Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
STRUAN
It’s late on Sunday night.
I sit on the back step, guitar across my lap, idly strumming. A joint hangs from my lips. I take a slow drag, the tip glowing, then let the smoke drift from the side of my mouth.
I don’t smoke often. Just now and again, when the house feels too quiet. Tonight’s one of those nights.
With the sleepover on Friday, it felt like I barely picked Isla up before I was dropping her off back in Bannock. And when I got home, the silence just . . . got to me. No chatter. No cartoon jingles from the telly. Only the hum of the fridge and the creak of the pipes.
The house was so quiet I nearly texted Sophie for an update. Which is tragic, considering I’d seen my kid just forty minutes earlier.
No need to feel sorry for yourself, Walker. You can cope with a shorter weekend every so often.
I keep strumming, my fingers wandering without much thought. Nothing fancy. Just the same few chords, over and over, the rhythm steady enough to lose myself in. A dog barks somewhere nearby before falling quiet again. Then—
“For fuck’s sake!”
Standing, I peer over the fence. Ainsley’s at her bins, wrestling with a cardboard box that refuses to fit.
Grumbling, she throws it to the ground, jumps on it, tries again—and swears again. “Just bloody go in, will you!”
“Having trouble there?” I say. When she doesn’t respond, I try again, louder. “Want some help?”
She jumps, a hand flying to her chest. “Bloody hell!” She pulls earphones from her ears. “Struan. You scared me.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to. You all right there?”
“Fine.” She gives the box one last shove before giving up and leaving it sticking out of the bin. Her gaze flicks to the joint. “Oh. Having a herbal remedy, are we?”
“Aye. Want a puff?”
“I’ve not had one in years.”
“Go on. I won’t tell.”
“What the hell. Child-free night.” She places her hands on the fence between our gardens.
“Here,” I say, setting down my guitar. “Let me help you over.”
“I can manage.” She swings first one leg over, then the other, and gives me a satisfied look. “See? No builder assistance required.”
Chuckling, I sit back down and gesture for her to join me. She does, only there’s not much room on the step, so our shoulders brush.
I offer her the joint. She takes it, her lips closing around it, cheeks hollowing as she inhales.
Something stirs low in my gut.
Coughing lightly, she hands it back. “God, that’s stronger than I remember.”
“Aye, well.” I shrug. “Lily at your mum and dad’s?”
“Mm-hmm. She was there for dinner so I could try to make the house a bit more homely. She fell asleep on the sofa so they’re keeping her overnight. And Isla? Back at her mum’s place?”
“Aye. Dropped her there this afternoon.”
I take another drag then look up at the stars. Maybe it’s the joint loosening my tongue, or maybe it’s just the quiet and the dark, but the words slip out before I can stop them. “Sunday evenings are my least favourite part of the week.”
“Must be hard,” Ainsley says after a beat. “Saying goodbye to your kid every week.”
“Aye.” Another drag. I watch the smoke drift up into the night. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
“How long have you and Isla’s mum been doing the weekday–weekend split? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Pretty much since she was weaned.”
“So you and her were never . . . ?”
“Together? Nah, not really. Isla wasn’t planned. We did give things a shot when Soph was expecting, but we’re better as friends.”
“Still, you’ve made it work between you.”
“Aye. We do our best.” I glance at the joint. “Not much left, I’m afraid. You can finish it.”
As I pass it over, our fingers brush. Brief. Warm. Nice.
“Lily was a surprise too,” Ainsley admits after a moment. “But unlike you and Isla’s mum, it didn’t end well.”
And then, for the second time in three days, Ainsley opens up to me.
She starts off hesitant, but once she gets going, the words come easier.
She tells me about her ex—the cycle of taking him back, convincing herself this time would be different, only to be let down again.
Then the final straw: the double hit of walking in on him with her best friend.
My jaw tightens but I say nothing. Just listen. Still, part of me wouldn’t mind finding this Danny guy and teaching him just how hard a builder’s fist can land.
“It’s my fault, really,” Ainsley says. “I should have realised so much sooner he wasn’t cut out for family life.”
“What?” I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. Your ex and your ex-best friend? Those two arseholes are the only ones to blame. Aye?”
She gives me a wobbly smile and for a horrible moment I think she might cry. Don’t know if I could cope with that. Not when we’re sitting this close. No way I’d be able to resist pulling her into my arms to comfort her.
But she pulls herself together, and a wee edge creeps into her voice. “And to think I used to give that prick and that cow free haircuts. And bloody good ones at that.”
I can’t hold back a laugh.
“All right, no more regurgitating the past,” she says. “Let’s change the subject to safer territory. Like . . .” Her gaze drops to the guitar beside me. “Can you only play folksy stuff on that thing? Or do you know any modern tunes?”
“You mocking my repertoire?”
“Maybe a little.”
