Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘I need a position with somewhere to live. And I should’ve known better than to take what Jackie said at face value.’

‘Jax? Mrs. Alescio, I mean.’ Oh, God. Just call me Jax. I can hear her telling the handsome new gardener. And the man who cleans the indoor pool. Please don’t let her have had her claws into hot dad, too.

‘Look, maybe it’s best if I just leave,’ I say, grabbing my purse from my case and slinging it over my shoulder. I know something’s brewing at home, but I don’t want to be complicit in dear old Dad’s next divorce by living with someone his wife has screwed. I don’t mean living with him. Working. That’s what I meant.

At this point, I realise Louis is standing, too, his little hand hanging onto mine.

‘It was lovely to meet you both. Especially you,’ I say, turning to Louis. ‘You should ask your daddy to take you to the supermarket to buy doggy biscuits. Be sure to save those for Rififi. Don’t share. Take it from me, doggy biscuits aren’t good eating.’

‘You ate doggy biscuits?’ His wide eyes stare up at me, stunned.

‘Yes. It’s a long story.’ Involving cruel people and starring me as the brunt of their joke.

Raphaela looks like a fella.

Raph-e-the-elephant packed her trunk and trundled her arse back to the jun-gle.

Disconcerted at the sudden flood of memories, I pull my hand from his ostensibly to straighten my shirt, though really to take my leave, when his father speaks again.

‘Wait. The position has to be live-in?’ I nod curtly, trying not to appear as desperate as I feel, pulling my little case upright by the handle. ‘We can try it,’ he says, examining his son again. ‘We’ll need to look at some kind of contract. Something with a fixed term and not indefinite.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, especially given . . .’

‘It was a misunderstanding. Your mum, stepmum, I mean, probably made a mistake. It’s just been a hard few weeks and, no offence, but I don’t really know her from Adam, so I don’t really know what she was thinking, y’ken?’

Relief floods my body. A little too much of it, quite honestly. ‘But Ken? I’ve no idea who he is.’ Or what he’s got to do with this.

‘Ken?’ He looks confused for a beat. ‘Not Ken as is Kenneth. Y’ken means, do you understand.’

‘Oh.’ It’s all I trust myself to answer. French seems so much easier than Scots.

‘Look,’ he says, raking a hand through his hair. ‘I need help, and you need a job. Louis has taken a shine to you, you seem to speak child and French, and your references are pretty great.’

‘And I have the DBS check.’ He stares back blankly. ‘The background check for people who work with children?’ He doesn’t appear to know much about how this works. ‘But the position needs to be live-in.’

‘The guestroom, it’s yours if you want to give it a go,’ he says quickly. ‘Please say you will.’ From gruff to pleading in a matter of minutes? That’s a first.

‘Okay!’ I try not to appear too enthusiastic because it’d no doubt lead to me oversharing as to why I can barely contain this flood of happiness. This is just a temporary reprieve, I remind myself. I have other things in my life to sort out.

‘Do you think you’d like that, Louis? Would you like Raphaela to live with us for a wee bit?’

‘Wafaela? Like the Ninja Turkle?’ he asks, turning to me with wide eyes.

‘My friends call me Ella, but you can call me Raph if you like?’

Louis doesn’t answer. Instead, he throws himself forward and wraps his arms around my waist.

8

Mac

I hadn’t meant to offer her a job on the spot. I mean, who does that? Who gives a job to a stranger who turns up on your doorstep with a suitcase in hand? But she’d looked so forlorn, resigned almost, when, in her situation, most would’ve blown their top. It didn’t occur to me until afterwards that the fault might be hers rather than her stepmother’s. But no, I can’nae see it, though I seem to have no problem imagining Jax as conniving.

Anyway, not my business. I’m currently dodging enough shit; I’ve no time to think about anyone else’s.

My boy speaks French. I’d heard him whispering to the dog, surmising as much, and the roommate had confirmed it, but I was at a loss of what to do with the information. Maybe Raphaela—Ella—is meant to be here to help me get through this. Or maybe I’ve just grown a vagina over the course of the day.

Meant to be . . . pure pish.

But live-in might not be so bad. And I might even be able to continue my social life. In case that was a wee bit too euphemistic, what I mean is, I might be able to get laid again. Not with Ella—as much as I’d ordinarily ride that lassie to heaven and back, I have to remember a few things.