As I work, a woman waiting her turn gets up from the bench and drifts over. She peers over my shoulder with undisguised curiosity. She’s soon joined by another. Then another. By the time I’m blow-drying Blair’s hair—smoothing the round brush through each section, coaxing out volume and shine—there’s a small audience.
“What a lovely cut,” someone murmurs.
“Look at that shape.”
“I want mine done like that.”
Blair catches my eye in the mirror and grins. “I feel like a movie star,” she whispers.
I lean close, lowering my voice. “Sorry about the performance cut.” I switch off the dryer and reach for the styling serum. “It’s on the house.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m paying full price. End of discussion.”
Something warm flickers through me, but I keep my focus on the cut, working the product through Blair’s ends before fluffing the layers with my fingers to add movement.
I step back to study the finished result. The butterfly fringe falls perfectly—soft and wispy, longer at the edges to blend into the face-framing layers. The rest swings just past her shoulders, full of body and shine. When I hold up the hand mirror to show her the back, Blair lets out a soft gasp.
“Oh my God. I love it.”
“It suits you,” I say. The shape flatters her bone structure beautifully. It makes her look effortlessly polished.
Blair stands and gives me a quick hug. “Thank you! This place is amazing.You’reamazing. You’re going to be booked solid.”
As I walk her over to the till, I sneak a look around—at the clients waiting on the bench, at Sheila gossiping cheerfully as she seats her next appointment. For the first time in weeks, I let myself properly breathe.
My own salon.
The dream is no longer just a dream. It’s real.
“Eat something before you keel over.”
Mum appears at my elbow with a plate of nibbles. I’ve just finished ringing up a client, a lovely woman called Alison who’s already booked her next appointment.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve not stopped for lunch.” She shoves the plate towards me. “Go on. At least a mouthful.”
I pop one of the bite-sized mac-and-cheese balls into my mouth to appease her. It’s mid-afternoon now, and the openinghas drawn a steady stream of folk. There hasn’t been a quiet moment.
Ruby’s holding her own at the wash station, handling a constant flow of clients with impressive composure for someone so new. Sheila’s in her element, working through her client list with the easy efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for decades.
Already I’m mentally noting what’s working and what I’ll tweak before we reopen on Tuesday. But honestly? Everything has gone pretty damn smoothly so far. Better than I dared hope.
The door opens. I look up, and in walks Struan’s mum, Helen, followed by Isla and Struan. He’s in a checked shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair pulled into a loose half-ponytail. He looks... like himself. Which apparently is enough to make my stomach flip.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly.Yes, he saved the day yesterday by driving a four-hour round trip to the depot in Elgin. Yes, he listened—really listened—when you fell apart. And yes, maybe—just maybe—there’s a little more to him than you first thought. But that doesn’t mean your body should start reacting on its own when he walks into a room.
Helen beams, her gaze sweeping the salon. “Oh, it all came together beautifully! When I popped in on Monday with the lads’ lunch, the floor was all ripped up. But look at this place now!” She clasps her hands together. “It’s stunning, Ainsley.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Walker Builds did a brilliant job with the refurb.”
Struan’s lips lift into that easy smile of his. The one that used to irritate me. Which probably still should, only it doesn’t. Not really.
Mum swoops in with a glass of fizz for Helen. “In for a wee nosy, are you?”
Helen laughs. “Booked in, actually. Long overdue.” She lifts a hand to her hair—silver threading through the same thick curls her son and granddaughter inherited.
“You won’t regret it,” Mum says proudly. “Ainsley’s magic with hair.”
