Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
AINSLEY
“Argh! Ya cheap pile of shite!” The words echo off my bedroom walls as the bed frame collapses. Again.
I glare at the instruction manual spread open on the carpet. The diagrams look like they were drawn by someone who’s never seen a bed, let alone built one. Connect A and B? Okay, sure. Except the wee holes on B don’t bloody line up with A.
The gentle music of In the Night Garden drifts up through the floorboards, all soothing and dreamy. At least Lily’s happy, curled on the sofa with her bedtime milk, completely oblivious to her mother’s DIY disaster zone upstairs.
I managed to put together Lily’s bed last week, so surely I should be able to manage this one? Mind you, Lily’s bed was smaller and simpler, with fewer pieces. Oh, and it was a whole lot lighter.
I try again, lining up the headboard with the side bit, but the pre-drilled holes just don’t match. I flip it. Then flip it again. Finally I get a bolt in. I feel a flicker of hope, then shift the frame to grab the next piece and—
It all crashes down, the headboard narrowly missing my foot.
“Oh, come ON!”
Right. That’s it. I’m done.
I snatch up the instruction manual, storm to the window, yank it open, and hurl the useless thing straight out of it. Good riddance.
I flop onto the carpet and throw my arms over my face. Why, oh why, did I think assembling furniture on a Friday night was a good idea? I’m knackered. Half my day was spent drowning in salon admin, the other half catering to a four-year-old’s every whim.
At least I have a proper mattress now. Still wrapped in plastic and propped against the wall, but it’s here. If all else fails, I can just sleep on that on the floor. Better than the air mattress anyway. Who even really needs a bed frame?
The doorbell rings.
I groan. Who the hell turns up at someone’s door on a Friday night? I’m so not in the mood for visitors.
Dragging myself to my feet, I trudge downstairs, navigating the boxes still cluttering the hall. I’ve tried to make the place feel more like home—hung a couple of photos—but it’s still very much a work in progress.
I peek into the living room, where Lily’s transfixed by Igglepiggle’s antics, then swing open the front door.
Struan stands there with that infuriating grin of his, Isla at his side. He’s in khakis and a navy jumper, hair pulled into its usual messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame his face. Meanwhile, I’m in my rattiest hoodie, joggers that have seen better days, and not a scrap of make-up.
For a split second, I feel a flicker of self-consciousness—then I squash it flat. No, this look is fine. Because I don’t care what this man thinks of my appearance. Not one bit.
“Er . . . hi?” I say, keeping my voice cool. Isla’s presence stops me from being outright rude, but only just. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Struan holds up some crumpled papers. The instruction manual. “This came flying out your window as we pulled in.”
My cheeks warm before I can stop them. Brilliant. Now I’m embarrassed and annoyed.
“Oh, er . . . thanks. I was chasing a fly out the window and that . . . fell out of my hand.” Never in my life have I sounded less convincing.
Struan’s grin widens. He knows I’m talking rubbish.
Before he can call me out, Lily appears beside me, and her face lights up. “Isla!” She bounces on her toes. “Come see my kitchen—it’s in the kitchen!”
Isla frowns, clearly confused.
“She means her toy kitchen set,” I explain. “She keeps it beside the real oven so she can ‘cook’ beside me.”
“Oh!” Understanding dawns on Isla’s face. She looks at me hopefully.
I hesitate. Inviting Isla in means Struan lingers on my doorstep longer. But Lily’s already tugging at my arm, and I can’t exactly say no with both girls looking at me like that.
“Go on, then,” I say to Isla, summoning a smile. “Lily can show you.”
Lily wastes no time, dragging Isla away and chattering about making pretend cakes.
Struan watches them go then waves the manual, one eyebrow raised. “So . . . a fly, aye?”
I hold his gaze. “A very aggressive fly. The thing was huge.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s not buying it.
I last about three more seconds before I cave. “Fine. I lobbed it. Bloody thing deserved it. It’s been no help whatsoever. I’ve been at it for ages and my bed’s still in pieces.”
“Want me to take a look?”
My shoulders stiffen. Definitely not inviting him into my bedroom. “No, thanks. I’ll manage.”
“Okay, but . . .” His lips twitch. “Will you, though?”
“I’ll have to. I can’t pay you. I have no spare money right now.”
“Ainsley, I’m not after payment. Just being neighbourly.”
My eyes narrow. “Neighbourly, eh? Or are you trying to get on my good side in hopes I’ll . . .” I lower my voice “. . . drop my knickers out of gratitude?”
He nearly chokes on a laugh. “Jesus, woman. No. I’m working for you—it wouldn’t be professional.”
