Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AINSLEY
The Glen Garve Resort rises out of the darkness like something from a fairy tale, all honey-coloured stone and turrets and windows glowing warm against the October night. It’s the kind of place that whispers old money and you don’t belong here in equal measure.
I park the car and sit for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
What am I doing?
This is insane. A terrible, terrible idea. I’m about to walk into a fancy restaurant, uninvited, and interrupt a man’s dinner. A man who is almost certainly on a date with someone else. A man I told, in no uncertain terms, that I wanted nothing further to do with romantically.
My reflection stares back at me from the rear-view mirror. Green velvet dress. Make-up done to perfection. Hair styled within an inch of its life.
I look like a woman who knows what she wants. It’s a shame my insides feel like jelly.
Just get out of the car, Ainsley. You’ve come this far.
The night air wraps around me as I step out—crisp, carrying the faint scent of wood smoke from somewhere. My heels click against the paving slabs as I walk towards the entrance, and with every step, a little voice in my head whispers, Turn back, turn back, this is a terrible idea.
I ignore it. I’ve spent too long listening to that voice.
Inside, the lobby is all polished hardwood and crystal chandeliers, the kind of elegance that makes you stand up straighter. A fire crackles in a grand stone hearth, and from somewhere deeper in the building come the soft notes of a piano.
At the doorway to the restaurant stands the ma?tre d’. Immaculate suit, practised smile.
“Good evening, madam. Welcome to the Glen Garve Resort. Do you have a booking with us tonight?”
“I’m meeting someone,” I say, with far more confidence than I feel. “They should already be here.”
“Of course, madam. And may I take the name of—”
But I’m already walking past him, heels tapping purposefully as I head into the restaurant.
Act like you belong. That’s the trick, right?
“Madam?” he calls after me, a note of polite alarm in his voice.
I don’t stop. Don’t look back. This is a posh establishment and I look the part—he’s not about to chase me down and cause a scene. That would be terribly undignified.
The restaurant opens up before me: white tablecloths, gleaming cutlery, the soft flicker of candlelight.
Couples lean towards each other over expensive wine.
A pianist plays something gentle in the corner.
Through tall windows, the glen stretches into darkness, the hills just visible against the night sky.
I scan the room, heart hammering against my ribs.
Where is he? Where—
My eyes land on a man at a table near the window. For a split second, I dismiss him—too polished, too put-together—and I’m about to move on when something makes me look again.
My breath catches. Because it is Struan. Only he’s . . . different. Very different.
Gone are the usual crumpled checked shirt and worn jeans.
Tonight he’s wearing dark tailored trousers, a crisp white button-down, and a blazer that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad.
His hair—still shorter than I’m used to, thanks to my emergency rescue mission with the scissors—curls just above his collar, and even from here, I can see the way the candlelight catches in those golden-brown eyes.
He looks good. The kind of good that makes my stomach flip and my mouth go dry.
And he’s sitting across from a woman.
They’re leaning close over the white linen, laughing quietly at something. Empty dessert plates sit between them. The candlelight paints them both in soft, romantic gold.
My heart drops straight through the floor.
The woman is gorgeous, of course. Dark-blonde hair falling to her shoulders, pretty features, a relaxed smile. She looks comfortable with him. Familiar.
For one horrible, lurching moment, I’m back in my old village. Walking in on Danny and Rachel tangled together. The shock of it. The humiliation. The way my world tilted sideways and never quite righted itself.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs at the edges.
No.
I force myself to breathe. Force the panic back down.
This isn’t like that. Because I’m not with Struan. He has every right to be here with another woman. I told him I didn’t want this. I pushed him away. Multiple times. I practically slammed the door in his face.
So what right do I have to feel this way?
None. Absolutely none.
And yet here I am. In a velvet dress. In a restaurant I wasn’t invited to. About to do something monumentally stupid.
For a moment, I consider turning around. Walking back out. Driving home and pretending this never happened.
But then I think about all the times I’ve let fear make my decisions for me.
No. I need to say my piece. I owe him that. I owe myself that.
If he’s moved on, fine. But I’m not leaving without trying.
I straighten my spine, smooth down my dress, and walk towards their table.
Struan is mid-sentence when he looks up. Whatever he was saying dies on his lips. His mouth parts, and he stares.
His gaze travels down, taking in the dress, the heels, all of it. Something shifts in his expression. Something warm and surprised and—unless I’m imagining it—a little bit awestruck.
That look gives me a bolt of courage I desperately need.
“I know how this looks,” I say. “And I know you’re clearly on a date—sorry—but I have to say this before I lose my nerve and run out of here and spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”
“Er, Ainsley—” Struan starts.
“Shh!” I hold up a hand. “There are things I need to say, and I will say them.”
I glance at the woman—she’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read—and give her a quick, apologetic smile before turning back to Struan.
“Right.” I take a breath. My heart is pounding so hard I’m amazed the whole restaurant can’t hear it.
“I pushed you away, and I’m sorry about that.
I really am. But I was scared, Struan. Properly scared.
The last time I let myself trust someone, it ended with my best friend in bed with my boyfriend and the whole village whispering about me like I was some tragic cautionary tale. ”
“Ainsley—”
“I’m not finished!” I say, loud enough for a couple at the next table to glance over.
I lower my voice. “The point is, I was so terrified of getting hurt again that I convinced myself it was safer to push you away. Easier. But it wasn’t easier.
It was bloody miserable, actually. Because you .
