I frown, not following. And then he reaches up and pulls off the cap.
I inhale sharply. “Oh, dear God.”
The man bun is gone. His hair—those gorgeous, tawny curls I’ve been trying very hard not to think about running my fingers through—is... well,massacredis the word that springs to mind. It’s shorter at the crown by several inches, ragged in patches, with uneven tufts sticking out at angles that defy gravity.
“What happened?”
“Wire-brush drill head. I was buffing some old brackets and I caught my hair. Killed the power fast, but it snarled a chunk—well, more than just a chunk.” He attempts a self-deprecating laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Da tried to free it. Ended up cutting me loose with scissors.”
“Struan Walker, you absoluteeejit! You could’ve scalped yourself. Or lost an eye!”
“Aye, well.” He gives a small shrug. “Lesson learnt. Sorry to interrupt you while you’re getting ready, and I hate to ask, but... any chance you could give it a tidy before we head to the restaurant?”
The request shouldn’t make me pause. I’m a hairdresser. Cutting hair is literally what I do. And yet, just like when his mum suggested I give him a trim at the salon opening, the idea of touchinghishair feels oddly intimate.
He must catch my hesitation because he starts to ramble. “It’s just, I’ve never been to the Glen Garve Resort before, but it’s not the kind of place you wear a cap in. I don’t want to turn up looking like I’ve been attacked by a strimmer, but if it’s too much trouble?—”
“Struan.” I cut him off before he can spiral further. “Of course I can sort it.”
So much for my indulgent getting-ready session. Hello, noble rescue mission.
“I always keep a pair of scissors at home,” I add. “For cutting Lily’s hair.” And for when Mum springs one of her many “Can you just trim my fringe, dear?” moments on me.
His shoulders drop with relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t seen the full extent of the damage.”
“Fair point.” He runs a hand through what’s left of his curls, a gesture that would normally be casual and attractive but only highlights the chaos. “I don’t want to get your place messy, so why don’t we do it at mine? Does it need to be wet first?”
“Preferably.”
“Right, then.” He’s already backing down the drive, that familiar easy energy returning now we’ve agreed a plan to deal with his hair. “I’ll grab a quick shower and see you in ten?”
“Sounds good.”
I close the door, my brain already—unhelpfully—conjuring images of him naked in the shower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
AINSLEY
Ten minutes later, I’m standing on Struan’s doorstep with my scissors case tucked under one arm, hair still damp and twisted into a clip.
Footsteps sound from inside, then the door opens.
He’s fresh from the shower, wearing grey joggers and an old, well-worn T-shirt. Despite the fact his damp hair is settling into what can only be described as the world’s worst mullet, he looks... good. Because apparently Struan Walker just can’t help but look good.
His eyes skim over me, and there’s warmth there. “Wow, Ainsley. You look lovely.”
I scoff. “Hardly.” My hair’s half-dry, my face is bare, and my jeans-and-sweater combo is nothing special. “This isn’t what I’m wearing later,” I say, gesturing at my outfit. “Figured I’d keep my nice clothes for the restaurant—and spare them from being covered in your tawny locks.”
“Fair.” He glances down at himself. “Same idea here.”
That’s when I notice his bare feet—another unexpectedly distracting detail. Who knew feet could be attractive? When I drag my gaze back up, it catches—briefly, mortifyingly—on what grey joggers are famous fornothiding.
I yank my eyes to his face.
For God’s sake, Ainsley.
