I stare at the message, something heavy and tight settling in my stomach. Then I turn the phone facedown, pull the duvet over my head, and squeeze my eyes shut.
I’ve made my intentions clear. Drawn a line. Which is a good thing.
So why doesn’t it feel good?
CHAPTER TWENTY
AINSLEY
“Honestly, Ainsley, you’re a lifesaver.”
Shona from the post office beams at her reflection, turning her head side to side. Gone is the Irn-Bru orange she walked in with two hours ago, the unfortunate aftermath of a home dye kit and an online tutorial that apparently left out a few crucial steps. In its place, a warm auburn that actually suits her skin tone.
“Always happy to help,” I chirp, unclipping the cape from her shoulders.
At the till Shona taps her card then slides a folded note across the counter. “A wee thank you.”
It’s a healthy tip. “That’s very kind, but you really don’t have to.”
“I really do. For saving me from looking like a traffic cone at my niece’s wedding.”
“Well, thank you.” As tricky as a DIY hair disaster is to fix, it’s not exactly bad for business.
Once she’s left, I tidy up my station—sweeping clippings, wiping down the shelf—while doing a quick scan of the salon.
Ruby’s midway through a graduated bob, the shape coming together nicely. At the basins Sheila’s rinsing one client’s hairwhile another waits nearby with foils. The three of them chatter away happily.
Everything is humming along smoothly.
I’ve got ten minutes before my next appointment. Just enough time for a breather.
Outside, I draw in a lungful of cool harbour air. The salt air, the smell of fish from the boats, the cry of gulls overhead. Not sure I’ll ever get used to having this on my doorstep.
A familiar flash of white catches my eye. The Walker Builds van slows and pulls into a space a few cars along.
Of course it does.
Since Sunday night I’ve been doing my best to avoid Struan. Checking the coast is clear before pulling my bins out. Hurrying between my front door and car to avoid awkward encounters. But I was never going to be able to avoid him for long.
He climbs out of the van, sunlight catching the loose curls escaping his usual messy bun. I turn and quickly retreat back inside.
What’s he doing here? The salon work’s finished.
I busy myself tidying things at the counter that don’t really need tidied. Then, a prickle at the back of my neck, I glance up just as Struan walks past the window.
His gaze catches mine, and he smiles. Not a big grin. Just that casual, infuriating curve of his mouth.
And then—he’s gone. He walks on past.
Oh. He’s not here to see me. Must be on another job. It is the town centre, I suppose. Plenty of places he could be going.
“That man is well fit.”
I turn to find Ruby and her client—Emma, a girl in her early twenties who works at the soft play—both gazing dreamily at the window.
“All the mums at soft play fancy him.” Emma sighs and turns back to the mirror. “The staff too.” The way she says it leaves no doubt that this includes her.
Something flickers inside me. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy. Just irritation. General, non-specific irritation that has nothing to do with the fact that apparently every woman in Ardmara fancies Struan Walker—and I said no to a date with him.