. .” I swallow hard. “You make me feel safe. You make me feel seen. Not the polished version I show everyone else, but the actual me. The one who throws instruction manuals out of windows and can’t assemble flat-pack furniture and sometimes cries in salon kitchenettes. ”
Struan opens his mouth again.
“Still not finished!” I’m on a roll now, the words tumbling out faster than I can control them.
“And you’re wonderful with Lily. That night you looked after her when Da was in hospital, playing Barbies and reading her stories and just .
. . being there. You didn’t have to do any of that.
But you did. Because that’s who you are.
You’re kind and patient and you make terrible jokes, and you—you built my bed, for God’s sake! ”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he stays quiet this time.
“My heart wasn’t broken. It was more like . . . under renovation. Or something. God, that sounded better in my head.” I wince. “The point is, I want this. I want you. I want to try—properly, slow and steady, without me panicking and running away.”
I pause, suddenly aware that I’ve been talking for what feels like an eternity. Struan is watching me with soft eyes.
“Only,” I add, my voice smaller now, “it seems I might be too late. You’ve already moved on.” I gesture at the woman across from him.
Then I turn to her directly, because she deserves an apology for having to sit through . . . whatever this is.
“I’m so sorry about this, by the way. I’m honestly not meaning to embarrass you or cause a scene. I just . . . there were things I had to say. And I’ve said them. So.” I give a helpless little shrug. “Sorry. Again.”
The woman looks at me. And then, to my utter confusion, she smiles. Warmly. Kindly. Like I’ve done something charming rather than completely unhinged.
“You must be Ainsley.” She holds out her hand.
I take it, bewildered. “Er . . . hi?”
“I’m Sophie.”
“Sophie?”
“Isla’s mum.”
The words take a moment to land. And then my face catches fire.
Oh God. Oh no. I’ve just confessed my feelings in front of the mother of his child.
I want to crawl under a table and never come out again.
Struan, the bastard, is grinning at me.
“I was trying to tell you,” he says, “but you weren’t letting me get a word in edgeways. And then you started saying such nice things about me that I didn’t want to interrupt. It was doing wonders for my ego, listening to all that.”
“Struan!” I choke out, horrified.
He just grins wider and winks. “Anyway, Soph and I are, of course, not on a date. I thought I owed her an apology dinner after being a bit of a dick on the phone the other day.”
“We were actually just talking about Isla,” Sophie adds.
“Trying to clear the air a bit. Struan sometimes bottles things up—he’s a man, after all.
” She shoots him a teasing look. “But I never want him feeling pushed out of Isla’s life.
So we’re making some changes. Over the school holidays, he’s taking some time off work to take her to a paddleboarding course I signed her up for.
And to give her a few extra lessons himself, apparently. ”
Struan nods. “Aye, that’s right. Looking forward to it. A bit of time with my girl.”
Sophie’s gaze flicks over me, giving me a once-over. “You’re gorgeous, by the way. Struan has good taste.”
“Oi!” Struan jokingly protests. “You’re a taken woman.”
His attention shifts back to me, and his voice softens. “Sophie’s right, though. You’re a knockout.”
My face is still burning, but something in my chest is starting to loosen.
“And you . . .” I manage, taking in his sharp clothes. “You fairly got dressed up for a meeting with Sophie.”
He glances down at himself like he’s only just noticed. “What, this? Honestly, I bought it for the date you and I were supposed to go on here. I didn’t get to wear it then, so . . .” He shrugs, sheepish. “Seemed a shame to waste it.”
“Well, it looks . . . very good on you.” I swallow. “And, er, it’s the same story with me, actually. This is the outfit I was planning to wear on that date we never quite made it to.”
Struan’s eyes darken slightly, travelling over me again in a way that makes my skin warm. “Aye? Fuck, Ainsley. You look incredible. I wouldn’t have been able to resist you if I’d seen you like this.”
I scoff, though my heart is racing. “You didn’t exactly resist me in my casual clothes. That’s why we missed the date in the first place.”
He laughs—that warm, rumbling sound that does things to my insides. “That’s true.”
Sophie raises her eyebrows with interest. Then she stands. “It’s been lovely to meet you, Ainsley. But I think I’m maybe intruding on what should be a private conversation between you two.” She looks at Struan. “I’ll see you on Friday?”
“What?” Struan blinks. “Oh, aye, right. Friday. See you then.”
Sophie catches my eye and winks—a small, conspiratorial thing—before slipping away.
Struan gestures to the vacated chair. “Join me?”
I do. The candle flickers between us. Beyond the window, the glen stretches into darkness.
“I’m still trying to get my breathing back to normal,” I admit. “I honestly thought I’d lost my chance. I thought you’d moved on.”
Struan reaches across the table and takes my hand. His hand is warm and calloused and fits around mine like it belongs there.
“I haven’t looked at anyone else since the day you fell into my lap at soft play.”
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “Well. We made it to the Glen Garve Resort in the end. Only, it’s not quite how I imagined our first date going.”
He chuckles, his thumb stroking across my knuckles.
“No, me neither. Still, I’m sitting across from you, and you look incredible.
That’s something. But this isn’t our first date, Ainsley.
This is just . . . a preview. Trust me.” His fingers tighten around mine.
“Our first date for real is going to blow you away.”
“Oh, aye?”
“Aye.” He grins, slow and devastating. “By the end of our first proper date, you’ll be mine.”
My breath catches. “Bold claim.”
“Not a claim, Ainsley.” He holds my gaze, steady and sure. “A promise.”