Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AINSLEY
The headlights sweep across the front of the house as I pull into the drive. I let the engine idle for a moment before switching it off.
I tip my head back against the headrest and let out a long, slow breath. No surgery. No life-altering damage. Just a cast, a hospital bed for the night, and several weeks of healing.
Da’s going to be fine.
According to the dashboard clock, it’s 10:45 p.m. Struan’s had Lily since three. That’s nearly eight hours with my daughter.
I open the car door and step out into the cool night air. A faint breeze carries the salt-and-seaweed tang of the harbour.
On the drive back, my thoughts kept drifting to Struan.
The way he offered to collect Lily without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The salon gossip—how quickly I assumed the worst of him, and how wrong I was.
The four-hour round trip to Elgin. And the way he listens to me without trying to fix me or smooth things over.
I was so sure I had him pegged. Charming smile. Easy flirtation. A reputation that preceded him.
Just like Danny.
Only, that doesn’t quite fit anymore. Not neatly anyway. Struan’s shown a kind of care and quiet decency I didn’t expect.
I push the thought aside as I open the front door and step inside.
The hall is dim, lit only by the glow spilling from the living room. I slip off my shoes then pad towards the light. And stop in my tracks.
Struan’s stretched out on the sofa, mouth slightly open, fast asleep. Curled against him is Lily, a blanket tucked around her, Mr Flops held close, one small hand resting against Struan’s chest.
On the TV Igglepiggle prances across a moonlit garden, his cheerful song murmuring from the speakers.
I stand there for a moment, taking it in. The steady rhythm of their breathing. Lily’s wee body heavy with sleep.
I swallow then cross to the sofa and crouch beside it. “Hey,” I murmur, reaching out to touch Struan’s shoulder.
He stirs, a soft grunt escaping him. His eyes blink open—unfocused at first, then finding me. He rubs a hand over his face.
God, he looks adorable waking up. All rumpled and—
Stop it, Ainsley.
“Sorry.” He carefully sits up, his voice rough with sleep. “I did get her down in her own bed. But she came back down a wee while ago. Put In the Night Garden on to settle her, and . . . well, guess we both conked out.”
“You’ve been amazing, Struan,” I say quietly. “Thank you so much.”
He waves off my gratitude. “Ach, don’t be daft. Happy to help.” He glances down at Lily, who’s still dead to the world. “I’ll take her up.”
“Oh, I can—”
But he’s already scooping Lily into his arms, one hand supporting her head. She stirs, makes a small sound of protest, then burrows closer into his chest and goes still again.
And just like that, my body reacts in a way I very much did not authorise.
It’s just because you’re tired, I tell myself. It’s been a long day.
But I know that’s not the whole truth.
I follow Struan up the stairs. In Lily’s room he lowers Lily onto her bed, eases his arm out from beneath her, then steps back to give me space.
I tug the duvet up around her shoulders, smooth her hair back from her forehead, and lean down to press a gentle kiss there. “Night, baby.”
As we quietly head back down the stairs, voices drift in from the street—two of them, tipsy and cheerful, belting out a very enthusiastic rendition of “Caledonia”. I smile faintly. Must be on their way home from the pub.
I pause.
Wait, doesn’t Struan usually play at the pub on Thursdays?
In the living room, Struan runs a hand through his curls, still clearly half-asleep. “She didn’t even stir when we put her down,” he says. “Out like a light.”
“Aye.” I hesitate, then: “Struan, something just occurred to me. Weren’t you supposed to play at the pub this evening?”
He shrugs then reaches for his hoodie, which is draped over the arm of the sofa. “Aye, but I told Ellie and Rab I’d sit this one out.”
I stare at him.
He must catch the look on my face because he adds, “They can still play without me. It’s not the first time one of us has had to pull out of a gig.
Just means an adapted set, that’s all.” Another easy shrug, like it’s nothing.
Like cancelling his evening plans to babysit his neighbour’s four-year-old is just what you do.
“You cancelled,” I say slowly, “to help me? And my family?”
“It’s not a big deal, Ainsley.”
Except it is. All those assumptions I made about him. The walls I built, brick by brick, to keep men like him safely on the other side. And here he is, dismantling them without even trying. Just by being . . . this. Kind. Dependable. Good.
“Well,” he says, moving towards the door and pulling on his hoodie. “Goodnight, Ainsley.”
“Wait!”
He turns, brows lifting.
My heart is hammering. This is impulsive. Probably a terrible idea. But the words are already forming, rising up from somewhere beneath all the caution and the fear and the carefully maintained distance.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Aye? About what?”
“I’d like that date.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “If it’s still on offer.”
For a moment he just looks at me. Then his hands come up, palms out. “Ainsley, you don’t have to go on a date with me as a way of paying me back for this evening. I meant what I said before—”
“I know. But I’d still like that date.”
His eyes don’t leave me. He searches my face, looking for . . . what? Obligation? Gratitude dressed up as interest?
Whatever he finds must satisfy him because he breaks into a slow smile. Not the easy grin he deploys like a weapon, but something softer. Warmer.
“Well, then. A date it is.”
There’s a flutter in my chest. Nerves. Excitement. A complicated tangle of both.
“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We can sort the details then.”
I nod, not quite trusting my voice.
He opens my front door then pauses on the threshold, glancing back. The outside light catches his eyes, turning them to amber. “Goodnight, Ainsley.”
I swallow. “Goodnight, Struan.”