Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
AINSLEY
I shut the back door, lock it, and lean back against it, palms pressed to my burning cheeks.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I just came on Struan Walker’s lap.
I’m still thrumming all over, nerves buzzing with the aftershocks. A shaky laugh escapes me—half disbelief, half pure mortification.
What the hell was that? One minute I was strumming a wobbly G chord, the next I was grinding against him like my life depended on it. Dignity? Nowhere to be found.
Okay. Breathe. Think.
It was just a release. That’s all. The last few weeks have been chaos—the move, getting the salon up and running, Lily’s tantrums. My body’s been running on caffeine and cortisol for God knows how long.
Throw in a bit of weed, something I haven’t touched in years, plus Struan’s hand guiding mine on the guitar, and .
. . well, any warm-blooded woman would’ve reacted the way I did.
Perfectly explainable. Completely physiological.
I push off from the door, fill a glass at the tap, and gulp half of it down. It does nothing to wash away the taste of Struan—or the memory of him that still clings to me everywhere else.
I close my eyes and take a few steadying breaths.
No use.
My head’s already replaying it—his grip on my arse, the solid weight of him beneath me, his erection pressed tight against me, the way he’d met every roll of my body as if he couldn’t help himself.
My stomach flips.
I left him sitting there. With a massive hard-on straining against his jeans.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, tipping the rest of the water into the sink. Enough. Bed.
Upstairs, I plug in my phone and go through the motions—wash my face, brush my teeth, slap on moisturiser—all on autopilot. Every few seconds, another flash: the look on his face when I moved against him. The way his fingers dug into my arse, pulling me closer, harder, the pressure building—
My body hums with the echo of it.
When I unhook my bra, my nipples are still embarrassingly hard. Nothing to do with the cold: the radiator’s humming away. I tug off my knickers, then pause, staring.
Soaked. Of course they are.
I shove them and the rest of my clothes into the wash basket then pull on my PJs—the unsexy flannel ones, as if that’ll somehow reset my brain.
I plump my pillows. Crawl under the duvet. It’s late, I’m exhausted, and I really, really need to sleep.
But now I’m thinking about his bed. On the other side of this wall.
Is he in it? Is he lying there right now, still hard, replaying what happened? That erection of his definitely needed seeing to. There’s no way he’s just gone to sleep.
A vivid image flashes in my head—Struan sprawled across his rumpled sheets, tawny curls tousled and damp, his hand wrapped tight around his hard cock. Pumping up and down, slow at first, then faster—gripping harder, hips arching into his fist.
Maybe he’d bite his lip to muffle a groan. Maybe he’d tense just before he came, every muscle drawn tight beneath sweat-soaked skin . . .
The ache between my legs, barely dulled from earlier, spikes hot and insistent, as if the memory alone is enough to pull me under all over again.
No, stop it, Ainsley!
I squeeze my eyes shut and roll onto my stomach, but the throb at my core only intensifies. Bloody hell. This is ridiculous. I literally came fifteen minutes ago.
For what feels like hours, I toss and turn, eventually giving up and glaring at the ceiling.
For God’s sake, Ainsley. You have a business to run. You do not have time to be lusting after your joiner-slash-neighbour.
But no matter how much I berate myself, the heat keeps rushing back.
His hands. His mouth. The way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
My phone buzzes on my bedside table. Who the hell is contacting me at 12:58 a.m.?
Of course. Struan.
Struan
You still awake?
I can’t stop thinking about this evening
My pulse goes funny. I type out me neither then delete it. Instead:
Ainsley
I think we got a bit carried away
The dots appear almost immediately.
Struan
Maybe. But I’m glad we did
Butterflies. Actual traitorous butterflies doing loop-the-loops in my stomach.
Then reality barges in.
Lily still adjusting to our new life. The salon barely off the ground. My heart still held together with tape.
I can’t be going down this road right now. Not with anyone, and certainly not with Struan Walker, who has charm written into his DNA and a reputation that precedes him.
Ainsley
It can’t happen again, Struan
It was a mistake
Harsh, but necessary. I need to remind myself as much as him that I can’t let this happen.
Struan
I disagree. Tonight wasn’t just impulse
Short. Certain.
My throat goes dry.
Struan
Whatever this is between us, it’s been building since you fell into my lap at soft play
I snort despite my racing heart.
Ainsley
You’re imagining it
Struan
No, I’m not. The looks. The banter. The way we are around each other. Deny it all you want, Ainsley, but there’s something there
And damn him, he’s right.
I feel it every time he walks into a room. Every time he flashes that easy grin or passes close enough that I catch his warm, earthy scent.
Ainsley
Okay, fine. So we’re attracted to each other. Doesn’t mean acting on it is a good idea
Struan
Why not?
Ainsley
Because we’re neighbours. We’ve got kids. Things could get messy fast
Struan
I’m not saying we have to rush into anything
Ainsley
So what ARE you saying?
Struan
We could date? Take it slow. Just two adults getting to know each other
He’s asking me out?
My heart skips, and for one reckless moment I let myself imagine it. Dinner somewhere nice. His golden-brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughs at something I’ve said. Conversation that isn’t about renovation timelines or Lily’s meltdowns. His hand reaching across the table to take mine.
Then common sense kicks in, hard.
Of course he’s asking me out. He’s Struan Walker. This is what men like him do: dinner first, a bit of charm, then knickers on the floor.
Nope. Not happening. I’ve learnt my lesson.
Ainsley
Struan, I don’t have the headspace for anything remotely romantic right now
Can we just forget it happened? And this conversation too, for that matter
Let’s never talk about it again
The dots blink, vanish, then reappear.
Struan
Is that what you really want, Ainsley?
No. Yes.
Ainsley
It is
Struan
Then I’ll respect your wishes. But if you ever change your mind . . . you know where to find me
I stare at the message, something heavy and tight settling in my stomach. Then I turn the phone facedown, pull the duvet over my head, and squeeze my eyes shut.
I’ve made my intentions clear. Drawn a line. Which is a good thing.
So why doesn’t it feel good?