Chapter 8 #2
For a split second, entirely uninvited, I imagine those fingers skimming over my skin instead of the guitar. Starting at my collarbone, trailing lower . . . lower . . .
Oh God.
I glance up and catch him watching me watching him. He grins.
I flush and grab my wine, draining what’s left.
Wait. Was drinking more wine a good idea or a bad one?
Either way, when I risk another look, his attention is mercifully elsewhere.
During the next reel, Struan throws in what can only be described as a cheeky jig, deliberately hamming it up. More wolf whistles. The whole pub’s laughing now, feet stamping, hands clapping. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple and his cheeks are flushed, but his grin is pure mischief.
Blair starts clapping and shoots me a smile. I join in, reluctant at first, but the mood is infectious. The music thrums through the floorboards, vibrates in my chest. Before I know it, I’m laughing along with everyone else, experiencing a kind of carefree abandon I haven’t felt in months.
Struan’s eyes find mine again—and he winks.
I stop clapping. Glare. Look away.
Blair notices but turns back to the music without comment.
God, he actually winked. Does he think he’s some kind of rock star?
I reach for my glass but it’s empty. So is Blair’s. I’m just standing to get us another round when the song ends and Struan speaks into the mic.
“Right, this next one’s a wee vocal piece. ‘Mo Nighean Donn’.”
I sink back down. He sings too? And in Gaelic?
The drinks can wait a few minutes.
The instruments fall silent. Struan closes his eyes and his voice fills the space—deep, melodic, threaded with something bittersweet. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The whole room goes still, like we’re all afraid to breathe and break the spell. Even the clatter from the bar seems to hush.
At this point, I’m not even surprised. Of course he can sing. I just hate that it gives me goosebumps.
When he finishes, the silence is almost startling.
Then he cracks one eye open, grins, and his playful self slides back into place. “All right! Back to being lively. On your feet, grab a partner—there’s not much room, but on-the-spot dancing will do just fine.”
The crowd surges with laughter and movement as the fastest reel of the night bursts into life.
“Come on!” Blair tugs at my arm.
“I’m not sure . . .”
“I’m American! You have to show me what to do.”
I let her pull me to my feet, hesitant at first. But the music’s relentless, impossible to fight against, and Blair’s enthusiasm is contagious. We laugh our way through the rhythm, dancing in place with everyone else, my dress swishing around my knees like it’s been waiting for this moment.
When the music ends, the cheers are deafening. Blair and I high-five, both of us breathless and grinning.
Despite being way too full of himself, I’ll give Struan this—the man can put on a show.
I’m at the bar, waiting to order more drinks for Blair and me. The band have finished their set, and I’m fanning myself with a beer mat, hot from all the dancing.
A short way to my left, Struan is surrounded by a small crowd.
They’re all laughing at something he’s said, hanging on his every word like he’s some kind of celebrity rather than just a bloke who can play a bit of guitar.
An attractive blonde—maybe ten years older than him, and with perfect lipstick—actually twirls a strand of hair around her finger as she gazes at him.
Ugh. Obvious much?
I catch myself and frown. What does it matter if women flirt with Struan? It’s nothing to do with me. The man can charm whoever he wants with his guitar and his stupid man bun and his—
I shake my head, trying to dislodge whatever this is.
Get a hold of yourself, Ainsley.
“What can I get you?” The barman’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Two white wines, please.”
While he pours, I pull out my phone to check for messages. There’s one from Mum sent twenty minutes ago—a photo of Lily mid-Barbie drama, dolls scattered across the living room floor. At least she looks happy. Though Mum better be getting her ready for bed soon or tomorrow morning will be rough.
Anyway, this is what matters. My wee girl. Not some charmer with a man bun.
I switch to Instagram. My post from earlier today, showing the salon’s new walls, has got a decent bit of engagement. The first three comments are locals excited about the opening. One’s from Mum, which hardly counts, but I’ll take it. The fourth comment, though, makes me pause.
Who’s the hottie in the background? I might need to come to Ardmara just to see him
I peer at the photo. Shit. Struan photobombed it, looking straight at the camera with that cheeky, gorgeous grin on his face. I didn’t even notice when I uploaded it. I was so busy making sure I looked presentable I missed him lurking in the background.
It seems even some random stranger on the internet can’t help themselves. Struan bloody Walker: stealing the spotlight everywhere he goes, even in a post that was supposed to be about my salon.
A warm presence looms at my back, and I catch that scent of his—warm and earthy and deeply, unmistakably male.
“Am I the hottie?”
I turn, already frowning, one hand moving to my hip. “It’s rude to read people’s messages.”
“That’s not a message, it’s a public comment.” His mouth curves into a cocky, infuriatingly adorable smirk. “And if I’m understanding correctly, they mean me.”
“Modest, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Who else is in the background?”
“Want me to delete it?”
“Nah.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Might drum up more business for you.”
I roll my eyes. This man is impossible.
The barman sets two glasses of wine in front of me. I tap my phone against the card reader to pay, ready to escape back to Blair, but Struan leans against the bar, one leg crossed over the other, clearly in no hurry to let me go.
“What did you think of the Celtic Kicks?”
“Not bad.” I pick up the wines.
“Not bad?” He lifts a brow. “Looked like you were enjoying yourself, dancing with Blair.”
“Would’ve been rude not to teach the American a bit of our traditional dance.” Even to my own ears, I sound surly.
“Do you always make a habit of downplaying your enjoyment?”
My pulse skips, irritation and something else—something warmer—tangling in my chest. “Do you always make a habit of winking at your neighbours and clients?”
“Only the bonny ones.”
The words land like a spark on dry kindling. Part of me wants to throw the wine in his face for the presumption. Another part—a part I’m trying very hard to smother with common sense—reacts to the warmth in his voice in ways I absolutely refuse to examine.
This is the wine, I tell myself firmly. And the dancing. Nothing more.
His gaze travels from my boots up to my face, unhurried. “You are particularly bonny tonight.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My mouth opens for some cutting retort, but nothing comes. The way he’s looking at me—not leering, just . . . appreciating—scrambles my brain completely.
I pivot on my heel and head back to the table, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glasses. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way, hot on my back as my dress sways with each step.