“Oh, really?” I fold my arms. “Because last night at the pub, you were laying it on thicker than plaster.”
He flashes me a cocky, lopsided smile. “Was I?”
“Aye. You were.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs. “I was being flirty, but it was just a bit of banter. I promise, right now I’m only here offering to be a good neighbour. But if you’d rather I left you to it . . .”
He trails off, and I picture the carnage upstairs. The collapsed frame. The mattress still wrapped in plastic.
My pride wages war with practicality. Practicality wins.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Maybe I would appreciate a hand.”
“All right, then.” He steps inside, and suddenly the narrow hall feels even smaller. Up close, he’s so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him properly. Without my heels, he’s more than a foot taller than me.
“After you,” I say, stepping aside. No way am I walking up the stairs in front of him and putting my arse at his eye level.
Which means I follow him up instead, his arse at my eye level.
Don’t look, I tell myself firmly. Do not look.
I look.
And what an arse it is. Tight, perfectly shaped, unfairly good in those khakis.
Fantastic. You’re meant to be keeping your distance, and here you are eyeing up his backside. Pull yourself together, Ainsley.
“So, just to check,” he calls over his shoulder as we near the top. My eyes snap up guiltily. “You didn’t lob any actual bed parts out the window, did you? Or was it just the manual?”
“Just the manual,” I grumble.
He steps into my bedroom and stops, taking in the chaos. Bed pieces scattered across the floor like someone’s detonated a flat-pack bomb. He presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
I hover in the doorway, suddenly hyper-aware that this is my bedroom. And he’s standing in it. It feels too intimate, too personal, having him here among my things.
It’s just a room, I remind myself. And he’s just fixing a bed. Nothing more.
“All right.” He crouches to examine the pieces. “Aye, here’s your issue. This bit’s the left side, not the right. You need to swap these pieces over.”
“Oh.” Irritation flickers through me—at myself, mostly, for not spotting something so obvious. And maybe a tiny bit at him for making it look so easy. “Well, DIY really isn’t my thing.”
He picks up the headboard from the carpet, tests its weight, then rests it against the wall. “Is this where you want the bed? Against this wall?”
“Yes, please.”
He glances at the wall, then back at me, a glint in his eye. “You know, my room’s a mirror of yours. Bed’s in the same spot. Means we’ll be sleeping with just brick and mortar between us.”
My stomach does a stupid little flip. This man—honestly. So much for the whole “just being neighbourly” routine.
I open my mouth to ask where the hell else I’m meant to put the thing in a room this size, but before I can, he turns his back to me and tugs off his jumper. His T-shirt rides up, revealing a strip of toned lower back and the waistband of his boxers. Red today, for what it’s worth.
My throat goes dry.
Oh, for crying out loud. I tear my gaze away, annoyed at myself.
I really need to stop staring every time this man shows a bit of skin.
It’s been months since I’ve been intimate with anyone—that’s the only explanation for why I’m reacting like this.
My body’s just . . . confused. Starved of attention. It doesn’t mean anything.
I clear my throat. “I’ll probably just be a hindrance. So I’ll, er, leave you to it. I’ll . . . oh, I’ll make tea.”
I escape downstairs before he can respond, my pulse fluttering ridiculously.
Five minutes later, I’m back upstairs again with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of chocolate digestives in the other. I’ve got my composure back. Mostly.
Before facing Struan again, I pause outside Lily’s room. She and Isla migrated up here when I started busying about in the kitchen. Apparently, I was cramping their style.
Through a crack in the door, I see Lily thrust a plastic dog into Isla’s hands. “You be the dog. I’ll be the vet.”
“Okay.” Isla settles onto her knees. “What’s my name?”
“Kayla,” Lily replies with absolute confidence. “She’s got babies in her tummy.” Lily proceeds to stuff three plastic puppies through the flap in the toy dog’s belly. They all came together as part of a play set. After rummaging in her toy box, Lily adds, “And a kitten. And a hamster.”
Isla blinks. “But dogs don’t have kittens or hamsters—”
“Just pretend!” Lily cuts her off, dismissing science with a flap of her hand. “Also, Kayla talks.”
“Okay . . .” Isla grins, giving in. She whines dramatically in her best dog voice: “My tummy’s all wriggly, but I don’t know why.”
“Lie down, Kayla. I’ll look in your tummy with my magic wand.”
I bite back a laugh. This girl is too sassy for her own good, but watching her so delighted—and Isla going along with it all—melts something in my chest. Technically, it’s past Lily’s bedtime, and she had a late night yesterday too, with Mum letting her stay up late while I was at the pub.
Even so, I don’t mind. Not when she’s getting on so well with the older girl from next door.