Out here, there’s no room for thinking about daft shite, like Isla playing cards with Sophie and Mei, or me nursing a pint by myself, or women with perfect fringes who make tiny gasping sounds when they see you shirtless. There’s just the next wave, the balance, the break. And for now, that’s enough.
The lights of Corraig flicker to life across the water as the sky deepens. I catch one last wave, a beauty that carries me almost to shore, then paddle in with my arms feeling like wet noodles and my head finally, blissfully quiet.
I drop onto the towel I threw over the driver’s seat earlier, wetsuit dripping everywhere despite my best efforts, and crank up the heating. I love getting out on the water, but man, this is the bit I don’t like: when the fun’s over and I’m just cold. I swear my balls have retreated so far north they’re practically saying hello to my liver. And my cock? It’s gone into full hibernation mode. September surfing in Scotland—not exactly aBaywatchmoment.
I shift in the seat, trying to coax some warmth back into places that have fully given up on life. “Sorry, lads,” I mutter. “I promise we’ll have a hot shower as soon as we’re home.”
I start the engine and set off. The radio plays something folksy I don’t recognise, but I hum along anyway as I navigate back towards Ardmara.
The sky’s doing that September thing where it can’t decide if it’s pink or purple or gold, colours bleeding out over the water. It’s stupid how beautiful it is. Makes the drive home feel quieter somehow.
As Ardmara’s lights come into view—scattered along the seafront like someone shook a box of fairy lights—my mind, of course, drifts back to Ainsley. Seems that even cold-water shrinkage can’t keep me from thinking of her. When am I going to get the message? She’s complicated. Guarded. And I’m working for her. I should really keep my distance—at least until the salon refurb is over.
After that, it’d no longer be unprofessional, so... different story.
The van protests as I turn up Ardview Road, engine whining about the incline. House windows glow warm against the darkening sky. The McNairs haven’t drawn their curtains yet, and I can see them on their sofa watching the rugby match I’m missing. Their living room flickers green from the massive telly Andy bought last year, despite Kim insisting it was too big.
My own house sits dark and still at the top of the hill. God, the place looks dead. Maybe I need to get a dog or something. It’d be nice to have someone to greet me when I get home.
I pull into my drive, kill the engine, grab my board, and head round the back of the house.
“Are you Batman?”
Jesus Christ. I nearly jump out of my skin.
A small figure stands by the fence between my back garden and Ainsley’s, peering through a gap in it. Lily, wearing a nightie covered in tiny stars. She’s studying my wetsuit with curiosity.
“What do you think?” I ask, playing along.
She tilts her head, considering. “You’re Stwuan. Unless...” Her eyes narrow. “Unless StwuanisBatman. But where’s your mask? And your cape?”
“Well”—I lean in conspiratorially—“I really am Batman but it’s a secret. Can’t go wearing the cape all the time or everyone would know. What are you doing out here so late?”
“Spying,” she says solemnly. “And looking for fairies. They like gardens.”
She reaches her wee hand through the fence and picks up a stone, peering underneath it with obvious hope. Her wee face falls when she finds nothing but dirt.
“Lily?” Ainsley’s voice drifts from inside their house. “Where have you got to?”
“Wait there,” I tell Lily. I duck into my shed, stash my board, and rummage until I find what I’m looking for—a short length of bamboo. “Here,” I say, handing it through the fence. “It’s a fairy-spotting telescope. Works best in daylight, but only if you hum to it first.”
Her eyes go wide as saucers. She snatches the bamboo and bolts for her back door without another word. “Mummy! Mummy! Look what Batman gave me!”
“Batman?Lily, what are you?—”
“He said it’s for spotting fairies but I have to hum first!”
Chuckling, I head inside.
Honestly? That wee kid’s got better chat than some adults I know.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AINSLEY
The morning sun filters through the whitewashed windows, casting the salon in soft, diffused light. Struan’s clearly been hard at work since I was last here two days ago. Things are starting to take shape.
“The colour makes such a difference,” I say as he walks me through his progress. The rose-gold feature wall glows at the far end, warm and inviting, while the other walls—a softer, toned-down blush—balance it out perfectly. It’s exactly how I pictured it when I picked the colours from tiny sample cards.
