Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AINSLEY
My shower is, for once, blissfully unhurried.
No small fists banging on the bathroom door. No cries of “Mummy, I need a wee!” No clock ticking down the minutes until nursery drop-off. Just me, the steam, and the steady drum of hot water against my shoulders.
I tip my head back and let the spray rinse through my hair. Bliss.
Lily’s at nursery. The salon’s closed. I have an entire morning to luxuriate in getting ready—I’d almost forgotten what that felt like. I squeeze a generous dollop of conditioning mask into my palm and work it through from roots to ends, taking my time, actually enjoying the process for once.
Monday lunchtime might not be most people’s choice for a first date, but it made the most sense with my schedule. And really, a daytime date is probably for the best.
Daylight feels safer than candlelight. Less chance of things slipping into something . . . more.
And by “more”, I mean intimacy. Which is absolutely, categorically not on the cards today. This is strictly a no-nooky date—a chance to get to know Struan better, in a civilised setting, with cutlery and conversation and zero risk of me losing my head.
Technically, nooky has already occurred. Well, sort of. In the form of me dry-humping him on his back step like a woman possessed.
But that was different. That was the weed, and the late hour, and his stupid sexy guitar playing, and the way the stars had looked scattered across the sky like someone had flung a handful of glitter at the universe.
Today there’ll be none of that. No twinkly-star aphrodisiac.
No shared joint to blur the lines. This time, I will not get carried away.
I’m only just settling into my new life here. I can’t risk getting swept up in something that burns too bright, too fast.
I lather the soap between my palms, working it into a rich foam.
The thing is, the human brain—especially mine—has a spectacular talent for sabotage.
Because as I rub the suds along my arms and over my shoulders, my thoughts slide right back to that night on the steps.
The way Struan’s hands gripped me, steady and sure.
The hardness of him beneath me. The slickness of my knickers inside my jeans as I moved on his lap, chasing something I hadn’t meant to chase—
I drag the soap across my chest and hiss softly, startled by how sensitive I’ve become. The warmth of the water, the slick slide of my palms—it’s far too easy to imagine hands other than my own.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, and twist the dial hard.
The shock of cold water hits like a slap. I gasp, shoulders hunching, but I force myself to stay under the icy spray.
There will be none of that, Ainsley. No daydreams. No detours. And absolutely no nooky with Struan Walker.
Except my mind, apparently, is in a rebellious mood today. Because now it’s conjuring something far too vivid. Struan’s van pulled over on some quiet stretch of road, the windows fogged, the whole vehicle rocking gently in time with—
Ding-dong.
My heart hammers. For one ridiculous second guilt shoots through me, as if the universe has just caught me in the act of thinking something indecent.
Who the hell is at my door?
I reach out the shower and grab my phone from the shelf. No messages. Struan isn’t due for another forty minutes.
The doorbell chimes again.
“All right, all right,” I mutter, hastily rinsing the last of the conditioning mask from my hair. I twist off the water, wrap my hair in a towel, and shrug into my robe, yanking the belt tight as I pad downstairs. My feet leave damp prints on the carpet.
I pull the front door open, and it’s as if my stray thoughts have conjured him out of thin air.
Struan. In his work clothes. Wearing a baseball cap.
For a moment I can only stare. Then a gust of cold air sneaks through the doorway and brushes my bare legs, and I’m abruptly, mortifyingly aware that I’m naked beneath this robe. Nothing but terry cloth between me and the Scottish autumn. Oh, and Struan.
His gaze dips—briefly—to where my neckline gapes slightly, showing more cleavage than I’d like.
I tug the robe tighter. “Struan, you’re early! Really early.”
He has the decency to look contrite. “Aye, well, the thing is . . .” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish in a way I haven’t seen before. “Had a bit of an accident at work. And, er, I was wondering if you could help me.”
My eyes do a quick scan, head to toe and back again. He’s standing. He’s upright. No visible blood.
“You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Not exactly.” A wry twist of his mouth. “Just my pride, maybe.”
I frown, not following. And then he reaches up and pulls off the cap.
I inhale sharply. “Oh, dear God.”
The man bun is gone. His hair—those gorgeous, tawny curls I’ve been trying very hard not to think about running my fingers through—is .
. . well, massacred is the word that springs to mind.
It’s shorter at the crown by several inches, ragged in patches, with uneven tufts sticking out at angles that defy gravity.
“What happened?”
“Wire-brush drill head. I was buffing some old brackets and I caught my hair. Killed the power fast, but it snarled a chunk—well, more than just a chunk.” He attempts a self-deprecating laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Da tried to free it. Ended up cutting me loose with scissors.”
“Struan Walker, you absolute eejit! You could’ve scalped yourself. Or lost an eye!”
“Aye, well.” He gives a small shrug. “Lesson learnt. Sorry to interrupt you while you’re getting ready, and I hate to ask, but . . . any chance you could give it a tidy before we head to the restaurant?”
The request shouldn’t make me pause. I’m a hairdresser. Cutting hair is literally what I do. And yet, just like when his mum suggested I give him a trim at the salon opening, the idea of touching his hair feels oddly intimate.
He must catch my hesitation because he starts to ramble. “It’s just, I’ve never been to the Glen Garve Resort before, but it’s not the kind of place you wear a cap in. I don’t want to turn up looking like I’ve been attacked by a strimmer, but if it’s too much trouble—”
“Struan.” I cut him off before he can spiral further. “Of course I can sort it.”
So much for my indulgent getting-ready session. Hello, noble rescue mission.
“I always keep a pair of scissors at home,” I add. “For cutting Lily’s hair.” And for when Mum springs one of her many “Can you just trim my fringe, dear?” moments on me.
His shoulders drop with relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t seen the full extent of the damage.”
“Fair point.” He runs a hand through what’s left of his curls, a gesture that would normally be casual and attractive but only highlights the chaos. “I don’t want to get your place messy, so why don’t we do it at mine? Does it need to be wet first?”
“Preferably.”
“Right, then.” He’s already backing down the drive, that familiar easy energy returning now we’ve agreed a plan to deal with his hair. “I’ll grab a quick shower and see you in ten?”
“Sounds good.”
I close the door, my brain already—unhelpfully—conjuring images of him naked in the shower.