“Come on in,” he says, stepping back.
As I brush past him, I catch his scent—clean soap, a hint of aftershave, and something else. Warm. Earthy. Distinctly Struan.
The hall is the mirror image of my own, but where mine is still a work in progress, his feels settled. Calm, neutral walls. A few framed photos—mostly of Isla, one of the two of them together on a beach somewhere, wind whipping their matching curls. And mounted on the wall, a decorative guitar made from repurposed metal, all curves and copper patina. Art piece and personality statement in one.
“I meant what I said, you know. You really do look lovely.”
I turn to him, and he nods at my forest-green sweater. “That colour suits you. It’s the exact shade of your eyes.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. I clear my throat. “Thank you. Er, are we doing the cut in the kitchen?”
“Aye, please.”
I walk ahead, and I’m certain—certain—I can feel his eyes on me, a prickling awareness that trails up my spine. I resist the urge to look back.
The kitchen is bright and warm, sunlight spilling through the window and pooling across wooden worktops. I run my hand along the edge, admiring the grain, the smooth finish.
“These are gorgeous,” I say. “You make them yourself?”
Struan nods. “Aye. Bit of timber from a job last year. Client changed their mind about it at the last minute, and I didn’t want to see it go to waste.” He pulls out a chair. “Here do?”
“Perfect. You got a towel? You know, to save your top.”
He looks down. “This thing? It’s as old as the hills. Honestly, don’t worry. Go for it.”
Even sitting, Struan is tall—so tall that the crown of his head reaches almost to my chin. I set my scissors case on the worktop, unzip it, and pull out my comb and clips. Then I slide my fingers into his hair, testing its weight and texture.
A spark shoots through me, and I’m not the only one. Struanshiversunder my touch—actually shivers. And when he speaks, his voice comes out low and rough. “So... what’s the verdict on the hair?”
Good idea. Focus on the practical.
“When I even it out, I’ll need to take about three inches off in places.” I comb through the damp strands, assessing the damage. “You’ll still have more length than most guys—enough for the curls to sit properly—but it’ll be a while before you can manage another man bun.”
I sigh. Actually sigh. Out loud.
“You sound heartbroken,” he teases.
“Maybe a little,” I admit as I separate out a section and secure it with a clip. “It was growing on me. You, on the other hand, are taking the news well.”
“Aye, well, figured it was doomed the second it happened.” He shrugs, the movement shifting beneath my hands. “But hair grows, as they say.”
“Just as well or I’d be out of a job.”
He laughs, the sound deep and rich.
I start cutting, and for a while there’s only the rhythmicsnipof the scissors. Curls drift to the floor. In the faint reflection of the window, I catch him watching me, his gaze soft, thoughtful.
“You’ve got talent, you know,” he says. “Transforming folk the way you do. I saw what you did for my mum’s hair. Half of Ardmara’s walking around with better hairstyles thanks to you.”
“Aye, well, you’re one to talk.” I trim another curl, evening out the layers, then gesture around the kitchen with my comb.“These worktops. The bench at the salon. You make the most beautiful things.That’stalent.”
“Ach.” He ducks his head slightly, actually modest for once. “It’s just wood and nails.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Walker.”
He doesn’t respond, but in the window I spot the pleased curve of his mouth.
I step to the side, reaching for a clip I discarded earlier, and as I lean over?—
