Tomorrow he’ll be finished here, and things will be simpler. No more long days breathing the same air. No more catching that smell of sawdust and soap andmaleevery time he passes within three feet of me. We’ll be neighbours who wave politely over the hedge and nothing more.
“Okay,” I say, flipping open my planner and focusing on the task at hand. “Opening day, Saturday. We’ve got a few pre-booked clients in the morning, then it’ll mostly be walk-ins after that. I want everyone who steps through that door to feel pampered. Fizz, music, nibbles—the works.”
Ruby claps her hands together. “I’m so excited! My first proper hairdressing job, and it’s at a brand-new salon. How lucky is that?”
I can’t help but smile. Her enthusiasm is infectious. “We’re lucky to have you.”
“Are we getting matching tunics?” Her eyes are bright. “Like, with the salon name embroidered on them?”
“No uniforms,” I say. “Wear what makes you feel comfortable—tidy and professional, aye? Nothing too low-cut, and no builders’ bums on display.” I catch Ruby tugging self-consciously at her neckline. “You’re fine. Just... keep it classy.”
She grins. “Classy. Got it.”
We move to the waiting bench to run through Saturday’s schedule, making sure we’re all clear on our roles. Everything’s going smoothly, the three of us settling into an easy rhythm, until a softclick-hisspulls my attention sideways.
Struan’s perched on the saddle stool now, testing the hydraulic lever, long legs braced wide as he pumps it up and down. The seat rises, then lowers again, and the movement shouldn’t be remotely interesting, except his jeans are pulling taut over strong thighs, and his forearm is flexing with each pump, and?—
Oh, for God’s sake.
Heat prickles the back of my neck. I jerk my gaze back to my planner, pulse skittering.
He’s checking a lever, Ainsley. A lever. Not performing a Magic Mike routine. Get a grip on yourself.
“—so Sheila, you’ll coordinate walk-ins if I’m tied up with a booking,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Sound okay?”
Sheila nods, unfazed. “No bother. Done it a thousand times.”
“You okay, boss?” Ruby asks. “You’ve gone a bit pink.”
“Fine. It’s just warm in here. Anyway, Ruby, stay on top of socials. Photos early in the day while everything’s fresh, aye?”
“Of course!” She beams. “We’re going to smash it. Oh, and I’m still doing the deep-conditioner treatments, right?”
“Yes, those are yours.”
I pull out my phone to check on the delivery status of the shampoos and conditioners that were supposed to arrive thismorning. The same shipment I had to argue about on the phone last week, when that patronising arse of a supplier talked over me three times before finally agreeing to dispatch on schedule.
Shipment delayed. New estimated arrival: tomorrow.
My stomach dips. Of course. Of bloody course.
I exhale slowly through my nose. Tomorrow is fine. Tight, but fine. As long as they don’t delay again, or send the wrong products, or?—
No. Positive thoughts. No spiralling.
I force a bright smile and explain the situation to Sheila and Ruby. “Bit annoying, but it’ll be here before we open. Let’s just hope that’s our only hiccup.”
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies.” Struan walks over, toolbox in hand. There’s a smudge of something dark across his forearm—grease, probably, from the stool mechanism. “That’s the last of the furniture built. I’ll head to the toilet next and put up that shelf, so let me know if any of you need in before I start.”
“I’m fine,” Sheila says.
“All good here,” Ruby adds brightly.
I keep my tone brisk. “Aye. We’re fine, thanks.”
He nods once and disappears towards the back of the salon.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Ruby leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “God, he’s fit, isn’t he?”
