Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

I rub my tacky palms together and am suddenly struck by something Dad would recommend. Straightening, I thrust my hand out to my reflection, which naturally, does the same.

‘Mr Adams. Raphaela. I’m pleased to meet you.’

Bloody hell, I sound like I’m on the campaign trail. Can we count on your vote for the party that likes pancakes?

You’d think someone who’d just spent months living in Paris by herself would naturally be confident. Calm and poised, as if the manner of Parisienne women had rubbed off on me. Unfortunately, it hadn’t happened that way, and I returned with the same level social ineptness as I’d had when I’d left. I’m not exactly the same. I’m eight pounds heavier, which seems like a crap trade-off. Bread. Wine. Cheese. Pastry. If French women didn’t diet, I’d foolishly thought I didn’t need to either. It doesn’t work quite that way, apparently. Quelle bloody surprise.

The elevator reaches its destination, and the doors suddenly bing open. I’m relieved there’s no one waiting on the other side as I yank on the handle of my small suitcase, still muttering to myself. Stepping out into the bright hallway, I check the apartment number on my phone again. I’m in the right place, which feels like both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I need this job and a curse because I hate meeting new people. Unless they happen to be under the age of eight.

Take a deep breath. In through the nose and out through the mouth.

Four doors spaced out to occupy each corner of the building. Adjusting the skinny tan belt at my waist, I press the doorbell of the one with the corresponding number on my phone. No sooner do I pull my finger a quarter of an inch away does the door spring open and a wail peels out.

‘Hi, I’m . . .’ Wow. Seems like Jules’s wishes were granted. This isn’t so much a dad bod alert as a hot dad one. It looks like tall, dark, and handsome grew up . . . and out. His broad shoulders almost fill the narrow hallway behind him, straining against the fabric of his worn cotton t-shirt. Jeans. Bare feet. And, as my eyes quickly scan the rest of him, scowling I see. Oh, dear.

‘Aye. I know who you are,’ he says gruffly. ‘Come in.’

I blink, processing this less than enthusiastic greeting, but he’s already turned and is following the wail down the hall. So I follow the hottie following the wail, and the rear view is as wonderful as the front is grouchy.

‘For the love of God,’ he mutters under his breath, coming to a stop. ‘Louis, son, I’ve told you, ye’ can’nae feed the dog biscuits.’

‘But he’s hungee,’ cries the small boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. A floor strewn with toys and sheafs of copy paper, pencils, and—au pair saints preserve us—actual Sharpies. Is he allowed to juggle knives, too?

The space is open plan, the dining room separated from the kitchen by a large island bench, the lounge area sort of cordoned off again by a huge leather section in the deepest of browns. A wall of glass runs the entire length of the space, leading to an outdoor terrace of some sort. With dark wood floors and bare walls, it’s a lovely apartment if I look past the fact that a small tornado seems to have hit it recently.

It takes every ounce of my concentration not to go to the little boy as his crying quiets to shuddering sobs. It’s not my place, I remind myself. At least, not yet. But the resemblance between the pair is striking, the boy’s soft brown curls to his father’s shorter cut, and both have the deepest brown eyes and caramel skin tone. From what I can tell by their twin scowls, they appear to have very similar temperaments. The son sits cross-legged on what looks like a very itchy area rug. In a very child unfriendly cream colour, too. While hot dad stands tall, arms folded across his chest. He stares down at the child as though he’s a puzzle to solve.

‘Biscuits aren’t good for dogs, especially chocolate ones, according to the internet,’ the father begins, mumbling the last point as he scrubs a hand across his somewhat stubbled chin. ‘You don’t want him to get sick, do you?’

‘B-but he’s hungee.’ This time, the little boy—who I guess to be around three years old—throws himself backwards on the floor, pummelling his fist and heels against the floorboards.

‘Well?’ hot dad demands suddenly, turning to me.

‘I’m sorry?’ I take a step back, blinking into his hard expression as my heart leaps from my chest cavity to my toes.

‘Consider this an aptitude test.’ Palms open and pointing at his crying child, he pleads, ‘Do something.’

I should tell him no. And I would, if I were someone other than me. A braver person. The person I’d like to be. I’d tell him hell no—that I’m an au pair, not a magician or a performing seal—right before I’d walk right out of this place. Instead, because I’m just a girl who hates saying no—not to mention one who’s a touch accommodation challenged—I let go of my suitcase handle, which I appear to have gripped as though the plane is going down and it’s my parachute, and begin stepping over the mess of action figures and cars between him and the little boy.