Business mode kicks in—safer territory. I pull out my phone and swipe to my portfolio. “What kind of style were you thinking?” I show her some before-and-afters, warming to my subject as she makes appreciative noises.
“These are incredible! I’d love to book an appointment for opening week. Also, if you fancy, we could grab a drink sometime? Compare notes on being newcomers in a town where everyone’s known each other since they were in diapers. Us fresh arrivals need to stick together, right?”
My stomach knots. Drinks means talking. Sharing. Potentially letting my guard down. And after what happened back home...
“That’s lovely of you, but childcare’s a bit tricky for me.” A white lie, given my parents literally moved here with me, but hopefully Blair doesn’t know that.
She doesn’t look offended. “Well, the offer stands if you change your mind.”
I walk along the waterfront, the sharp salt air catching in my lungs as gulls wheel overhead. My nerves are still jangling from Lily’s nursery meltdown, but the moment the salon’swhitewashed windows come into view, something inside me settles. This is mine, my fresh start. And in two short weeks, it’ll be open for business.
The salon sits between a fashionable boutique bursting with Harris Tweed and a tiny antiques shop crammed with old treasures. It’s a good spot. A hopeful one.
My gaze lands on the Walker Builds van parked outside, and my calm evaporates.
Of course he’s already here.
The sight of the van is enough to trigger yesterday’s memory reel: Struan’s sweat-damp T-shirt clinging to him, that easy grin, the way his forearms flexed as he worked...
I exhale hard. Why, in the name of all that’s holy, does my neighbour-slash-joiner have to be hot?
Maybe once upon a time I’d have fallen for his sexy man bun and the lazy grin. Flirted back. Enjoyed the attention. But not now. Not after Danny. I didn’t move to Ardmara to get tangled up with another charming man who’ll mess me around. My priority now is Lily and building a stable life. Full stop.
Inside, the salon is empty. No sign of him.
Good. Maybe he’s nipped out. Gives me space to breathe.
I glance around, and the transformation from yesterday stops me short. The main wall, where the mirrors will hang, gleams with new plaster. The others are already primed white, and the sharp smell of paint fills my nose. It’s starting to look like something real, something mine.
The steady sound of sawing drifts from the back. I follow it past the toilet and kitchenette to the fire door, which stands slightly ajar. I push it open—then stop dead.
Struan’s set up a makeshift workshop from old pallets in the small courtyard. His back’s to me and he’s bent over a plank of wood, sawing with steady, practised movements.
And he’s shirtless.
For fuck’s sake. Of course he is.
His back muscles, broad and defined, ripple with each push of the saw. Sweat tracks down his spine despite the cool September morning, making his skin glisten.
A tiny, ridiculous sound escapes me, half gasp, half... something.
Mortification floods hot through my cheeks. Brilliant. Did I actually just make a noise?
He straightens and turns. And now I get the full view. His chest is lean and sculpted, abs carved from real work, not hours in a gym. They taper down into that maddening V that disappears into jeans slung low enough to reveal the waistband of his boxers. Dark blue, if anyone’s asking. Not that I’m looking. Much.
He shoots me his easy grin, like being half-naked at work is the most normal thing in the world. “Morning.”
“Hi.” My voice comes out higher than intended. I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus on his face. Except loose strands have escaped his man bun, curling against his neck in a way that’s so effortlessly, infuriatingly attractive I want to throw something at him. Or maybe at the universe for dangling this walking, talking, man-bun-wearing piece of forbidden fruit in front of me.
“Looking good,” I say, then immediately wince.Great start, Ainsley.“Inside, I mean! The walls. They look good.”
“Aye, got most of them done yesterday. Came in early to skim the big one.” He sets down the saw and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Just working on the bench while it dries. With any luck, might have some colour on the walls by tomorrow.”
The morning sun catches his face, lighting up the gold in his eyes, and I’m distracted all over again.
For God’s sake, Ainsley. Stop it. This man is clearly another Danny—all charm and no follow-through. Remember that.
“I, er... right. Anyway, I’ve got a to-do list the length of my arm.” I wave vaguely towards the door. “So I’ll... leave you to it.”
