I shake my head, trying to dislodge whatever this is.
Get a hold of yourself, Ainsley.
“What can I get you?” The barman’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Two white wines, please.”
While he pours, I pull out my phone to check for messages. There’s one from Mum sent twenty minutes ago—a photo of Lily mid-Barbie drama, dolls scattered across the living room floor. At least she looks happy. Though Mum better be getting her ready for bed soon or tomorrow morning will be rough.
Anyway,thisis what matters. My wee girl. Not some charmer with a man bun.
I switch to Instagram. My post from earlier today, showing the salon’s new walls, has got a decent bit of engagement. The first three comments are locals excited about the opening. One’sfrom Mum, which hardly counts, but I’ll take it. The fourth comment, though, makes me pause.
Who’s the hottie in the background? I might need to come to Ardmara just to see him
I peer at the photo. Shit. Struan photobombed it, looking straight at the camera with that cheeky, gorgeous grin on his face. I didn’t even notice when I uploaded it. I was so busy making sureIlooked presentable I missed him lurking in the background.
It seems even some random stranger on the internet can’t help themselves. Struan bloody Walker: stealing the spotlight everywhere he goes, even in a post that was supposed to be about my salon.
A warm presence looms at my back, and I catch that scent of his—warm and earthy and deeply, unmistakably male.
“Am I the hottie?”
I turn, already frowning, one hand moving to my hip. “It’s rude to read people’s messages.”
“That’s not a message, it’s a public comment.” His mouth curves into a cocky, infuriatingly adorable smirk. “And if I’m understanding correctly, they mean me.”
“Modest, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Who else is in the background?”
“Want me to delete it?”
“Nah.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Might drum up more business for you.”
I roll my eyes. This man is impossible.
The barman sets two glasses of wine in front of me. I tap my phone against the card reader to pay, ready to escape back to Blair, but Struan leans against the bar, one leg crossed over the other, clearly in no hurry to let me go.
“What did you think of the Celtic Kicks?”
“Not bad.” I pick up the wines.
“Not bad?” He lifts a brow. “Looked like you were enjoying yourself, dancing with Blair.”
“Would’ve been rude not to teach the American a bit of our traditional dance.” Even to my own ears, I sound surly.
“Do you always make a habit of downplaying your enjoyment?”
My pulse skips, irritation and something else—something warmer—tangling in my chest. “Do you always make a habit of winking at your neighbours and clients?”
“Only the bonny ones.”
The words land like a spark on dry kindling. Part of me wants to throw the wine in his face for the presumption. Another part—a part I’m trying very hard to smother with common sense—reacts to the warmth in his voice in ways I absolutely refuse to examine.
This is the wine, I tell myself firmly.And the dancing. Nothing more.
His gaze travels from my boots up to my face, unhurried. “You are particularly bonny tonight.”
