Chapter 12 #2
“Really?” I smile. “She’d love that.”
Talk turns to the salon. Lachlan asks if Struan’s pulling his weight or slacking off.
“I can hear you, you know,” Struan calls from the barbecue, mock offended. “And for the record, I did your en suite last year, mate. There were no complaints then.”
I take a sip of my Coke. “I’ve no complaints about his craftsmanship,” I say to Lachlan like Struan hasn’t spoken. “His work ethic seems solid too. Though . . . he might try keeping his shirt on occasionally.”
Blair’s head snaps up. “I’m sorry—what now?”
Struan laughs and holds up his hands. “I was out the back! Doing intense work. I didn’t know she was going to appear out of nowhere.”
“I didn’t appear out of nowhere,” I say. “I walked out the back door of my own salon.”
Blair is grinning like she’s just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip in a decade. Lachlan shakes his head, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Oh, would you look at that,” Struan says, rapidly changing the subject. “The s’mores are ready. Time to tuck in!”
Blair—still smiling from ear to ear—carries over the tray, and Struan hands the paper plates round. The chocolate oozes; the marshmallows are toasted to perfection.
I take a bite and forget myself entirely. “Dear God, Blair, that’s orgasmic.”
Lachlan chokes on his s’more. Blair’s eyebrows shoot up. And Struan, who hasn’t taken a bite yet, turns to look at me with a slow, deeply entertained smile.
Oh no.
No, no, no.
Heat floods my face. First “I like to eat meat”, and now this? What’s wrong with me today? It’s like my mouth has completely disconnected from my brain.
“Orgasmic, eh?” Struan nudges Blair. “That’s high praise.”
Then he bites into his own s’more and lets out this low, appreciative groan—and it’s ridiculous how the sound makes my insides go soft.
Fantastic. Really, just brilliant. Now I’m reacting to a man eating melted marshmallow.
Oh God.
The trestle table has been cleared, and I sit alone beside it while Blair and Lachlan head up to the house to take things in and make coffee.
Struan and I are keeping an eye on the kids, although his approach is a bit more hands-on.
He’s down by the water with them, crouched among the pebbles.
They seem to be hunting for something—shells or smooth stones, maybe.
Whatever it is, Lily’s using Barbie’s hands to scoop pebbles into a pile, her face scrunched in concentration.
A tightness tugs in my chest. My wee girl, slotting herself in with the others, so intent on her task.
Isla rushes up to Struan, proudly holding out a shell she’s found. He takes it and turns it thoughtfully between his fingers. She pulls him towards the rocks to show him where she found it, and soon they’re crouched together, heads bent, completely absorbed.
He could be up here, I realise. Chatting away to me while Blair and Lachlan are away. Turning on that charm of his. But he’s not. He’s down there with the kids, giving them his full attention.
He’s . . . good at the dad stuff. Really good.
I’ve been telling myself for weeks that it doesn’t matter that Lily doesn’t have her da around. Plenty of kids grow up in single-parent homes and turn out brilliant. And anyway, Lily’s got my parents, who adore her. They uprooted their whole lives to be here with us.
But watching this—watching Struan’s attentiveness, the way Isla glows under it—I can’t help wondering what it might have been like for Lily to have this. An energetic father who actually wants to be with her. Who dotes on her the way Struan clearly dotes on Isla.
Danny was never like this. Not even close.
I push the thought away. No point dwelling on what Lily doesn’t have. We’re doing just fine.
Movement catches my eye—a slim blonde woman jogging along the shoreline from the direction of town, in leggings and a fitted long-sleeved top. I wince just looking at her. That cannot be a fun run on pebbles.
The woman slows and lifts a hand. “Struan!”
He returns the wave, says something to Isla, and straightens, dusting off his hands.
The jogger stops beside him, breathless and smiling.
Recognition prickles at me. I saw this woman at the pub the other night—after the Celtic Kicks finished their set, when people were crowding round Struan at the bar.
She was twirling her hair around her finger, making her interest painfully obvious.
From here, I can’t make out much of their conversation—just the odd word carried on the breeze—but I can see enough. The smiles. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear and laughs at something he says.
Then she pulls out her phone. Struan does the same.
Are they . . . swapping numbers?
My stomach does something uncomfortable. I tell it to behave.
Maybe she needs a joiner. Plenty of people need joiners. And if it’s not about joinery? If it’s for a date?
Then it’s none of my business. Absolutely none.
The woman slips her phone back into her pocket, gives Struan one last smile—and a quick arm squeeze—then jogs off the way she came. Struan watches her go for a moment before turning back to Isla.
Aye, none of my business.
And yet the thought of Struan taking this woman out for drinks—or dinner, or whatever—sits in my chest like a splinter. Which is ridiculous. I don’t care who Struan Walker dates. I don’t.
In fact, if he starts seeing someone, maybe he’ll finally stop flirting with me. That would be a good thing. A relief, even.
Aye. A relief.
Mm-hmm.