Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
STRUAN
The Grays’ house is exactly the kind of place people commission custom oak pieces for. High ceilings, ornate cornicing, a fireplace that deserves more than an off-the-shelf mantelpiece.
Da’s set up by the bay window, the new mantel shelf laid across a pair of trestles. He’s sanding the edges smooth while I work along the chimney breast with a tape measure and pencil, marking out fixing points and checking my levels so everything lines up when we’re ready to mount the wood.
The radio crackles in the background, last night’s rugby being picked apart by the presenters.
“Bloody defence was a shambles,” Da mutters, not looking up.
“Mmm.”
“And don’t get me started on that try they disallowed. It was in, clear as day.”
“Aye.” I’m not really listening. My mind’s elsewhere—specifically, on a certain dark-haired lass with green eyes and a smile she doesn’t hand out to just anyone.
There’s a buzz under my skin that won’t settle. Excitement—and aye, a bit of nerves. Not like me, but this isn’t just any date. Ainsley made me work hard for it, and now that she’s giving me a chance, I don’t want to fuck it up.
I check the time on my phone. An hour to go.
Christ. Time’s crawling today.
“Remember, I’ll need to head off in a bit,” I say. “I’ll be back around three.”
Da glances up. “What’s this for again?”
“Dentist.” I keep my voice casual. “Plus a few errands. The bank, that sort of stuff.”
Lying doesn’t come naturally to me. But Ainsley wants to keep things quiet for now, and I get it, especially after everything she went through with her ex. The last thing she needs is the Ardmara rumour mill cranking into life.
“I’ll make up the time later.”
Handy thing about working on an empty house when the owners are away on holiday: you can be flexible with the hours.
Da eyes me for a second longer then shrugs. “Fine. Just make sure you lock up and set the alarm when you’re done tonight.”
Mum would never have left it there—she’d have badgered me until I cracked. Da’s different that way. He knows when to let something drop.
We fall back into comfortable silence. Just the steady rasp of sandpaper, the murmur of the radio, the scratch of pencil on plaster as I mark another fixing point.
My phone buzzes. I wipe my hands on my jeans and check the screen.
Ainsley
This place you picked, is it nice or fancy nice? Trying to decide what to wear
We’re going for lunch at a sprawling hotel and golf estate called the Glen Garve Resort. It’s near Bannock. I’ve driven past it umpteen times over the years on my way to Sophie’s but I’ve never once been inside.
From the website the restaurant looks like the kind of place where everything’s laid out just so and you’re never quite sure which fork to use. I’m normally more pub lunches and Sunday roasts, but Ainsley’s special. Deserves to be treated right.
Plus, it’s far enough away from Ardmara that we shouldn’t bump into anyone we know.
Struan
I’d say fancy nice. But don’t feel you have to dress up. You’ll look great whatever you wear
Ainsley
Good answer, Mr Walker
We’ve been messaging on and off all weekend. Started with me checking on her da—he’s home now and mending well—then turned into date planning, followed by general nonsense that’s had me grinning at my phone like an eejit.
Struan
I aim to please
Ainsley
That’s good to know
Christ. Is she flirting? That feels like flirting.
“You’re in a good mood.”
I look up to find Da watching me while he wipes down the mantel shelf to clear away the worst of the wood shavings.
“Ach.” I slide the phone back into my pocket. “Just a bit of banter with the lads.”
He hums but leaves it there and returns his attention to the task in hand.
“All right,” I say a few minutes later, “I’ve marked everything up for fitting.
” I pick up a pair of cast-iron brackets the Grays found at a salvage yard—ornate curls and Victorian flourishes buried under decades of paint and rust. Once cleaned up, they’ll look spot-on with the oak mantel shelf. “I’ll sort these outside.”
“Aye, fine. Goggles, Struan.”
“Of course.”
Outside, the mid-morning air is cool and sharp, noticeably colder than it was a week ago. Autumn making itself known.
I fit the wire-brush head to the drill, pull on my goggles, and brace a bracket against a pile of offcuts. I get to work, flecks of rust and old paint spitting into the air. Dirty, noisy, mindless. My hands keep moving but my thoughts slip elsewhere.
Right. I need to leave myself enough time to shower and make myself presentable. I even bought new clothes for today—a proper shirt, dark trousers, shoes rather than my usual work boots.
I picture Ainsley across the table from me. Relaxed and less guarded for once. That spark in her eyes when she teases me. And her laugh—the real one, not the polite one she uses out of habit.
Maybe, if the moment’s right, I’ll reach across the table and take her hand. Maybe I’ll even—
A bird explodes out of the hedge beside me.
I jolt, just enough for the spinning wire brush to catch the loose strands of my hair.
A sharp zzzip! rips across my scalp.