Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AINSLEY
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on Struan’s doorstep with my scissors case tucked under one arm, hair still damp and twisted into a clip.
Footsteps sound from inside, then the door opens.
He’s fresh from the shower, wearing grey joggers and an old, well-worn T-shirt. Despite the fact his damp hair is settling into what can only be described as the world’s worst mullet, he looks . . . good. Because apparently Struan Walker just can’t help but look good.
His eyes skim over me, and there’s warmth there. “Wow, Ainsley. You look lovely.”
I scoff. “Hardly.” My hair’s half-dry, my face is bare, and my jeans-and-sweater combo is nothing special. “This isn’t what I’m wearing later,” I say, gesturing at my outfit. “Figured I’d keep my nice clothes for the restaurant—and spare them from being covered in your tawny locks.”
“Fair.” He glances down at himself. “Same idea here.”
That’s when I notice his bare feet—another unexpectedly distracting detail. Who knew feet could be attractive? When I drag my gaze back up, it catches—briefly, mortifyingly—on what grey joggers are famous for not hiding.
I yank my eyes to his face.
For God’s sake, Ainsley.
“Come on in,” he says, stepping back.
As I brush past him, I catch his scent—clean soap, a hint of aftershave, and something else. Warm. Earthy. Distinctly Struan.
The hall is the mirror image of my own, but where mine is still a work in progress, his feels settled.
Calm, neutral walls. A few framed photos—mostly of Isla, one of the two of them together on a beach somewhere, wind whipping their matching curls.
And mounted on the wall, a decorative guitar made from repurposed metal, all curves and copper patina.
Art piece and personality statement in one.
“I meant what I said, you know. You really do look lovely.”
I turn to him, and he nods at my forest-green sweater. “That colour suits you. It’s the exact shade of your eyes.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. I clear my throat. “Thank you. Er, are we doing the cut in the kitchen?”
“Aye, please.”
I walk ahead, and I’m certain—certain—I can feel his eyes on me, a prickling awareness that trails up my spine. I resist the urge to look back.
The kitchen is bright and warm, sunlight spilling through the window and pooling across wooden worktops. I run my hand along the edge, admiring the grain, the smooth finish.
“These are gorgeous,” I say. “You make them yourself?”
Struan nods. “Aye. Bit of timber from a job last year. Client changed their mind about it at the last minute, and I didn’t want to see it go to waste.” He pulls out a chair. “Here do?”
“Perfect. You got a towel? You know, to save your top.”
He looks down. “This thing? It’s as old as the hills. Honestly, don’t worry. Go for it.”
Even sitting, Struan is tall—so tall that the crown of his head reaches almost to my chin. I set my scissors case on the worktop, unzip it, and pull out my comb and clips. Then I slide my fingers into his hair, testing its weight and texture.
A spark shoots through me, and I’m not the only one. Struan shivers under my touch—actually shivers. And when he speaks, his voice comes out low and rough. “So . . . what’s the verdict on the hair?”
Good idea. Focus on the practical.
“When I even it out, I’ll need to take about three inches off in places.” I comb through the damp strands, assessing the damage. “You’ll still have more length than most guys—enough for the curls to sit properly—but it’ll be a while before you can manage another man bun.”
I sigh. Actually sigh. Out loud.
“You sound heartbroken,” he teases.
“Maybe a little,” I admit as I separate out a section and secure it with a clip. “It was growing on me. You, on the other hand, are taking the news well.”
“Aye, well, figured it was doomed the second it happened.” He shrugs, the movement shifting beneath my hands. “But hair grows, as they say.”
“Just as well or I’d be out of a job.”
He laughs, the sound deep and rich.
I start cutting, and for a while there’s only the rhythmic snip of the scissors. Curls drift to the floor. In the faint reflection of the window, I catch him watching me, his gaze soft, thoughtful.
“You’ve got talent, you know,” he says. “Transforming folk the way you do. I saw what you did for my mum’s hair. Half of Ardmara’s walking around with better hairstyles thanks to you.”
“Aye, well, you’re one to talk.” I trim another curl, evening out the layers, then gesture around the kitchen with my comb. “These worktops. The bench at the salon. You make the most beautiful things. That’s talent.”
“Ach.” He ducks his head slightly, actually modest for once. “It’s just wood and nails.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Walker.”
He doesn’t respond, but in the window I spot the pleased curve of his mouth.
I step to the side, reaching for a clip I discarded earlier, and as I lean over—
My right boob betrays me. It doesn’t just brush his cheek. It whacks across it. Full contact. Unmistakable.
