“Morning,” I reply, straightening, but she doesn’t slow. She heads straight for the kitchenette.
I frown. That was... unusual. Ainsley Reid doesn’t dodishevelled. Something’s off.
I give it a minute. Two. The kettle doesn’t click on. No cupboard doors opening and closing. Just silence.
Right.
I dust off my knees then head through to the back. At the door to the kitchenette, I say, “Mind if I grab some water?”
Ainsley’s standing at the breakfast bar, bag open in front of her, her hands rifling through it with jerky, agitated movements. She doesn’t look up. “Help yourself.”
I don’t move. Just watch as she pulls out her phone, her keys, a packet of tissues, then a lipstick.
“Where is it?” she mutters. “Where the hell is it?”
“What are you looking for?”
“My planner.” Her voice is tight now. Fraying. “It’s got everything in it. The schedule for tomorrow, the checklist, the?—”
Her breath catches—a horrible, hitching sound that makes my chest tighten.
“Hey.” I step closer. “Ainsley, what’s going on?”
She shakes her head, jaw tight like she’s physically trying to hold herself together. But her eyes are glassy, and when she finally looks at me, there’s none of the usual sharpness there. Just exhaustion. And something that looks a lot like defeat.
“Everything’s fine,” she says.
Unconvincing as hell.
“Doesn’t look that way.”
She lets out a breathy huff that’s almost a laugh then sinks down onto a stool. “No,” she admits quietly. “You’re right. Everything’s not fine.”
She drags in a breath. “I just—” She stops. Shakes her head. Tries again. “I’m so tired.”
I wait. Don’t push.
“Lily just won’t settle at night, but she’s still up at the crack of dawn every bloody morning. I swear I’m knackered before I’ve even dropped her off at nursery. Andthat’snot getting any easier. Today she clung to me.Screamed.I had to peel her off me while everyone was watching.”
She swallows hard, eyes fixed on the breakfast bar. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—this is ridiculous. Ignore me.”
“That sounds brutal.” A beat. “Plus you’ve got the salon opening tomorrow.”
“And the products . . .”
I shift a little closer. “Aye?”
She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “The shampoos and conditioners I need for tomorrow. They were supposed to arrive yesterday. Then today. And now the company’s saying they can’t deliver until tomorrow afternoon, but by then?—”
Her voice cracks.
Christ.
I’ve never been good with crying women. It’s my kryptonite. Always has been. Something about tears just bypasses every rational circuit in my brain and goes straight tofix it, fix it now.
But this isn’t just any woman crying. This is Ainsley—normally so sharp, composed, in control. And now she’s falling apart in front of me.
Instinct screams at me to cross the small space between us and pull her into my arms. But I hold back. She’s barely tolerated me lately. The last thing she needs is me overstepping.
