I tip my head back and let the spray rinse through my hair. Bliss.
Lily’s at nursery. The salon’s closed. I have an entire morning to luxuriate in getting ready—I’d almost forgotten what that felt like. I squeeze a generous dollop of conditioning mask into my palm and work it through from roots to ends, taking my time, actuallyenjoyingthe process for once.
Monday lunchtime might not be most people’s choice for a first date, but it made the most sense with my schedule. And really, a daytime date is probably for the best.
Daylight feels safer than candlelight. Less chance of things slipping into something... more.
And by “more”, I mean intimacy. Which is absolutely, categorically not on the cards today. This is strictly a no-nooky date—a chance to get to know Struan better, in a civilised setting,with cutlery and conversation and zero risk of me losing my head.
Technically, nooky has already occurred. Well, sort of. In the form of me dry-humping him on his back step like a woman possessed.
But that was different. That was the weed, and the late hour, and his stupid sexy guitar playing, and the way the stars had looked scattered across the sky like someone had flung a handful of glitter at the universe. Today there’ll be none of that. No twinkly-star aphrodisiac. No shared joint to blur the lines. This time, I will not get carried away.
I’m only just settling into my new life here. I can’t risk getting swept up in something that burns too bright, too fast.
I lather the soap between my palms, working it into a rich foam.
The thing is, the human brain—especially mine—has a spectacular talent for sabotage. Because as I rub the suds along my arms and over my shoulders, my thoughts slide right back to that night on the steps. The way Struan’s hands gripped me, steady and sure. The hardness of him beneath me. The slickness of my knickers inside my jeans as I moved on his lap, chasing something I hadn’t meant to chase?—
I drag the soap across my chest and hiss softly, startled by how sensitive I’ve become. The warmth of the water, the slick slide of my palms—it’s far too easy to imagine hands other than my own.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, and twist the dial hard.
The shock of cold water hits like a slap. I gasp, shoulders hunching, but I force myself to stay under the icy spray.
There will be none of that, Ainsley. No daydreams. No detours. And absolutely no nooky with Struan Walker.
Except my mind, apparently, is in a rebellious mood today. Because now it’s conjuring something far too vivid. Struan’s vanpulled over on some quiet stretch of road, the windows fogged, the whole vehicle rocking gently in time with?—
Ding-dong.
My heart hammers. For one ridiculous second guilt shoots through me, as if the universe has just caught me in the act of thinking something indecent.
Who the hell is at my door?
I reach out the shower and grab my phone from the shelf. No messages. Struan isn’t due for another forty minutes.
The doorbell chimes again.
“All right, all right,” I mutter, hastily rinsing the last of the conditioning mask from my hair. I twist off the water, wrap my hair in a towel, and shrug into my robe, yanking the belt tight as I pad downstairs. My feet leave damp prints on the carpet.
I pull the front door open, and it’s as if my stray thoughts have conjured him out of thin air.
Struan. In his work clothes. Wearing a baseball cap.
For a moment I can only stare. Then a gust of cold air sneaks through the doorway and brushes my bare legs, and I’m abruptly, mortifyingly aware that I’m naked beneath this robe. Nothing but terry cloth between me and the Scottish autumn. Oh, and Struan.
His gaze dips—briefly—to where my neckline gapes slightly, showing more cleavage than I’d like.
I tug the robe tighter. “Struan, you’re early!Reallyearly.”
He has the decency to look contrite. “Aye, well, the thing is...” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish in a way I haven’t seen before. “Had a bit of an accident at work. And, er, I was wondering if you could help me.”
My eyes do a quick scan, head to toe and back again. He’s standing. He’s upright. No visible blood.
“You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Not exactly.” A wry twist of his mouth. “Just my pride, maybe.”