“Oh my God, sorry!” I blurt, the words tumbling out far too fast as heat floods my face.
I never invade a client’s space like that. Ever. It must be the chair. Or the angle. Or Struan Walker’s fault for looking too damn attractive and completely distracting me.
Struan turns to me, his mouth already twisted into a wicked grin. “Don’t worry about it. There are far worse ways to get hit in the face than by a boob.”
His eyes dance with mischief. And then—because apparently he can’t help himself—his gaze flicks down.
“Oi!” I swat him lightly on the shoulder. “Eyes and head facing the window.” I cup his stubbled chin and turn him back to the front. “No moving when I’ve got scissors near your ear.”
He chuckles, and then very unsubtly shifts in his seat. Oh, for the love of—
Do not look down, Ainsley.
I look down.
And holy hell, he’s getting hard. Like, right now. In real time. I can literally see the front of his joggers lifting.
My breath stutters. Jesus Christ!
I force my eyes back to his hair, heart hammering. I mean, my boob did just whack him in the face. What man wouldn’t react?
What really worries me is the delighted thrill that zings through me. Because I shouldn’t be pleased by his reaction. Not at all.
Get it together, Ainsley. No nooky, remember? Focus!
I try. I really do. Except when I touch his hair again, there’s a twitch down there. I can’t help but notice it in my peripheral vision. And it draws my gaze like a bloody magnet.
Oh God. Those grey joggers really don’t hide anything. He’s got a full hard-on now, and I swear I can see the entire outline of it.
And Struan? He doesn’t even try to hide it. He just sits there, perfectly calm, like erections are a normal part of kitchen haircuts. Doesn’t cover himself or apologise.
The confidence of that does something low and wicked to my insides.
Focus, Ainsley. Distraction. Now.
“So,” I say, my voice coming out slightly strangled, “tell me about this job. The one that nearly cost you your scalp.”
He launches into it easily—a Victorian house, the oak mantelpiece he and his da were working on. I keep cutting, letting the rhythm of the scissors and the sound of his voice steady me.
After a while, out of the corner of my eye, I do a discreet dick-status check.
Thank Christ. Things seem to be settling down a little. Mission accomplished.
“This morning I was buffing these cast-iron brackets,” he goes on. “Beautiful old things, covered in rust. That’s what I was working on when the drill got a bit too friendly with my hair.”
I wince, trimming another curl near his nape. For one insane moment, I want to lean down and press my lips to that spot—the vulnerable dip where his hairline meets golden skin.
“You were lucky, you know,” I manage instead. “That could’ve gone much worse.”
My fingers sweep through his newly evened hair.
The worst of the accidental mullet is gone, leaving the shape clean and deliberate.
And damn him, he was gorgeous with long hair, but the shorter cut is good on him too.
Sharpens his jaw. Draws attention to the strong lines of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders.
“Usually I am careful, but I was daydreaming and a bird startled me.”
“What were you daydreaming about?” I ask as I trim an errant lock.
“You.”
My pulse stutters.
He turns to me, forcing me to stop cutting, and his eyes meet mine.
Then his gaze drifts lower, to my lips, which I can’t seem to stop wetting. When his eyes lift again, the golden flecks in his irises are barely visible, his pupils dark and wide.
Dear God. That’s a man who knows exactly what he wants.
The air hums between us, charged and waiting.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. Patient. Sure.
“Fuck it,” I whisper.
I drop the scissors onto the worktop, and then my hands are in his hair, my mouth on his. Our lips fuse together and I melt into him, his hands anchoring me at the waist. Our mouths part and his tongue slides against mine—slick, teasing, tasting of mint and something so utterly him it’s dizzying.
Last time I blamed the joint for how wild he made me feel. But this, right here—this is all Struan. No haze but the one he puts in my head.
And judging by the way his grip tightens—I mean really tightens—on my hips as he pulls me closer, he feels it too.
He kisses me harder, and then suddenly I’m lifted and shifted onto his lap. Not straddling him, just perched sideways like some 1950s pin-up. But his erection is insistent against my thigh, and my brain short-circuits at the feeling of him, hot and hard through those joggers.
I nip his lower lip between my teeth, and he groans—low in his throat, a sound that goes straight to my core. There’s a deep ache building between my legs now, throbbing with every kiss.
I break away just long enough to shift, flinging one leg over so I’m straddling him properly, my centre settling against the thick, hot line of his cock. The contact is so good I whimper.