Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AINSLEY
I give Struan’s bare arse a satisfying slap. “Just hurry up and go!”
He grins at me then heads for the bedroom door. The muscles in his back shift as he walks. The arse I just smacked flexes with each step like it’s putting on a show just for me.
“And Struan?” I call after him. “When you get back, if you fancy it, maybe we could go another round?”
He looks back at me, his grin full of promise.
Then he’s gone, footsteps thudding down the stairs.
I flop back against the pillows with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. My body’s still humming, warm and loose and thoroughly satisfied. The sheets smell like him. Like us.
So much for taking things slow. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
I close my eyes, letting myself sink into this feeling—this rare, perfect contentment—while I wait for him to come back.
Downstairs the front door opens.
Then—a shriek.
“Struan!” A woman’s voice, high and startled. “What are you doing here? Your da said you were at the dentist! And why are you naked?”
I sit bolt upright.
“Sorry for being naked in my own house, Mum!” Struan retorts. “What are you doing here, more to the point? And, er . . . hello, Mrs Reid.”
Mrs Reid.
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Mum.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
I’m out of the bed before my brain catches up, scrambling for my clothes like the house is on fire.
My sweater’s inside out. My jeans are a crumpled, tangled mess on the floor.
I grab them, shove one foot in, hop on the other, nearly crash into the wardrobe, and catch myself on Struan’s chest of drawers.
“Fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Downstairs the conversation continues with horrifying clarity.
“Pauline and I were chatting away at knitting club just now,” Helen explains, her tone cheerful despite the circumstances.
“I was asking her about the new place she’s moved into, and she said it’s lovely but the kitchen’s a bit dated—she’d like to do it up at some point.
So, naturally, I told her how brilliant you and your da are at jobs like that, and how gorgeous your own kitchen turned out.
Then I said, actually, I’ve got a key to Struan’s place, why don’t we pop in so you can see it for yourself? I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“Aye, well, normally I wouldn’t have minded at all,” Struan says, “but as you can see—”
“Yes, yes.” My mother’s voice. And she sounds—God help me—amused. “It’s not the best time. I’ll see the kitchen another day.” A pause. “Still, someone’s been eating their porridge, eh?”
I freeze, one arm halfway through my sweater.
Is my mother—is she admiring Struan while he stands down there starkers?
I’m going to die. Right here, in Struan Walker’s bedroom, tangled in my own clothes, I am going to die of mortification.
“You know what, Helen?” Mum continues brightly. “I’ve got a key for my daughter’s place next door. Why don’t we grab a cuppa through there?”
A flicker of relief cuts through the panic. They’re leaving. Thank God, they’re leaving.
“Good idea,” Helen agrees. “But hang on, Struan, your hair! Oh, I love the new look!”
“Mum!” Struan’s voice pitches higher. “I’m standing here completely naked, cupping my bits. Maybe don’t look too closely, eh? You can admire my haircut another time.”
Despite everything—despite the absolute catastrophe unfolding below me—a grin tugs at my lips. I can picture it perfectly: Struan with his hands strategically placed and these two women carrying on a conversation with him like this is all perfectly ordinary.
Focus, Ainsley. This is not funny.
Well . . . maybe it’s a wee bit funny.
I pull my sweater the rest of the way on and start hunting for my bra.
“Actually, you know what,” Mum says, “maybe I should give Ainsley a quick call before barging into her place. Give me a moment . . .”
My blood turns to ice.
And then, from my back pocket, a quacking sound erupts. The ringtone Lily picked for me because she thought it was hilarious.
Quack quack quack quack quack—
I yank the phone out and jab at the screen to quiet it.
Silence.
Then, Mum’s voice: “Ainsley? Are you . . . upstairs?”
I stand frozen, phone clutched in my hand, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Think. Think, think, think.
But I’ve got nothing. No escape route. No clever excuse.
I’m standing in my neighbour’s bedroom with sex-mussed hair and my bra still missing, and my mother is downstairs with his mother, and they both know exactly what’s been happening.
There’s no way they can’t. Struan’s naked—it’s a bit of a giveaway.
Slowly, like a condemned woman walking to the gallows, I step out onto the landing and peer down the stairs.
There’s Struan, stark naked, hands cupped in front of himself. And there, beside him, are Helen and my mum, both looking up at me with expressions of pure, undisguised glee.
“Er . . .” My voice comes out strangled. “Hi, Mum. Hi, Helen.”
The mums exchange a look—one of those loaded looks that says more than a whole afternoon’s gossip.
“Well!” Helen clasps her hands together. “We’ll . . . leave you to it.”
“Aye,” Mum agrees. “We’ll pop to the Lighthouse Café for a cuppa instead. Give you two some space.”
“Right.” Struan clears his throat. “Just . . . maybe keep this to yourselves, aye? It’s early days and—”
“Of course, of course,” Helen says, waving a hand. “Not a word.”
