Aye, she’s a bit of an enigma, my new neighbour.
Professional, I remind myself, attacking a stubborn screw with more force than necessary.Keep it professional, Walker.
When Ainsley returns just before noon, I’m crouched by the far wall, attacking years of neglect with sandpaper, sweat making my T-shirt stick to my back. My forearms burn from the repetitive motion, but it’s good, honest work.
I turn to greet her only to notice her blinking once, twice, then jerking her gaze away from me. Interesting. Maybe the attraction between usisn’tone-way. She smooths down her top then strides towards me with a paper bag in hand.
“Replacement sandwich.” She thrusts it at me like she’s paying off a debt she desperately wants cleared. “From the Lighthouse Café.”
I stand and wipe my hands on my jeans. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Aye, well, you shouldn’t go hungry because of Lily.” Her words are to the point but not unkind. “Cheese and pickle. Hope that’s fine.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
She nods once—transaction complete—and looks around the salon, taking in the bare walls and the empty spaces where the old stations used to be. “You’ve cracked on, I see.”
“Aye.” I bob my head towards the street. “Already loaded the van with all the old fittings and furniture for the skip.”
“Good.” She pulls out her phone and angles it for a selfie—even her closed smile is professional. “For the salon’s socials,” she explains, then disappears into the small kitchenette at the back.
I follow with my sandwich. “Mind if I sit at the bar for lunch?”
A pause. Just long enough to be noticeable.
“Oh. Aye, sure.” She sits on a stool, eyes on her phone. “I’ll mostly be working, though.”
Translation: don’t expect conversation. Don’t expect friendliness. Don’t expect anything.
Jesus. I’m going to be here for two weeks. We don’t need to be pals, but a bit less frost wouldn’t hurt.
I settle beside her at the cramped breakfast bar. She immediately shifts a few inches further along, creating whatever space she can between us. Even so, I catch a glimpse of her phone, open on her Instagram profile, “The Lily Room”.
“Nice,” I say. “You’re naming this place after your wee girl?”
She glances up, and for once there’s no guard, no walls. A real smile lights her face—and wow, it’s a good one. She really is stunning.
“Aye. She drives me up the wall sometimes, but she’s my world. Felt right to name the salon after her.”
I nod, the corners of my own mouth lifting. Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “And how are you settling in?” I ask, keen to keep the conversation going. “Ardmara treating you well so far?”
“It’s fine.” Her smile dims slightly. “Different from where I was before, but that’s not a bad thing.”
“Where were you?—”
“Sorry, I’ve got things to do.” Her tone returns to arctic in a heartbeat. She takes out her laptop, opens it, and angles both it and herself away from me, radiating a quiet but unmistakable “don’t talk to me” energy.
Bloody hell. Seriously, what did I do to this woman? With no further hopes of conversation, I pull out my phone and scroll through the news while I eat, but my attention keeps drifting. Ainsley is close enough that I catch hints of her perfume—something warm and sophisticated, like vanilla mixed with something spicy. Expensive-smelling. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in closer, find out exactly where she’s dabbed it on her skin.
Keep it professional, I remind myself.
I try to focus on the sports article I’m reading, but when Ainsley lets out a small noise of frustration, I glance up. She’s chewing her bottom lip, completely absorbed in whatever’s on her screen. For a moment I can’t help but stare, drawn in by the way she unconsciously nibbles and sucks on that pouty lip.
Christ, Walker. Behave. Don’t be a creep.
Needing a distraction, I fire off a quick message to Sophie, Isla’s mum.
Struan
