Heat floods my cheeks. My mouth opens for some cutting retort, but nothing comes. The way he’s looking at me—not leering, just...appreciating—scrambles my brain completely.
I pivot on my heel and head back to the table, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glasses. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way, hot on my back as my dress sways with each step.
CHAPTER NINE
STRUAN
The van rattles along the winding road to Bannock, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in time with the radio. Friday afternoon—best part of the working week. Not just because I get a break from sanding and painting, but because I’m about to collect my wee girl.
A tractor lumbers out of a farm track ahead, trailer stacked high with hay bales that wobble precariously with each pothole. I drop down a gear, biding my time until the road straightens, then swing out and overtake. The farmer raises a hand from the wheel in that universal countryside greeting, and I return the gesture.
Nancy Sinatra’s voice crackles through the speakers: “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’”. I find myself grinning like an eejit. Christ, this song. It’s pure Ainsley Reid energy—all sass and sting, ready to crush a man under those wee heeled boots she wore last night.
God, the way she’d watched me play, those green eyes tracking my every move across the strings. And when she’d danced with Blair, that plum dress clinging to her thighs, swishing around her legs with every spin...
She’dsmiled—not that she’d aimed it at me. Nah, too busy pretending she’s not interested. But I saw the way her cheeks flushed when I called her bonny—the prettiest shade of pink. She can play ice queen all she likes, but I know attraction when I see it.
I shift in my seat, willing my body to calm the fuck down. Because nothing says “responsible father” like getting a semi thinking about your neighbour on the way to pick up your kid.
Still. Only one more week of the refurb, then I’m no longer her builder. After that? All bets are off. We’ll see if those walls of hers stay up.
A thought niggles as I navigate another bend. Maybe it’d be smarter to find a tourist for a one-night reset. Rather than the woman I live next door to. The woman I’ll see every bloody day whether things go well or spectacularly sideways.
Aye. Thatwouldbe smarter. But not as fun.
Bannock’s Main Street opens out ahead of me, its stone buildings bathed in late-afternoon light. Flower boxes run along the pavement, bright against the grey stone. I pass the pub—the Pheasant—then Morag’s Bakery, which I’m keen to visit since the cakes are supposed to be amazing, but it’s always shut by the time I get here.
I turn right onto the narrow side street that runs alongside the River Garve. I’ve got to give it to her, Sophie picked a cracking spot to live. Old stone cottages, doors and window frames all painted in bright colours, wee tidy gardens full of flowers, and back gardens backing right onto the water. Dead-end street too, so barely any traffic.
As I pull up outside her place, a wee girl darts across the lane, giggling, a blond guy a few years older than me chasing after her. “Callie!” he calls, laughing. “Come back here, you wee menace!”
I can’t help smiling, remembering when Isla used to be that small—about the same age as Ainsley’s wee girl, Lily, come to think of it.
And there I go, straight back to Ainsley again. Christ. What is it about her? Is it just that she tells me to bugger off when everyone else laughs along?
I get out the van and walk up the short path to Sophie’s bright yellow door. I knock then try the handle and, as usual, am able to let myself in. Sophie’s philosophy: in a place like Bannock, what’s the point of locking your door? Used to make me nervous, but her house, her rules.
The smell hits me first—onions, mushrooms, something creamy. I follow my nose to the kitchen, where Sophie is stirring a pot, her dark-blonde hair twisted up in a messy bun.
“What you making? Smells almost edible.”
She starts then turns, wooden spoon in hand. “Struan! Didn’t hear you come in. It’s mushroom stroganoff, and it smells better than edible, thank you very much.”
“Aye, well, I’ll be balancing out all your veggie meals by letting Isla eat her body weight in sausages over the weekend.” I wink at her. “Might even teach her how to grill a steak rare enough to moo.”
Sophie shakes her head but smiles and pulls me in for a quick hug. “Honestly, Struan, you never change.”
“Aye, well, one of us had to stay predictable.”
She laughs then calls up the stairs, “Isla! Your da’s here!”
“Hi, Da!” Isla shouts back. “Be down in a minute! Just finishing packing.”
I remember when she was smaller and the second I walked through that door, she’d come thundering down the stairs and launch herself at me. Now it’s “be down in a minute”. Growing up, I suppose.
“She was a wee bit upset earlier,” Sophie says, turning back to her cooking. “Katie and Freya are having a sleepover tonight.”
“Ah.” I lean against the worktop. “And she can’t go cause I’ve got her.”
