“Hey, you!” Sophie pulls Isla into a hug. “Good weekend?”
“I beat Grandpa at chess,” Isla says, rubbing her eyes.
Mei grins. “Future grandmaster, this one.”
“Aye,” I agree, “and in the not-too-distant future at this rate.” I hand the bag over to Sophie. “Dexcom’s charged. Front pocket.”
“Cheers, Struan.” Sophie shifts the bag to her shoulder. “Come on in, sweetheart. We’ve got some news to tell you.”
Isla perks up, sleepiness falling away. She glances back at me.
“On you go. I’ll see you next weekend, aye? On Saturday morning. Enjoy the sleepover.” Sophie messaged me earlier to confirm Friday works for the other girls, so the sleepover is on.
Isla nods. “Bye, Daddy. Love you.” She disappears inside, then the door clicks shut behind her.
I stand there for a moment, on the step, breathing in the cool evening air.
Right, then.
I’m halfway to the van when something makes me glance back. Warm light spills from the living room window, and inside Isla bounces on her toes—before flinging her arms around both Sophie and Mei.
So she’s taken the news well, then. Good.
The three of them stay like that for a beat, wrapped up together.
I watch for a second longer, then turn and climb into the van.
The drive back to Ardmara is even quieter than the drive here. Just me and the radio and the dark hills rolling past.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STRUAN
The salon’s coming together nicely, if I do say so myself.
Da and I are on our knees working on a shelving unit that’ll display styling products once Ainsley’s up and running.
We finished the flooring Monday and Tuesday, and now it’s just fittings and the small jobs that pull everything together. Another few days and we’ll be out of Ainsley’s hair. Another job in the bag.
At the front counter, a young web designer—can’t be more than twenty-two, twenty-three—is hunched over Ainsley’s laptop, walking her through some technical fixes. Ainsley’s leaning in, brow furrowed in concentration, nodding along as he explains something.
“—so if you clear the cache and refresh, that’ll force it to pull the updated style sheet,” he says.
“Right, right.” Ainsley tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “And that should fix the layout problem?”
“Yes, exactly.” His eyes drift from the screen to her face. Then lower. Then back to the screen again.
If he’s trying to be subtle, he’s failing.
“Struan.” Da’s voice cuts through. “You listening, lad?”
I blink. “What?”
He gestures at the backboard lying on the dust sheet, a sturdier bit of MDF I cut earlier to replace the flimsy fibreboard panel the flat pack came with. “Pass that over.”
“Right. Aye. Sorry.”
Christ. What am I doing, getting distracted by some kid making eyes at Ainsley? Not like she’s mine to get territorial over.
