavy stuff, but she tells it with a wry tilt to her mouth, like she’s learnt to make peace with the wreckage.
“So,” she says, “I decided to come to Scotland to escape everything for a while. I took a nanny job to get back on my feet and found myself working for a very grumpy single dad. At least there wasn’t any danger of me catching feelings. Or so I thought.”
I laugh. “Let me guess, behind the grumpiness, he’s not so bad after all?”
“Oh, Lachlan can be stubborn and infuriating, but he’s a decent man. And gorgeous. He’s got a good heart. And . . .” She shrugs, a little sheepish. “He’s just . . . him. Rough edges and all. But everyone’s got them, right?”
I snort. “I’m practically made of them.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Blair reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, giving me a wee smile. “Anyway, what about you? Is Lily’s dad—”
“He’s not on the scene.”
The familiar tightness grips my chest—that hot, prickling sensation I get whenever anyone gets close to the topic. I should steer us somewhere else. Ask more about Lachlan. Comment on the wine. Anything.
But Blair’s been so open about her own life . . .
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Blair says. “We don’t need to talk about that. We can—”
“He was hooking up with my best friend behind my back.”
The words come out blunt. Graceless. Like I’ve coughed them up rather than chosen to say them. Blair’s eyes widen.
“That’s the real reason I came to Ardmara.” I exhale, my fingers tightening around my wine glass. Seeing as I’ve already told her the headline, I might as well tell her the rest. “Everyone back home knew. I couldn’t go to the shops without getting pitying looks or hearing whispers.”
And now I’ve told someone here, I realise. But it feels good to have said it out loud, if a wee bit terrifying too.
“Oh my God, Ainsley, that’s awful. I’m so sorry. Listen, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But if you do, I’m right here.”
I let out a shaky breath. “And if I’m dragging down the mood too much, just tell me to shut up.” I try for a smile. “But honestly? I wouldn’t mind getting some of it off my chest. It’s easier talking to someone who doesn’t know the whole cast list.”
Blair nods, her expression soft.
“Danny—Lily’s dad—and I were always on-again, off-again.
That didn’t change during the pregnancy, and it didn’t change after Lily was born.
Some weeks he’d stay with us, others he wouldn’t.
He never really settled into being a dad, but I kept telling myself that some kind of father was better for Lily than none. ”
I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip, the old humiliation crawling up my neck. “Then, during what I thought was an ‘on’ period, I caught him in bed with Rachel, my best friend since primary school. And in the argument that followed, I discovered it had been going on for months.”
“Jesus.” Blair shakes her head. “Lily’s father and your best friend . . . that’s a double betrayal.”
“So when this opportunity came up . . .”
“You ran.”
“I relocated,” I correct, though we both know she’s right. I swirl my wine. “I haven’t spoken to him since I told him I was leaving. He didn’t fight it.” A humourless laugh escapes me. “Looked relieved, actually.”
“For what it’s worth, they both sound like assholes who didn’t deserve you.”
This time, a genuine laugh slips out. “That’s one way to put it. I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. Not for me, but for Lily. She doesn’t understand what happened, and I don’t want her overhearing something that might upset her.”
“I won’t say a word,” Blair promises. “Not even to Lachlan.”
“Thanks.”
The sound of instruments tuning pulls my attention to the small stage area. I do a double take—because Struan’s there, guitar in hand, sitting between a woman with a fiddle and an older man with an accordion.
For the love of . . . he’s everywhere! Working in my salon, living next door to me, sitting in ball pits, catching me when I fall off chairs. And he plays guitar in a band too?
“That’s the Celtic Kicks,” Blair says, following my gaze. “The fiddler, Ellie, is a friend. Works at the library.” She catches my expression. “Oh, you’re not into folk music? I totally forgot to say they’d be playing.”
“No, I’m just . . . surprised.” I tilt my head towards Struan. “Had no idea he played. He’s doing my salon refurb. And he’s my neighbour.”
Blair smiles. “I know him a little from ‘soft play’ meet-ups, as you Brits call it. Lachlan, Struan, and another dad—Douglas—go most Saturdays. Actually, those three don’t even call it soft play. They call it ‘the Pit’.” She makes air quotes. “You know, because it’s the pits.”
I can’t help smirking. As a mum who’s spent her share of hours in soft-play hell, it’s a pretty accurate name.
Struan’s laugh carries across the room—rich and deep, cutting through the general noise. My eyes find him again before I can stop myself. He’s leaning towards Ellie, head tipped as he adjusts his guitar, chuckling at something she’s said.
“So, Struan and Ellie, are they . . . ?” I wave my hand vaguely, trying for casual.
“No, no. They’re definitely just friends.”
Right. Just friends. Figures. Men like him never limit their charm to one woman.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom before they start,” Blair says. “Be right back.”
Left alone, my gaze drifts straight back to Struan. I really shouldn’t look, but I’ve had wine and he’s right there.
His work jeans have been traded for . . . another pair of equally worn jeans. He’s in a faded checked shirt over a white T-shirt, and his hair’s in a half-up ponytail—deliberately messy, firmly in sexy territory. He looks completely at ease, legs stretched out, guitar resting on his lap.
He adjusts the tuning pegs with practised ease, a strand of hair falling across his face, his long fingers moving with hypnotic precision.
Ugh. Could this man love himself any more?
He taps the mic. “Evening, folks. For those of you new here . . .” His gaze sweeps the crowd and lands squarely on me. Heat flickers up my neck before I can stop it. Of course he’s seen me. Of course.
I raise an eyebrow at him, my best “I’m not impressed” look.
His smile widens.
“We’re the Celtic Kicks. I’m Struan on guitar, this is Ellie on fiddle, and Rab here is on the box.”
A wolf whistle rings out from the bar. “Looking good, Rapunzel!”
Laughter ripples through the room. Struan tips his head and gives his hair a mock toss.
God, he soaks up the pub’s attention like it’s his birthright. While the rest of us go through life riddled with anxieties, everything is sunny and rosy in the world of Struan Walker. Meanwhile, I can barely hand out flyers without panicking about people whispering behind my back.
“Right, then. Tonight’s a bit of a mix—plenty of folk, and we’ll throw in a few ceilidh reels too. If you’ve got a favourite, keep it in mind and shout at us near the end.”
The first song kicks in—Ellie’s fiddle bright and soaring, the accordion weaving through, Struan’s guitar providing a warm, steady foundation. The rhythm is infectious, impossible not to move to.
Much to my annoyance.
“They’re catchy, right?” Blair says, sliding back into her seat.
“Aye,” I admit grudgingly. Only then do I notice my traitorous fingers are tapping against the table.
We try to continue our conversation over the music, but my attention keeps drifting to the stage.
To the way Struan’s fingers move over the strings—smooth, confident.
By the second song, we give up on talking altogether, both of us bobbing along to the beat.
A few couples link arms and spin in the limited open space.
Others bounce in place, pints sloshing dangerously.
The third song is fast and playful, a duel between Ellie’s bow and Struan’s fretting hand. Halfway through, he rises to his feet, legs braced wide as his fingers fly over the strings.
Oh, come on! Does he think he’s performing at the Hydro?
And yet, those hands . . . I can’t look away from them. The same ones that fixed my light, that caught me when I fell.
It’s the wine. Definitely the wine.