She scrambles off me like I’m electrified, but not before I catch a whiff of her scent—light and warm, gone too fast to name.
“Nope, I don’t do meet-cutes in children’s play areas.” Her cheeks are flushed pink, and up close she’s even prettier than I thought. Huge green eyes, accentuated with black liner and sooty lashes, and that perfect fringe somehow still intact despite the slide. Subtle streaks of caramel run through her hair.
Christ, she’s gorgeous—all polished edges but with fire in her eyes.
She looks at me like I’m trouble. Fair. “Why exactly is a grown man sitting in a ball pit by himself?”
“Excellent question,” I admit. “I’m playing hide and seek with my daughter. She’s around here somewhere...”
I glance around but can’t see Isla anywhere. Brilliant.
The woman’s wee girl peers at me with open curiosity. “Why is your hair so long? Do you ever wear it in pigtails like me?”
I chuckle. “Not usually, no. Think it’d suit me?”
She tilts her head, thinking this over. “No. Boys look better with short hair.”
Ouch.
“Daddy!” Isla appears at the edge of the ball pit, hands on hips. “Why aren’t you hiding?”
“Iwashiding. Then I got a visitor.” I gesture to the woman, who’s now climbing out of the pit. “By the way, I’m Str?—”
Her phone rings, cutting me off, which is probably for the best. I was starting to sound like a man trying too hard.
She fumbles for it, answering quickly. “Hello?” A short pause, then: “The keys are ready? Great. We’ll be right there.”
She grabs her daughter’s hand. “Come on, Lily. Time to go.”
“But Mummy, I want to play a bit more!”
“We’ll come back another time. For now, let’s go see your new room.”
And with that, the woman strides off, her wee girl trotting to keep up. No goodbye, no “sorry for landing on you”, not even a glance back over her shoulder. Just a view of her retreating figure, that impossibly shiny hair swishing with each step.
Bloody hell, she’s something else.
“Who was that?” Isla asks.
“No idea,” I say. But I watch her like an eejit all the way to the exit anyway.
Wouldn’t mind if fate shovedherinto my lap again.
CHAPTER THREE
AINSLEY
The old stone houses of Ardview Road rise up the hill like a staircase, each one perched a little higher than the last. My hands tighten on the wheel as I coax the car up the incline.
All right, new house, new life. A clean slate. No complications.
Naturally, that’s when a man’s face pops straight into my head—wide grin, messy man bun, big hands catching my waist as I tumbled straight into his lap. The kind of man who charms you senseless then leaves chaos in his wake. The kind of man I moved to Ardmara to get away from.
“There it is!” Lily exclaims, pulling me back to the present. She bounces in her seat, pointing. “Number twelve! Our new house!”
It sits near the top of the hill, its grey walls mellowed by years of Highland weather. It’s nothing fancy—just solid, dependable Scottish architecture with white-framed windows and a small front garden that’s more weeds than anything else. It’s semi-detached, joined on the right to number fourteen, with a low hedge separating the two gardens. So that’s where Malcolm’s son lives, the one who’ll be doing up the salon. His side is tidier, with neat window boxes and a freshly painted door.
I pull in behind Da’s ancient Volvo, which is already parked outside, and kill the engine. Climbing out, I glance back down the hill. The view steals my breath, just as it did the first time I saw it: the harbour spread below, fishing boats bobbing in their berths, a white ferry pulling away from the terminal. The September sun breaks through the clouds, catching the water and making it sparkle.
