Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AINSLEY
The Lily Room hums with life.
An hour into opening day, and the salon is buzzing.
Mum drifts between clients with a bottle of prosecco, topping up glasses and accepting compliments like she built the place herself.
Lily works the room in her Frozen costume, chatting to anyone who’ll listen, while Da moves beside her, passing out nibbles.
“The rose gold is so glam,” someone says behind me.
“What a difference from the old place,” another voice agrees.
I smile to myself as I section off Blair’s damp hair. Every anxious moment, every decision I overthought, every wobble along the way—worth it.
Not that I can take credit for the physical work, of course. That was all Struan and his da.
I’m running on caffeine, adrenaline, and not nearly enough sleep, but I’m in my element. Yesterday’s chaos—the missing products, the tears I’m still mortified about—already feels distant. Like a bad dream that dissolved the moment the first clients walked in.
“Right,” I say, meeting Blair’s eyes in the mirror. “We’re doing a butterfly fringe, is that right?”
“Yes! Exactly. I’ve not had my hair cut for months, so it’s practically grown out.”
“And we’ll add some new layers throughout for body, aye?”
Blair nods. “Perfect.”
I pick up my scissors and get to work, muscle memory taking over as I work through the cut.
Nearby, Sheila’s busy with a client who’s followed her from the old salon.
Ruby, meanwhile, is talking a curious local through our treatment menu while keeping an eye on the timer for Mrs Galbraith, who’s sitting under the hood dryer looking thoroughly pampered.
The waiting bench is full, a mix of pre-booked appointments and walk-ins. All the work, the stress, the risk . . . it’s paying off.
I glance up at the mirror and catch Mum watching me from across the room, her smile so proud it makes my cheeks warm. I duck my head and focus on Blair’s layers, blending the shorter pieces around her face to frame her features.
As I work, a woman waiting her turn gets up from the bench and drifts over.
She peers over my shoulder with undisguised curiosity.
She’s soon joined by another. Then another.
By the time I’m blow-drying Blair’s hair—smoothing the round brush through each section, coaxing out volume and shine—there’s a small audience.
“What a lovely cut,” someone murmurs.
“Look at that shape.”
“I want mine done like that.”
Blair catches my eye in the mirror and grins. “I feel like a movie star,” she whispers.
I lean close, lowering my voice. “Sorry about the performance cut.” I switch off the dryer and reach for the styling serum. “It’s on the house.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m paying full price. End of discussion.”
Something warm flickers through me, but I keep my focus on the cut, working the product through Blair’s ends before fluffing the layers with my fingers to add movement.
I step back to study the finished result. The butterfly fringe falls perfectly—soft and wispy, longer at the edges to blend into the face-framing layers. The rest swings just past her shoulders, full of body and shine. When I hold up the hand mirror to show her the back, Blair lets out a soft gasp.
“Oh my God. I love it.”
“It suits you,” I say. The shape flatters her bone structure beautifully. It makes her look effortlessly polished.
Blair stands and gives me a quick hug. “Thank you! This place is amazing. You’re amazing. You’re going to be booked solid.”
As I walk her over to the till, I sneak a look around—at the clients waiting on the bench, at Sheila gossiping cheerfully as she seats her next appointment. For the first time in weeks, I let myself properly breathe.
My own salon.
The dream is no longer just a dream. It’s real.
“Eat something before you keel over.”
Mum appears at my elbow with a plate of nibbles. I’ve just finished ringing up a client, a lovely woman called Alison who’s already booked her next appointment.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve not stopped for lunch.” She shoves the plate towards me. “Go on. At least a mouthful.”
I pop one of the bite-sized mac-and-cheese balls into my mouth to appease her. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the opening has drawn a steady stream of folk. There hasn’t been a quiet moment.
Ruby’s holding her own at the wash station, handling a constant flow of clients with impressive composure for someone so new. Sheila’s in her element, working through her client list with the easy efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for decades.
Already I’m mentally noting what’s working and what I’ll tweak before we reopen on Tuesday. But honestly? Everything has gone pretty damn smoothly so far. Better than I dared hope.
The door opens. I look up, and in walks Struan’s mum, Helen, followed by Isla and Struan. He’s in a checked shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair pulled into a loose half-ponytail. He looks . . . like himself. Which apparently is enough to make my stomach flip.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Yes, he saved the day yesterday by driving a four-hour round trip to the depot in Elgin.
Yes, he listened—really listened—when you fell apart.
And yes, maybe—just maybe—there’s a little more to him than you first thought.
But that doesn’t mean your body should start reacting on its own when he walks into a room.
