Temptation flickers. Lindsey’s lovely. Friendly, attractive, confident enough to make the first move. It’d be so easy. A lean forward, a kiss, whatever might follow.
But a pair of sharp green eyes flashes into my mind.
Really? Of all moments, my brain choosesnowto conjure Ainsley Reid? When another woman is literally standing in front of me and putting herself out there?
For fuck’s sake.
I try to focus on what’s right in front of me, but Ainsley’s face keeps swimming back, stubborn as the woman herself.
“Lindsey,” I say, exhaling, “that’s really flattering. But I don’t think I can.”
Bloody hell. When did I become the guy who turns down perfectly good fun?
She gives a small, nervous laugh. “Because... I’m older?”
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re gorgeous. It’s not that.” I hesitate, knowing I sound like an eejit. “I’ve just... got a bit of a thing for someone else at the moment.”
A bit of a thing?Christ. When did I start talking like a fourteen-year-old?
Lindsey’s cheeks flush but she takes it gracefully. “Lucky girl, whoever she is.” She steps back, giving me space. “And fair enough. But you can’t blame a girl for trying, right?”
I smile, hoping to take the sting out of the rejection. “For what it’s worth, I bet there are plenty of men in Ardmara who’d queue up for a chance to date you.”
“That’s sweet of you to say.” She looks down and bites her lip.
A beat of silence stretches—awkward, but not terrible.
Right. Time to make a clean exit.
I clear my throat. “I’ll get that quote to you tonight, aye?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AINSLEY
Two days. In two days this place opens.
I stand behind the counter with Sheila and Ruby, the stylists I’ve hired, running them through the till system while trying not to let my nerves show. The Lily Room is finally taking shape, my vision materialising into something real and tangible. The rose-gold feature wall gleams behind the styling stations. Our saddle stools sit ready in their spots. The whole space feels bright, sharp, ready to shine.
“Right,” I say, tapping the screen to bring up the payment options. “The card machine’s synced, so you just hit this button for contactless.”
Sheila nods. Early fifties, neatly cut dark hair, calm and capable. The kind of stylist clients trust with both their hair and their secrets. She worked at the old salon before it closed, and I’m hoping most of her clients follow her here. Strategic hire, that one.
Ruby, meanwhile, practically vibrates beside her. Nineteen, freshly qualified, coppery waves tumbling past her shoulders. She’s been bouncing on her toes since she arrived this morning, all flushed cheeks and breathless enthusiasm.
“Got it,” she says. “Contactless. Easy.”
Across the room, a soft metallic scrape draws my attention. Struan’s crouched by one of the new saddle stools, tightening bolts with an Allen key, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’s been quiet today, the occasional tap of a hammer or clatter of tools a steady reminder he’s there, but otherwise he’s kept to himself.
Good. That’s exactly how I want it.
I’ve worked hard to keep things strictly businesslike between us lately. Brisk, professional, no room for misinterpretation. And to his credit, he’s dialled down the charm. The easy grins are still there when Ihaveto speak to him, but the winks have stopped. And the flirty remarks. And the lingering gazes.
Well, the lingering gazes havemostlystopped.
Earlier, while I was peeling the protective film off the mirrors—God, that was satisfying—I caught his reflection watching me. Not openly. Not boldly. Just... there.
Even so, it made my skin prickle. And Ireallydidn’t like that.
