My right boob betrays me. It doesn’t just brush his cheek. Itwhacksacross it. Full contact. Unmistakable.
“Oh my God, sorry!” I blurt, the words tumbling out far too fast as heat floods my face.
I never invade a client’s space like that. Ever. It must be the chair. Or the angle. Or Struan Walker’s fault for looking too damn attractive and completely distracting me.
Struan turns to me, his mouth already twisted into a wicked grin. “Don’t worry about it. There are far worse ways to get hit in the face than by a boob.”
His eyes dance with mischief. And then—because apparently he can’t help himself—his gaze flicks down.
“Oi!” I swat him lightly on the shoulder. “Eyes and head facing the window.” I cup his stubbled chin and turn him back to the front. “No moving when I’ve got scissors near your ear.”
He chuckles, and then very unsubtly shifts in his seat. Oh, for the love of?—
Do not look down, Ainsley.
I look down.
And holy hell, he’s getting hard. Like, right now. In real time. I can literally see the front of his joggers lifting.
My breath stutters. Jesus Christ!
I force my eyes back to his hair, heart hammering. I mean, my boobdidjust whack him in the face. What man wouldn’t react?
Whatreallyworries me is the delighted thrill that zings through me. Because I shouldn’t be pleased by his reaction. Not at all.
Get it together, Ainsley. No nooky, remember? Focus!
I try. I really do. Except when I touch his hair again, there’s atwitchdown there. I can’thelpbut notice it in my peripheral vision. And it draws my gaze like a bloody magnet.
Oh God. Those grey joggers really don’t hide anything. He’s got a full hard-on now, and I swear I can see the entire outline of it.
And Struan? He doesn’t even try to hide it. He just sits there, perfectly calm, like erections are a normal part of kitchen haircuts. Doesn’t cover himself or apologise.
The confidence of that does something low and wicked to my insides.
Focus, Ainsley. Distraction. Now.
“So,” I say, my voice coming out slightly strangled, “tell me about this job. The one that nearly cost you your scalp.”
He launches into it easily—a Victorian house, the oak mantelpiece he and his da were working on. I keep cutting, letting the rhythm of the scissors and the sound of his voice steady me.
After a while, out of the corner of my eye, I do a discreet dick-status check.
Thank Christ. Things seem to be settling down a little. Mission accomplished.
“This morning I was buffing these cast-iron brackets,” he goes on. “Beautiful old things, covered in rust. That’s what I was working on when the drill got a bit too friendly with my hair.”
I wince, trimming another curl near his nape. For one insane moment, I want to lean down and press my lips to that spot—the vulnerable dip where his hairline meets golden skin.
“You were lucky, you know,” I manage instead. “That could’ve gone much worse.”
My fingers sweep through his newly evened hair. The worst of the accidental mullet is gone, leaving the shape clean and deliberate. And damn him, he was gorgeous with long hair, but the shorter cut is good on him too. Sharpens his jaw. Draws attention to the strong lines of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders.
“Usually I am careful, but I was daydreaming and a bird startled me.”
“What were you daydreaming about?” I ask as I trim an errant lock.
“You.”