Helen beams, her gaze sweeping the salon. “Oh, it all came together beautifully! When I popped in on Monday with the lads’ lunch, the floor was all ripped up. But look at this place now!” She clasps her hands together. “It’s stunning, Ainsley.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Walker Builds did a brilliant job with the refurb.”
Struan’s lips lift into that easy smile of his. The one that used to irritate me. Which probably still should, only it doesn’t. Not really.
Mum swoops in with a glass of fizz for Helen. “In for a wee nosy, are you?”
Helen laughs. “Booked in, actually. Long overdue.” She lifts a hand to her hair—silver threading through the same thick curls her son and granddaughter inherited.
“You won’t regret it,” Mum says proudly. “Ainsley’s magic with hair.”
And just like that, the two of them start chatting away like old friends, rather than two people who only met for the first time at knitting club a couple of weeks ago. They seem to get on well, which is . . . interesting.
A swish of blue fabric barrels into view. “Isla!” Lily twirls for her with maximum drama. “I’m Elsa! See my braid? It’s got glitter.”
“Wow!” Isla’s eyes light up.
“How about Ruby gives you a wee up-do too?” I suggest.
“Yes, please!”
Struan glances at the clients on the bench. “You sure it’s okay to squeeze her in? Looks busy.”
“Of course. It’s the least I can do after everything yesterday.”
He waves it off. “Ach, that was nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not to me.
“Ruby!” I call across the salon. “Can you fit in a braid for Isla?”
“Absolutely.” Ruby smiles at Isla. “Want some glitter in yours too?”
Isla nods eagerly, and Ruby leads her towards a chair. Lily goes with them, offering unsolicited advice about the best glitter colours.
Struan watches them, something soft in his expression, then turns back to me. “Great to see the place up and running. And you look happy. Suits you.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. So instead I say, “I’d better go get your mum started. Helen? If I can drag you away from my mum, do you want to come this way?”
Seating her for an initial consultation, I run my fingers through her hair—something I always do with new clients to feel the texture before washing. Like her son’s, Helen’s hair is a thick mix of curls and waves. Beautiful when cut right. A nightmare when it’s not.
“Gorgeous texture,” I tell her. “When was your last trim?”
“Oh, months ago. Maybe longer.” Helen grimaces. “I kept meaning to get it done, but you know how it is.”
I do know. I also know that whoever cut it last didn’t understand curl patterns because the shape’s all wrong—too blunt at the ends, no layering to let the spirals spring properly.
“Let’s get you washed first,” I say. “I’ll do a nourishing treatment to bring out the shine, then we’ll reshape these curls.”
At the basin, I wet Helen’s hair and work in the shampoo, massaging her scalp. She lets out a contented sigh.
“Oh, that’s lovely. Maggie never did head massages.”
I smile. “It’s the best part, isn’t it?”
As I rinse and apply the conditioner, a familiar deep burr carries over the noise of the salon. I glance up.
Struan’s leaning against the counter, casual as anything, chatting with two pensioners waiting for Sheila. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but whatever it is has them animated—leaning in, laughing, gossiping away.
Helen chuckles. “That lad could blether for Scotland, so he could.”
I squeeze the excess water from her hair. “I’ve noticed that about him.”
“He’s a people person,” Helen says fondly. “Always has been. Which is why it’s surprising he’s still single.”
Keeping my expression neutral, I wrap a towel around her head. “That’s you rinsed. Let’s get these curls trimmed.”
Back at the chair, I section Helen’s hair and begin the cut, working with the curl pattern rather than against it. She talks enough for both of us—small-town gossip, local events, stories about her daughter, Erin, in London. I can see where her son gets it from.
During a lull, Helen catches my eye in the mirror. “Do you do gents’ hair too?”
“Aye, we actually had a couple of men in this morning.”
She twirls a freshly cut curl, admiring it. “You should cut Struan’s next time. You’ve clearly got the knack for this kind of hair.”
My pulse skips. The thought of running my fingers through his curls feels . . . different. Too intimate. Which is ridiculous—I touch strangers’ hair all day. But still.
“I’m not sure your son’s looking for a cut,” I say lightly.
“Maybe not. But I’ll mention it.” She waves across the salon. “Struan! What about getting a few inches off? It’s been ages since you had it done properly.”
He excuses himself from the pensioners and ambles over. “And lose my man bun?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Mum, how could you?”
Helen looks at me in the mirror. “What do you think?”
I glance at him. Amusement flickers in those golden-brown eyes.
“I think,” I say carefully, “he suits it the way it is.”
Struan’s grin widens. “See, Mum? Straight from an expert.”
Helen hums, her gaze still on me.
I ignore the prickle at the back of my neck and keep cutting.