“No, I’m just... surprised.” I tilt my head towards Struan. “Had no idea he played. He’s doing my salon refurb. And he’s my neighbour.”
Blair smiles. “I know him a little from ‘soft play’ meet-ups, as you Brits call it. Lachlan, Struan, and another dad—Douglas—go most Saturdays. Actually, those three don’t even call it soft play. They call it ‘the Pit’.” She makes air quotes. “You know, because it’s the pits.”
I can’t help smirking. As a mum who’s spent her share of hours in soft-play hell, it’s a pretty accurate name.
Struan’s laugh carries across the room—rich and deep, cutting through the general noise. My eyes find him again before I can stop myself. He’s leaning towards Ellie, head tipped as he adjusts his guitar, chuckling at something she’s said.
“So, Struan and Ellie, are they...?” I wave my hand vaguely, trying for casual.
“No, no. They’re definitely just friends.”
Right. Just friends. Figures. Men like him never limit their charm to one woman.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom before they start,” Blair says. “Be right back.”
Left alone, my gaze drifts straight back to Struan. I really shouldn’t look, but I’ve had wine and he’s rightthere.
His work jeans have been traded for... another pair of equally worn jeans. He’s in a faded checked shirt over a white T-shirt, and his hair’s in a half-up ponytail—deliberately messy, firmly insexyterritory. He looks completely at ease, legs stretched out, guitar resting on his lap.
He adjusts the tuning pegs with practised ease, a strand of hair falling across his face, his long fingers moving with hypnotic precision.
Ugh. Could this man love himself any more?
He taps the mic. “Evening, folks. For those of you new here...” His gaze sweeps the crowd and lands squarely on me. Heat flickers up my neck before I can stop it. Of course he’s seen me. Of course.
I raise an eyebrow at him, my best “I’m not impressed” look.
His smile widens.
“We’re the Celtic Kicks. I’m Struan on guitar, this is Ellie on fiddle, and Rab here is on the box.”
A wolf whistle rings out from the bar. “Looking good, Rapunzel!”
Laughter ripples through the room. Struan tips his head and gives his hair a mock toss.
God, he soaks up the pub’s attention like it’s his birthright. While the rest of us go through life riddled with anxieties, everything is sunny and rosy in the world of Struan Walker. Meanwhile, I can barely hand out flyers without panicking about people whispering behind my back.
“Right, then. Tonight’s a bit of a mix—plenty of folk, and we’ll throw in a few ceilidh reels too. If you’ve got a favourite, keep it in mind and shout at us near the end.”
The first song kicks in—Ellie’s fiddle bright and soaring, the accordion weaving through, Struan’s guitar providing a warm, steady foundation. The rhythm is infectious, impossible not to move to.
Much to my annoyance.
“They’re catchy, right?” Blair says, sliding back into her seat.
“Aye,” I admit grudgingly. Only then do I notice my traitorous fingers are tapping against the table.
We try to continue our conversation over the music, but my attention keeps drifting to the stage. To the way Struan’s fingers move over the strings—smooth, confident. By the second song, we give up on talking altogether, both of us bobbing along to the beat. A few couples link arms and spin in the limited open space. Others bounce in place, pints sloshing dangerously.
The third song is fast and playful, a duel between Ellie’s bow and Struan’s fretting hand. Halfway through, he rises to his feet, legs braced wide as his fingers fly over the strings.
Oh,come on! Does he think he’s performing at the Hydro?
And yet, those hands... I can’t look away from them. The same ones that fixed my light, that caught me when I fell.
It’s the wine. Definitely the wine.
For a split second, entirely uninvited, I imagine those fingers skimming over my skin instead of the guitar. Starting at my collarbone, trailing lower... lower...
