Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STRUAN
The salon’s coming together nicely, if I do say so myself.
Da and I are on our knees working on a shelving unit that’ll display styling products once Ainsley’s up and running.
We finished the flooring Monday and Tuesday, and now it’s just fittings and the small jobs that pull everything together. Another few days and we’ll be out of Ainsley’s hair. Another job in the bag.
At the front counter, a young web designer—can’t be more than twenty-two, twenty-three—is hunched over Ainsley’s laptop, walking her through some technical fixes. Ainsley’s leaning in, brow furrowed in concentration, nodding along as he explains something.
“—so if you clear the cache and refresh, that’ll force it to pull the updated style sheet,” he says.
“Right, right.” Ainsley tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And that should fix the layout problem?”
“Yes, exactly.” His eyes drift from the screen to her face. Then lower. Then back to the screen again.
If he’s trying to be subtle, he’s failing.
“Struan.” Da’s voice cuts through. “You listening, lad?”
I blink. “What?”
He gestures at the backboard lying on the dust sheet, a sturdier bit of MDF I cut earlier to replace the flimsy fibreboard panel the flat pack came with. “Pass that over.”
“Right. Aye. Sorry.”
Christ. What am I doing, getting distracted by some kid making eyes at Ainsley? Not like she’s mine to get territorial over.
We position the board against the back of the unit, which is lying horizontal on the floor. I brace it while Da starts securing it with panel pins—quick, precise taps of the hammer.
“By the way,” I say, “I’ll be heading out later to give Lindsey McVey a quote for a new bathroom.”
“Lindsey McVey . . .” Da pauses, thinking. “That the lady who just got divorced?”
“Aye. Bumped into her at the pub last week, then again at the beach when she was out for a jog. She’s bought a new place and needs some work done.”
“I can come with you,” he offers, reaching for another pin.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. You’ve got that fence repair to do.”
He grunts. “Aye, well, make sure you get a decent price for it.”
“Don’t I always?”
As Da drives in another pin, my eyes flick to the counter. The web designer is pointing at something on Ainsley’s laptop, his shoulder practically brushing hers as he leans in.
Does he really need to stand that close?
Ainsley shifts back a touch and gives a polite little nod, but I get the impression she’s done listening. Or maybe that’s just me hoping.
“—and if you ever need help with anything else,” the lad goes on, lowering his voice into what he probably thinks is a smooth register, “website stuff, social media strategy, whatever—I’m always happy to help.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Ainsley replies, crisp and polished.
“Actually, I was wondering . . .” He hesitates, then pushes on. “Do you have a personal Instagram account? Maybe we could follow one another?”
My jaw tightens.
“Thanks for all your help, but I really am quite busy just now.” Translation: jog on, Romeo.
A flicker of satisfaction warms my chest.
Steady on, Walker. You don’t get to be smug. You’ve no claim on her.
The lad deflates. “Aye, sure. Well, good luck with the opening.”
The bell above the door chimes as he leaves, and Da gives the backboard one last tap before nodding. Together we lift the finished unit, stand it upright, and carry it to its spot against the wall.
“Ainsley?” Da calls over. “Come take a look at this, would you?”
She crosses the salon, heels clicking on the new vinyl plank flooring.
“What do you think?” Da asks. “More to the left?”
“No, that looks good there.” She steps closer to the unit, and as she does, that warm vanilla-and-spice scent of hers drifts over.
My stupid pulse reacts. She raps her knuckles lightly against the new backboard and nods with approval.
“The new panel’s a big step up from that bit of cardboard it came with.
” She smiles at Da. “It was a clever idea replacing it.”
“Och, it was Struan’s idea, actually.”
Ainsley’s gaze flicks to mine, and her warmth drains instantly. “Mmm. Well, good job,” she says flatly.
She turns back to Da. “I’m about to put the kettle on. Fancy a cuppa, Malcolm?”
“Aye, please.”
“Struan?” she all but sighs.
“Er . . . no, thanks.”
She turns on her heel and click-clacks towards the kitchenette.
“Christ, Struan,” Da mutters the moment she’s out of earshot. “What did you do to annoy her?”
