Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STRUAN
The salon’s quiet save for the faint squeak of a small roller. I’m on my knees, touching up a scuffed patch by the skirting, when the front door opens.
I glance up, expecting Ainsley’s usual crisp entrance—heels clicking, planner in hand, ready to tick the final items off her list. Instead she slips inside like she’s trying not to be noticed.
No make-up. Hair scraped back in a messy ponytail. Eyes that look like they didn’t get much sleep last night.
She barely glances my way. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I reply, straightening, but she doesn’t slow. She heads straight for the kitchenette.
I frown. That was . . . unusual. Ainsley Reid doesn’t do dishevelled. Something’s off.
I give it a minute. Two. The kettle doesn’t click on. No cupboard doors opening and closing. Just silence.
Right.
I dust off my knees then head through to the back. At the door to the kitchenette, I say, “Mind if I grab some water?”
Ainsley’s standing at the breakfast bar, bag open in front of her, her hands rifling through it with jerky, agitated movements. She doesn’t look up. “Help yourself.”
I don’t move. Just watch as she pulls out her phone, her keys, a packet of tissues, then a lipstick.
“Where is it?” she mutters. “Where the hell is it?”
“What are you looking for?”
“My planner.” Her voice is tight now. Fraying. “It’s got everything in it. The schedule for tomorrow, the checklist, the—”
Her breath catches—a horrible, hitching sound that makes my chest tighten.
“Hey.” I step closer. “Ainsley, what’s going on?”
She shakes her head, jaw tight like she’s physically trying to hold herself together. But her eyes are glassy, and when she finally looks at me, there’s none of the usual sharpness there. Just exhaustion. And something that looks a lot like defeat.
“Everything’s fine,” she says.
Unconvincing as hell.
“Doesn’t look that way.”
She lets out a breathy huff that’s almost a laugh then sinks down onto a stool. “No,” she admits quietly. “You’re right. Everything’s not fine.”
She drags in a breath. “I just—” She stops. Shakes her head. Tries again. “I’m so tired.”
I wait. Don’t push.
“Lily just won’t settle at night, but she’s still up at the crack of dawn every bloody morning. I swear I’m knackered before I’ve even dropped her off at nursery. And that’s not getting any easier. Today she clung to me. Screamed. I had to peel her off me while everyone was watching.”
She swallows hard, eyes fixed on the breakfast bar. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—this is ridiculous. Ignore me.”
“That sounds brutal.” A beat. “Plus you’ve got the salon opening tomorrow.”
“And the products . . .”
I shift a little closer. “Aye?”
She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “The shampoos and conditioners I need for tomorrow. They were supposed to arrive yesterday. Then today. And now the company’s saying they can’t deliver until tomorrow afternoon, but by then—”
Her voice cracks.
Christ.
I’ve never been good with crying women. It’s my kryptonite. Always has been. Something about tears just bypasses every rational circuit in my brain and goes straight to fix it, fix it now.
But this isn’t just any woman crying. This is Ainsley—normally so sharp, composed, in control. And now she’s falling apart in front of me.
Instinct screams at me to cross the small space between us and pull her into my arms. But I hold back. She’s barely tolerated me lately. The last thing she needs is me overstepping.
Instead I flick the kettle on and tug a tissue from the packet she dropped earlier. I press it into her hand.
“Here.”
She takes it without looking at me. Dabs at her eyes. “Sorry. I never do this.”
“Do what? Have feelings?”
A wet laugh escapes her. “I’m used to clients unloading on me. Not—” She gestures vaguely. “This.”
“Maybe it needed out.”
The kettle rumbles to a boil. I make her a tea and set the mug in front of her. She wraps her hands around it like it’s a lifeline.
For a while neither of us speaks. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the distant cry of gulls outside.
Then, softer now: “The nursery pulled me aside this morning.”
“Oh?”
“They suggested I bring Lily in a bit later. When it’s calmer. Fewer parents around.” She stares into her tea. “Also, apparently she’s been . . . unsettled. Acting out a bit with the other kids.”
“She’s four,” I say. “Sounds fairly standard.”
“You’re probably right. But then the manager told me something Lily said to another wee girl.” Ainsley’s throat works. “She said, ‘I don’t see Daddy. Mummy doesn’t like him.’”
Ainsley lets out a helpless little sound. “So I had to stand there and explain that I’m not keeping Lily from her father. It’s the other way around. Danny—her da—he’s just . . . chosen not to be part of her life.”
My jaw tightens. Chosen? Fucking chosen not to see his own kid?
I think of Isla. Of Sunday nights and how quiet the van feels on the drive back from Sophie’s. Too quiet.
And this guy just . . . walked away?
“He’s a fool,” I say. “Choosing not to be in his kid’s life? I can’t understand that.”
Ainsley looks at me for a long moment, then she drops her gaze, twisting the tissue in her hands. “God, listen to me. Dumping all this on you when you’ve got work to finish.”
“Ainsley.” I wait until she meets my eyes again. “You’re doing brilliantly.”
She huffs quietly.
“You’ve moved to a new town. You’re opening a business. You’re raising a wee girl on your own.” I shrug. “That’s not nothing. That’s bloody impressive.”
Her lips press together. Like she wants to argue but can’t quite find the words.
“Lily will settle,” I add. “She’s just rattled by the change, that’s all.”
She nods slowly. Takes a sip of tea. Some of the tension eases from her shoulders, though she still looks exhausted.
“Now, tell me about this delivery. What’s the situation?”
She sighs. “It’s sitting in a depot in Elgin. Ready to go but it won’t get here till tomorrow afternoon, which is too late. Elgin is two hours away—I don’t have time to go there. And Mum and Dad are off on some dolphin-spotting tour, so I can’t exactly call them.”
“I’ll go.”
Ainsley blinks. “What?”
“I’ll drive to Elgin, pick the order up, bring it back. I can finish up here tonight.”
“Struan, no. I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Look, I’ve got the van and Isla’s having a sleepover tonight, so I’m not picking her up till tomorrow. Just give me the address and order number so they’ll release it to me.”
She stares at me. “It’s a four-hour round trip.”
“Aye, I can count.”
“But you’ve already done so much. The refurb, the furniture, the—” She stops and shakes her head. “This is too much.”
“It’s really not.”
She hesitates. “I’ll pay you for the extra hours,” she says finally. “And for petrol.”
“Don’t be daft. We’re neighbours. This is just me being neighbourly.”
She folds her arms. Still sniffling, but stubborn as ever. “I hate owing anyone, Struan.”
“Fine.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ll add a bit to the invoice for the petrol, but forget the extra hours.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Then, quietly: “Okay, deal. Thank you, Struan.”
“Save it for when I actually get back with the stuff, aye?”
She almost smiles.
Almost.