Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ He doesn’t turn, though I can sense him eyeing me carefully through the speckled mirrored wall behind the bar.

‘Nope.’ I pick up my pint, swallowing deeply.

‘Fair enough.’

We’re blokes. We don’t do heart to hearts on the regular. In fact, the only reason he knows how I feel about Fin, my little sister’s best friend and the woman I love from a distance, is whisky.

A few months ago, he’d been having a bad day. His ex had visited, which I ken she does when she needs cash—coming home with threats of courts and visitation rights, when really all she wants is more dough. It messes with his head. Not that anyone would guess. I think the word stoic was invented for him. Anyway, one glass led to another until we’d drank enough to fell a horse, and I’d told him how I’d fallen for my sister’s best mate years ago. How I’d lost her twice now to other men. The first time she was barely twenty-one when she went travelling and came back hitched. The second time? She’d fallen in love with some arsehole while I’d told myself I was giving her time to get over the first.

I’m a two-time loser where she’s concerned.

So we aired our drunken hurts, and brushed the secrets shared back under sobriety’s carpet the next day. As men, we only refer to the topic of that night in the most general of terms.

All right, pal?

Aye, no’ so bad. Yer self?

‘What you need is something else to focus on.’

Keir’s words break though my introspection. ‘Aye? So I’ve been told.’

‘Why?’ he asks, frowning. ‘Who else knows?’

‘About Fin getting married?’ Turning to face him, I match his frown with one of my own.

‘No, daft arse. About you and Fin.’

‘There is no me and Fin,’ I answer glumly, staring now into the amber of my pint. And there never will be. ‘There’s just Fin. Then there’s just me. And that bastard in between.’

‘He seems like a decent enough bloke,’ he says, referring to Rory, the man she married a few days ago.

‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’

‘You know what I meant. He doesn’t look the type to rag her about for not havin’ his tea on the table when he gets home.’

‘Yeah. He is a decent bloke,’ I answer begrudgingly.

‘Who did you tell?’

‘It’s all right; I didn’t gate crash the ceremony, yelling my objections.’ I’d have liked to on some level—the level where she’d see me as someone other than a brother figure.

‘No, that’s not you.’ Keir says evenly. ‘You’re too conscious of other people’s feelings.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘It is when you put yourself second.’

‘Says the man who spends his Saturdays at build-a-wee-bear and ballet class.’

‘Kids are different.’

I take a swallow of my beer. ‘I didn’t tell anyone else. Nat guessed. And she didn’t exactly say I need something else to focus on. She said I needed something else to worry about.’ And if that didn’t send a shiver of something unpleasant rolling down my spine, I don’t know what did.

‘Nat? That’s the blonde wi’ the massive . . .’ Keir brings his hands to his chest, seeming to change his mind about the suitability of the gesture. ‘Isn’t she one of your sister’s mates?’

‘She is.’ Swallowing again, I then add, ‘But it isn’t the same. I didn’t meet Natasha until recently, where Fin practically grew up in our house.’ It’s no wonder she thinks of me as she does. Pity I’ve never returned the sentiment. Thoughts of what could have been plague me daily.

‘Have you and her . . . ?’

‘We went out once, but we hadn’t even finished our first drink when she guessed about Fin.’ Nat says June, her mad wee granny, is a touch psychic. It must be a family trait ’cause my own family has always been oblivious to my feelings where Fin is concerned.

‘Pity,’ Keir says into his pint. ‘She’s some woman.’

‘If you’re into that sort of thing.’ Tall, blonde, and striking, Nat favours tiny clothes in a look that’s pure sex kitten. Booty shorts and stripper heels. But you can’t judge a book by its cover. Not where that woman is concerned. And as she says herself, it’s just as well she found out about Fin before I got her knickers off because at least now we can be friends.

‘So the pair of you still talk?’

‘Aye. It’s a novel experience. I’ve never had a girl friend before. One or two girlfriends but never without a bit o’ hochmagandy in between.’

‘Hochma— How old are you? A hundred and fucking two?’

‘You don’t use the F-word about women you’re related to. Or pals with.’

‘You and your Boy Scout notions,’ he says, chuckling.

‘Even Boy Scouts have dirty thoughts. I’ll remind you of that when your wee lass is grown.’