“Nothing.” I keep my voice low. “Nothing that I know of anyway.”
I scratch my chin and frown. Aye, I did lay it on a bit thick at first, but I thought she’d thawed a touch recently—first when I helped her with her bed, then again at the barbecue.
But that chill just now? That was a whole new level of ice queen.
“Maybe she’s just stressed about the opening,” Da suggests.
“Aye. Maybe.”
But the niggle in my gut says it’s something else. I just don’t know what.
Lindsey McVey’s cottage sits just up from the harbour, bright blue door, tidy wee garden.
I knock twice and wait. Footsteps approach, then the door swings open and Lindsey beams at me.
“Struan! Come on in.”
She’s dressed in a silky blouse and fitted trousers, hair done up. Bit dressy for a quote visit, but maybe she’s off somewhere afterwards.
I step into the hall, which is just as tidy as outside. The place smells of fresh paint.
“Thanks for coming.”
“No bother.”
“Bathroom’s this way.” She smiles again and leads me down the hall.
She shows me in then stays by the door, giving me space to move around the small room.
I tap the walls, run a thumb along the old sealant, run the taps.
The place isn’t in bad nick—functional, just dated. A bit tired round the edges.
“You mentioned you were thinking of replacing the whole suite?” I say as I examine the pipework.
“That’s right.” She leans against the doorframe. “New tiling, different layout, maybe underfloor heating if the budget stretches. I want it to feel like mine, you know? Fresh start and all that.”
“Aye, I get that.” I pull my tape measure from my back pocket and start working out the dimensions.
She talks me through her vision while I measure.
Sleek wall tiles, brighter lighting, a rainfall shower.
Her tone is polite and businesslike, but every so often I catch wee glimmers of something else.
A flick of her gaze when I stretch for a measurement.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear whenever I look her way.
Could be nothing. But also . . . could be something.
I jot the final numbers in my notebook then snap it shut. “Right. I’ll get a quote to you by the end of the day.”
“Perfect.” She smiles but doesn’t move from the doorway. “Coffee before you go?”
“Thanks, but I’m good.” I step forwards, expecting her to shift aside. She doesn’t.
“Something stronger, maybe?” She lifts an eyebrow playfully. “Wine?”
Ah. So I wasn’t imagining it.
“At this hour? You’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” She steps closer, her fingertips brushing my forearm. Light, but deliberate. “This is a little bold of me—okay, very bold—but I’ve heard it said you’re . . . well, known for being up for a bit of fun from time to time.”
I give a wee smirk but don’t bite. She’s not wrong.
“I know you’re single, and now that I am too, I thought maybe we could . . . you know. See where it goes.”
The words hang in the air.
Temptation flickers. Lindsey’s lovely. Friendly, attractive, confident enough to make the first move. It’d be so easy. A lean forward, a kiss, whatever might follow.
But a pair of sharp green eyes flashes into my mind.
Really? Of all moments, my brain chooses now to conjure Ainsley Reid? When another woman is literally standing in front of me and putting herself out there?
For fuck’s sake.
I try to focus on what’s right in front of me, but Ainsley’s face keeps swimming back, stubborn as the woman herself.
“Lindsey,” I say, exhaling, “that’s really flattering. But I don’t think I can.”
Bloody hell. When did I become the guy who turns down perfectly good fun?
She gives a small, nervous laugh. “Because . . . I’m older?”
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re gorgeous. It’s not that.” I hesitate, knowing I sound like an eejit. “I’ve just . . . got a bit of a thing for someone else at the moment.”
A bit of a thing? Christ. When did I start talking like a fourteen-year-old?
Lindsey’s cheeks flush but she takes it gracefully. “Lucky girl, whoever she is.” She steps back, giving me space. “And fair enough. But you can’t blame a girl for trying, right?”
I smile, hoping to take the sting out of the rejection. “For what it’s worth, I bet there are plenty of men in Ardmara who’d queue up for a chance to date you.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” She looks down and bites her lip.
A beat of silence stretches—awkward, but not terrible.
Right. Time to make a clean exit.
I clear my throat. “I’ll get that quote to you tonight, aye?”