Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

It’s one such client who comes into the room as I’m finishing my workout. She has a home gym that cost fifty grand, but for some reason, she prefers to work out here, dropping hints about personal training. Very personal, if you know what I mean.

‘Morning, Mac,’ she purrs, placing her Mercedes car keys in a pea green purse, one of those monstrous things you could smuggle a baby out of a hospital in. One that no doubt cost as much as a first-class flight to New York. One that signifies she’s not here to work out. Wouldn’t it be in a locker, or else?

‘Mornin’, Jacqueline.’ I swing my legs around, coming upright, though not moving away from the leg press. Will was right yesterday, the bastard. It is leg day.

‘Mac,’ she scolds with a flutter of her lashes, ‘how many times do I need to tell you, my friends call me Jax!’

‘You’re up and about early this morning,’ I reply, ignoring her suggestive tone.

‘I know.’ She draws the words out over far too many syllables as she plonks her bag on a machine that recently cost me eight grand. Like a good businessman, I make no complaint. ‘Valentina has her grade four piano exam coming up, and her usual tutor isn’t cutting it. I had to drive her an hour to get her to the new tutor—who is fantastic, by all accounts—but there seemed no point in schlepping through the traffic home.’ To Knightsbridge. Where people as rich as knights live. ‘So I thought I’d come get an early workout . . . in.’

Yeah. Sure. Jax, or Mrs. Alescio, as I’d prefer to call her. Not that she’ll let me. No point going home to work out in your own gym.

‘Parenting. It’s a hard gig, I hear.’ I’m pretty sure she has three daughters, from what I recall, though she’s never mentioned their ages. In fact, it’s hard to tell how old she is herself—she could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, such is her discreetly Botox-enhanced face. Of course, I’m just guessing Botox is the reason, rather than her clearly Mediterranean heritage, but I’ve never seen her crack a frown. Not even when she’s working out. Wonder if you can get Botox to stop you sweating, too? Because she never breaks out in a sweat, and her makeup is always as perfect when she leaves as when she arrives. She’s one of a subset of members here. Expensive gym wear fitted tight to augmented chests. Call this an educated guess. Midriff and racerback tops flashing holidayed-in-Mauritius tans. And I’d be lying if I said she hadn’t flashed more than her tan at me.

Oops, I didn’t see you there . . .

‘Plenty of time for you to find out about parenting. You’re still young. You should be sowing those wild oats.’

And fuck me if she doesn’t look a little turned on by that thought.

I pick up the towel and water bottle I’d stowed nearby, drying the sweat from the back of my neck and bringing the bottle to my mouth. Here’s the thing; I enjoy the hell out of women—I might enjoy looking at them, appreciating their faces or their forms, but I never look at them like she’s looking at me. I feel like a bag of sweeties in a diabetic clinic. But it’s harmless staring. Mostly. I hope.

That said, I’m pretty sure she did touch my arse while I was checking on the installation of her machinery last year.

‘Yeah.’ She blinks heavily. ‘I thought I’d come here.’

Not with my assistance, lady. And what you do in the changing rooms is your own business.

‘Right.’ Hands on the front of my taut and aching thighs, I push to stand. ‘I might’ve been born to dance, but money forces me to work.’

‘Oh, I bet you’ve got all the moves, darling.’

I laugh, because what other answer is there? Grabbing my things, I head off in the direction of the changing rooms when she calls, ‘Just yell out if you need help towelling off.’

This isn’t the first time, nor can I foresee it being the last, a female client has made me blush.

Much later, I’m pricing some quotes at my desk when Carly, the receptionist, pops her head around the door. I say receptionist, but she’s only here on work experience from college. Thank Christ. One long day a week for the next three months.

‘Carly,’ I begin. ‘You know you can use the thing on your desk to call me? The one with the wire?’

‘What?’

‘The black thing on your desk? It has a thing that sits in a cradle and plugs into the wall?’ I mime using it. ‘It works like the thing you have welded to your hand ninety-nine percent of the day. Funnily enough, it’s actually called a phone, too.’

She rolls her eyes, and I suddenly feel like my dad. As in, old.