“Lips sealed,” Mum adds, miming a zip across her mouth.
They leave, pulling the door shut behind them with a decisive click. And then—because apparently they think a wooden door is soundproof—their voices drift back, clear as anything.
“Looks like we won’t need to play matchmaker after all!” Helen exclaims.
“I knew there was something brewing between them,” Mum replies. “Did you see her face? Flushed as anything—”
Their voices fade as they move away.
Struan turns and looks up at me, an amused smile playing at his lips. Like this is funny. Like our mothers didn’t just catch us post-sex. Like the entire situation isn’t an absolute nightmare.
“Well,” he says, “that was—”
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
His smile falters. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
My skin is cooling now, and as the mortification of being discovered by our mums fades, reality creeps in.
This isn’t just between us anymore.
Struan starts up the stairs towards me, no longer bothering to cover himself, far too at ease for a man whose mother was here moments ago. Normally, I’d find the view—and the movement—distracting, but panic claws at my chest, shame burning through every nerve.
When he reaches me, he pulls me into a hug, wrapping those strong arms around me and pressing me against his bare chest.
No, no, no, no. Our mums know, and that means—
Skin. Heat. So much of him, everywhere, when what I need is space to breathe.
I stand rigid in his arms, my heart hammering against his ribs. Can he feel it? Can he feel how fast I’m spiralling?
“Hey,” he murmurs into my hair. “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“Could you . . . put some clothes on?” The words come out sharp.
He pulls back, eyebrows lifting. “Oh. Shit, sorry. Of course.”
He strolls into the bedroom, grabs his boxers from the floor, and pulls them on. He gives himself a quick absent-minded tug, like he’s making sure everything’s sitting right, then turns back to me with an easy smile.
“What’s up? It’s just our mums. Bit embarrassing, aye, but—”
“Just our mums?” I can hear my voice climbing. “Struan, they saw us. They know.”
“Aye, but . . .” He shrugs, still looking faintly bemused. “So what? They’re our mums. They’re hardly going to judge us for—”
“Our mums love nothing better than gossiping at knitting club. You do realise that, right?” I’m pacing now, my hands twisting together.
“How long do you think it’ll be before they let slip?
I mean, what do you think they’re going to discuss at the Lighthouse Café?
And their voices—God, their voices aren’t exactly quiet.
I wouldn’t be surprised if word’s spreading through the whole town in the next half hour. ”
“Ainsley.” He steps towards me, reaching out. “Come on, you’re overthinking this—”
“Don’t.” I jerk back before he can touch me. “Just . . . don’t.”
He stops, confusion creasing his features. “I don’t understand. Why is this such a big deal?”
Why is this such a big deal?
The question lands like a slap.
He doesn’t get it. Then again, he didn’t live through those weeks after everything with Danny came out—the whispers in the corner shop, the pitying glances at nursery drop-off, the way conversations stopped the moment I showed up anywhere.
Struan didn’t feel the weight of an entire village knowing your deepest humiliation, picking over the bones of your failed relationship like it was entertainment.
I wanted things to be different here. Slow. Private. Controlled. I wanted to be the one who decided when and how and who knew what.
And now that’s gone. Ripped away before we’ve even had our first date.
“I wanted . . .” My voice cracks. I swallow hard and try again. “I wanted to take things slowly. To have time to figure out what this is before everyone else got involved. To have some control over—”
“Hey.” He reaches for me again, and this time his hands find my shoulders. Even through my sweater, his palms are warm. “Ainsley, it’s going to be fine. I’ll talk to Mum, make sure she keeps quiet—”
“You heard them!” I pull away, and something in his expression flickers—hurt, maybe, or confusion. “I bet they’re already out there gossiping. And even if they try to keep quiet, it’s bound to slip out.”
“Then . . . so what?” He spreads his hands, genuinely baffled. “We’re two single adults. We’ve not done anything wrong.”
He really, truly doesn’t get it. And maybe that’s not his fault. But right now, standing here with my pulse racing and my chest tight, I can’t explain it. Can’t find the words to make him see.
All I know is that I need to get out. I need space. I need to think.
“I have to go.”
“What? Ainsley, wait—”
But I’m already moving, hurrying down the stairs then out the front door and into the bright, unforgiving daylight.
The air hits my face, cool and sharp. I gulp it down but it doesn’t help. My chest won’t loosen, my thoughts keep spiralling.
I just want to be home. In my own space. Where I can close the door and shut out the world and try to make sense of this mess.
But my home is right there—literally next door, a low hedge away from Struan’s. That’s not far enough.
I go inside only to grab my car keys then head out again and into my car.
“Ainsley!” Struan’s voice. I see him emerging from his doorway, joggers and T-shirt now on. He raises a hand to stop me. “Ainsley, wait! Can we just talk about—”
I turn the key in the ignition. The engine coughs to life.
“Ainsley!”
I pull away, not looking back, not slowing down, just driving.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I just know I can’t stay.