Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

And hells bells, what an orgasm it was.

Perhaps, I shouldn’t be surprised. Mac is so much . . . force. So much manliness. Not like Liam or Henri. He’s too handsome and too virile, too many superlatives for every taut and tanned inch of him. Pecs larger than my handspan, a torso made for the word washboard. The fine hair trailing from his navel and disappearing into his dark running shorts. Until I’d slipped them off. Yes, off. Me! Then the hard length of him in my hand and his salty taste in my mouth. And his kisses. Oh God, his kisses. I’d happily let him kiss me all day, but for reality.

I sigh, definitely sad. Not because Louis’s nightmare disturbed us. Not because I still have my virginity. But because it should never have happened in the first place. The man is a mess, and I feel like I added to his problems by not running away naked and embarrassed, as I should have done. After all, it was an accident. I doubt he’d have laid a finger on me had we not bumped into each other, semi naked in the first place.

Both Mac and Louis need stability. And I need to keep things professional. Like I need an income and a place to live.

The front door clicks shut, and silence fills the flat. And though I seem to remember Mac saying he was taking Louis out this morning, it still feels like rejection as I swing my legs out of bed.

Because I doubt my ability to keep the events of last night to myself, I call Julia to cancel breakfast, telling her I’m feeling under the weather this morning. Instead, I shower and pop on a pair of navy cropped pants and a cute cap-sleeved twinset. Tying a scarf around my throat, I’m glad my dance practise things are in a locker at the studio because a sports bag would kill the Audrey Hepburn look I’m going for. I decide I might get my nails done, watch a movie, or have a lunch date with my Kindle before heading to my dance class.

Today isn’t so bad, I decide as I take a seat in a café not far from Covent Garden. I feel like I’ve come full circle after starting off drinking coffee in the piazza this morning while watching the street performers. But the sun is shining and it’s warm enough to sit outside, I have newly applied sparkly pink polish on both my fingers and toes, and I’ve worked up an appetite with lots of window shopping. It’s an appetite that wanes as my phone begins to buzz, and I realise Mac is on the end of the line.

My finger hovers over the reject button, and though I’d like to say last night made me brave, it hasn’t. I send the call to voicemail. I’ll listen to it later. Maybe. Or not, as the case may be.

After contemplating a glass of bubbles, I order my flat white and pick up the menu. There’s a steak sandwich with caramelised onions calling my name, accompanied by sweet potato fries and something called homestyle slaw. My homestyle slaw comes out of a supermarket tub, dripping with watery mayonnaise, so I hope it’s not that.

‘I can recommend the ceviche,’ says a familiar voice as a hand rests on my shoulder.

I fold my menu closed, my heart beating in my throat at the sudden smell of Mac’s cologne. Surely, it’s too soon to be able to identify him by smell?

‘I think I’d rather have what Louis ordered,’ I babble, hoping that’s his voice I hear from somewhere nearby. ‘I’m not much of a fan of raw fish.’

‘How do you know Louis didn’t have ceviche?’ Mac says, pulling out the chair opposite and sitting down.

‘Yes, please. Do take a seat.’ Ignoring both him and my heated cheeks, I carry on. ‘It’s not like you’re interrupting or anything.’ Delivered with a smile, my words weigh a tonne of snark.

And as Mac lowers himself into the chair opposite me, I can’t restrain my sigh. Not for any other reason than he looks good. So seriously good. From the pale jeans that cling to his broad thighs to his pristine white shirt showing the prerequisite amount of skin and sinew to qualify as arm porn. He also wears a masculine black leather strapped watch that appears to be programmed to do everything but make a decent cup of tea. To make matters worse, as he smiles, the clouds part and a ray of sun blesses his head.

I half expect the soft strains of a celestial choir to sound.

Someone up there is taking the piss.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ he asks, his brows drawing in a touch. It’s such a small reaction; I doubt I’d have noticed had I not been looking at him. But it’s a reaction still, whispers a small, sick part of me. ‘Maybe it’s just not my calls you’re ignoring?’