Plus, it’s far enough away from Ardmara that we shouldn’t bump into anyone we know.
Struan
I’d say fancy nice. But don’t feel you have to dress up. You’ll look great whatever you wear
Ainsley
Good answer, Mr Walker
We’ve been messaging on and off all weekend. Started with me checking on her da—he’s home now and mending well—then turned into date planning, followed by general nonsense that’s had me grinning at my phone like an eejit.
Struan
I aim to please
Ainsley
That’s good to know
Christ. Is she flirting? That feels like flirting.
“You’re in a good mood.”
I look up to find Da watching me while he wipes down the mantel shelf to clear away the worst of the wood shavings.
“Ach.” I slide the phone back into my pocket. “Just a bit of banter with the lads.”
He hums but leaves it there and returns his attention to the task in hand.
“All right,” I say a few minutes later, “I’ve marked everything up for fitting.” I pick up a pair of cast-iron brackets the Grays found at a salvage yard—ornate curls and Victorian flourishes buried under decades of paint and rust. Once cleaned up, they’ll look spot-on with the oak mantel shelf. “I’ll sort these outside.”
“Aye, fine. Goggles, Struan.”
“Of course.”
Outside, the mid-morning air is cool and sharp, noticeably colder than it was a week ago. Autumn making itself known.
I fit the wire-brush head to the drill, pull on my goggles, and brace a bracket against a pile of offcuts. I get to work, flecks of rust and old paint spitting into the air. Dirty, noisy, mindless. My hands keep moving but my thoughts slip elsewhere.
Right. I need to leave myself enough time to shower and make myself presentable. I even bought new clothes for today—a proper shirt, dark trousers, shoes rather than my usual work boots.
I picture Ainsley across the table from me. Relaxed and less guarded for once. That spark in her eyes when she teases me. And her laugh—the real one, not the polite one she uses out of habit.
Maybe, if the moment’s right, I’ll reach across the table and take her hand. Maybe I’ll even?—
A bird explodes out of the hedge beside me.
I jolt, just enough for the spinning wire brush to catch the loose strands of my hair.
A sharpzzzip!rips across my scalp.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AINSLEY
My shower is, for once, blissfully unhurried.
No small fists banging on the bathroom door. No cries of “Mummy, I need a wee!” No clock ticking down the minutes until nursery drop-off. Just me, the steam, and the steady drum of hot water against my shoulders.
