“Maybe. If you’re good.”
“I’malwaysgood.”
Mum and I exchange a look, but neither of us contradicts her.
The sound of a drill whirs from the back, and a moment later Struan emerges, wiping his hands on a rag. He gives Lilya high-five then flashes my parents a friendly, lopsided smile. “Afternoon. Here for a look around?”
“We are indeed.” Mum beams at him. “And I must say, Struan, you’ve done a wonderful job. Hasn’t he, Murdo?”
Da nods appreciatively, running his hand along the edge of the waiting bench. “Aye, this is quality work.”
Mum huffs a laugh then says to Struan, “Not that Murdo would know where to begin with something like this. He once tried to put up a shelf and drilled right into the airing cupboard.”
“It was an honest mistake,” Da mutters.
“Ach, anyone can do this stuff with the right tools and a bit of practice.” Struan gestures Da over to the back shelving he’s been working on. “Here, want to see how these fixings work? You can help me out with one, if you like.”
Da hesitates for a second, unused to being invited rather than warned off. Then he ambles after Struan, keen to get involved.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I take a few steps after them and watch as Struan patiently demonstrates something about wall anchors, Da nodding along and asking questions. Struan doesn’t talk down to him, doesn’t dismiss him the way I’ve seen other tradespeople do. He just... explains. Like Da’s curiosity matters.
Something in my chest loosens, just a fraction.
Stop it.
I clamp the feeling down. Hard. Because so what if he knows how to make my da feel included rather than useless? So what if he’s good with kids? So what if he’s handy with a drill?
None of that changes who he is. A man with charm on tap. Trouble waiting to happen.
I know his type. All too well.
I show Mum and Lily around the salon, pointing out a few of my favourite details. After a while I say, “Right, we shouldprobably let Struan get on. He’s got a lot to finish before tomorrow.”
“Come on, Murdo,” Mum calls. “Let the man work.”
Da reluctantly tears himself away from the shelving demonstration. “Thanks for showing me that, son. Might have to pick your brain again sometime.”
“Anytime,” Struan says easily.
I shepherd my family towards the door, but at the threshold I pause and turn back. Struan’s watching me, that familiar half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Everythingwillbe finished tomorrow, won’t it?” I ask. The words come out more pointed than I mean them to. Or maybe just as pointed as I mean them to. “Before the opening?”
If he’s bothered by my tone, he doesn’t show it. “Aye, everything’s on schedule. Just finishing touches now.”
I give a brief nod then leave before he can say anything else.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STRUAN
The salon’s quiet save for the faint squeak of a small roller. I’m on my knees, touching up a scuffed patch by the skirting, when the front door opens.
I glance up, expecting Ainsley’s usual crisp entrance—heels clicking, planner in hand, ready to tick the final items off her list. Instead she slips inside like she’s trying not to be noticed.
No make-up. Hair scraped back in a messy ponytail. Eyes that look like they didn’t get much sleep last night.
She barely glances my way. “Morning.”
