“Aye, we actually had a couple of men in this morning.”
She twirls a freshly cut curl, admiring it. “You should cut Struan’s next time. You’ve clearly got the knack for this kind of hair.”
My pulse skips. The thought of running my fingers through his curls feels... different. Too intimate. Which is ridiculous—I touch strangers’ hair all day. But still.
“I’m not sure your son’s looking for a cut,” I say lightly.
“Maybe not. But I’ll mention it.” She waves across the salon. “Struan! What about getting a few inches off? It’s been ages since you had it done properly.”
He excuses himself from the pensioners and ambles over. “And lose my man bun?” He presses a hand to his chest in mock horror. “Mum, how could you?”
Helen looks at me in the mirror. “What do you think?”
I glance at him. Amusement flickers in those golden-brown eyes.
“I think,” I say carefully, “he suits it the way it is.”
Struan’s grin widens. “See, Mum? Straight from an expert.”
Helen hums, her gaze still on me.
I ignore the prickle at the back of my neck and keep cutting.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
STRUAN
It’s late on Sunday night.
I sit on the back step, guitar across my lap, idly strumming. A joint hangs from my lips. I take a slow drag, the tip glowing, then let the smoke drift from the side of my mouth.
I don’t smoke often. Just now and again, when the house feels too quiet. Tonight’s one of those nights.
With the sleepover on Friday, it felt like I barely picked Isla up before I was dropping her off back in Bannock. And when I got home, the silence just... got to me. No chatter. No cartoon jingles from the telly. Only the hum of the fridge and the creak of the pipes.
The house was so quiet I nearly texted Sophie for an update. Which is tragic, considering I’d seen my kid just forty minutes earlier.
No need to feel sorry for yourself, Walker. You can cope with a shorter weekend every so often.
I keep strumming, my fingers wandering without much thought. Nothing fancy. Just the same few chords, over and over, the rhythm steady enough to lose myself in. A dog barks somewhere nearby before falling quiet again. Then?—
“For fuck’s sake!”
Standing, I peer over the fence. Ainsley’s at her bins, wrestling with a cardboard box that refuses to fit.
Grumbling, she throws it to the ground, jumps on it, tries again—and swears again. “Just bloody go in, will you!”
“Having trouble there?” I say. When she doesn’t respond, I try again, louder. “Want some help?”
She jumps, a hand flying to her chest. “Bloody hell!” She pulls earphones from her ears. “Struan. You scared me.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to. You all right there?”
“Fine.” She gives the box one last shove before giving up and leaving it sticking out of the bin. Her gaze flicks to the joint. “Oh. Having a herbal remedy, are we?”
“Aye. Want a puff?”
“I’ve not had one in years.”