I lift the guitar and lay it on my lap. “Name your genre.”
“Hmm . . . how about something moody? Lewis Capaldi?”
I strum a few over-dramatic, heartbreaky chords, letting my head fall back as I half sing, half groan a handful of lines from “Someone You Loved”.
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected. It does something to my chest that I try not to examine too closely.
“Okay, now how about Paolo Nutini?”
I slide into the bouncy “New Shoes” chords, singing the chorus in my best impression of him.
She claps. “Not bad! All right, now surprise me.”
I switch to a lighter, poppier rhythm and do a bit of Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso”.
“Wow! Didn’t see that one coming. I take it back. You’ve got range, Struan.”
“Aye, well, that’s my whole set list,” I say with a wink at her.
She smiles and hugs her knees to her chest. The tension that usually tightens her shoulders has melted away, and in the soft light from the kitchen window, she looks younger. Softer. “I never learned to play. Always wanted to.”
“It’s never too late. I’ll teach you a chord.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
I pass her the guitar, and she settles it awkwardly across her lap. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“That’s the spirit.” I nudge her playfully. “Right, we’ll start with G. It’s an easy one. Handy too.”
I reach over and guide her fingers to the right strings, my thigh brushing hers. Her hands are so much smaller and softer than mine.
“Try that.”
She attempts a strum but produces only a muffled thunk. “God. That sounded terrible.”
I press her fingers down a wee bit firmer. “Try again.”
This time the chord rings out—wobbly, but recognisable.
“I did it!” She grins triumphantly.
“Natural talent.”
I don’t move my hand. Neither does she.
Christ, we’re close. I can feel the warmth of her, hear the quick catch of her breath. One shift, one wrong move, and the spell will break.
Our eyes meet. Her gaze flicks to my mouth—just for a heartbeat, but I see it. And then? Then she leans in and kisses me.
It’s soft at first—tentative, testing—and for a split second I’m too stunned to react. Then her lips move over mine, and the shock turns into pure instinct.
I kiss her back.
The guitar shifts between us, strings humming, but I barely notice. My hands find her hair—God, it’s soft and thick, like velvet between my fingers. I drag my tongue along the seam of her lips, slow and coaxing.
She opens for me, so I taste her. Warm, sweet, dizzying.
A small sound slips out of her—part surprise, part need. It hits me straight in the gut.
With every slick sweep of her tongue against mine, every breath shared between us, I grow harder. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt like she’s trying to anchor herself.
The guitar slips off her lap and clatters to the ground, snapping the moment. We break apart, both breathing hard. Her lips are flushed, her eyes wide and shining. A strand of hair falls across her face. I brush it back without thinking.
“Your guitar,” she manages.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say roughly, not even sparing it a glance. Right now there’s only her.
I lean in again and she meets me halfway, nothing tentative about it this time. Her mouth is hot and hungry against mine. Our tongues tangle, and then before I know what I’m doing, I’ve got an arm around her waist and am hauling her over me so she’s straddling my lap right here on the step.
My cock throbs under the sudden pressure. It takes everything in me not to buck up into her straight away. But then she shifts experimentally, making this soft little whimper into our kiss, and that’s it for me. I grab her arse and pull her closer, flush against me.
Another moan, then she starts moving with purpose, grinding down slow and sure.
Fuck me.
“Struan—”
My name in her voice, breathless and wanting, punches the air out of me. I grip her arse, guiding her rhythm, and she buries her face in my neck. Her breath comes out in these desperate little sounds—half-moan, half-whimper—that go straight to my dick.
Her breath hitches. She grinds down even harder, pressing into me like she’s chasing something just out of reach. The way she moves—so confident now—makes me shudder right through.
Then suddenly she’s clinging to me, fingers digging into my shoulders, her whole body tightening. For a second I don’t realise what’s happening, then it hits me. She’s shaking, gasping, coming apart right on my lap.
I hold her, stunned, heartbeat hammering. Jesus Christ. Didn’t think that would happen.
Hot as fuck.
She stills, and for a while the only movement between us is the rise and fall of our chests and the twitching of my cock. It’s desperate for that perfect, maddening friction to start up again.
But then she’s pressing a hand flat against my chest and pulling away from me. “Sorry—” Her voice is shaky, her head bowed. “Struan, I . . . I don’t know what came over me.”
“Ainsley—”
“This was a mistake.”
The words hit like cold water. I open my mouth to respond but she’s already scrambling off my lap, cheeks flaming in the light from the kitchen.
“Ainsley, wait!”
“Goodnight.” She’s at the fence before I can move, and then she’s over it and disappearing through her back door without so much as a glance back.
I sit on my step, heart hammering, my guitar forgotten on the ground. I’m left with just the taste of her on my lips—and a cock that’s not settling down anytime soon.
Fucking hell. Can’t believe that just happened.