Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘Shite,’ Nat exclaims. ‘Me, too. I’ve got a client in the treatment room wearing a full clay wrap. She’ll have shrunken to the size of a six-year-old by the time I get back. Shite, I just rang to tell you—’

‘Christ on a bike!’ I move the phone away from my ear as an alarm sounds in the background.

‘Ah, shit. Shit, shit, shit! Nothing to worry about,’ she reassures hurriedly. ‘It’s all under control. And you can tell your sister that.’ The call cuts off.

As usual with Natasha, there’s no telling what’s amiss. But I don’t give it a second thought as I get back to wrapping up my internet purchases.

19

Ella

‘Jules, I got accepted!’

‘You what?’ Her response sounds tinny, as if she’s stuck in a tunnel somewhere.

‘I got accepted to the course!’

‘Well, of course, you did. Did you seriously think anything else?’

‘The way this past year has gone? Yes.’

‘Well, congratulations, daft arse. You’re on your way to becoming a moulder of tiny minds. And your first assignment, should you accept it, is to teach your young charges how to pronounce the word espresso.’

‘Okay.’ The word borders on laughter. ‘I hope there aren’t many four-year-olds familiar with espresso or else they might be bouncing off the walls. And is there any particular reason?’

Jules sighs. ‘I’m just having a bad day, I suppose. It’s not normal to want to disembowel someone with a sugar stirrer just because they keep saying expresso, is it?’

‘Hmm, probably not,’ I answer diplomatically.

‘Maybe I should become a teacher, too,’ she adds glumly.

‘You’re just having a crappy day. You love your job.’

‘I love the predictability of numbers. They do what they’re supposed to. People, on the other hand . . . Well, they get on my tits.’ We both end up laughing at this. ‘So how’s hot dad treating you?’

‘Oh, you know. Okay?’

‘Why are your words pitched high enough for dogs to hear?’

‘They are not!’

‘They are so,’ she sort of squeaks back. ‘What’s going on with you?’

‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

‘Absolutely bullshit. Last time we spoke, you said hot dad was, well, hot. Has the heat ramped up? Maybe caused some clothes to fall off . . . maybe?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Have you been playing hide the sausage?’ Her tone suggests pointing index fingers, narrowed eyes, and smiles.

‘Can I just take a moment to say sausage, as a suggestion, is a little . . . juvenile. And perhaps not appropriately sized?’ I can’t help it—I feel like shouting my happiness from the rooftops! I’ve been accepted to the degree I want to study, and a hot man wants me!

‘You lucky girl! So you’ve seen the goods? I’m guessing it didn’t fall out of his boxer shorts by itself. Come on, if we’re not talking weiner size, what are we talking? A black pudding? A salami?’

Lord of the phallic symbol, help me, because I’m thinking about Mac’s dick. How do I describe it adequately? ‘It’s like the . . . Alexander Skarsgard of penises.’

‘Is he blonde?’

‘No. So it’s like the Al Skar D without the Scandinavian thing. Think big, broad, and beautiful.’

‘You’re making me jealous. So. How did it happen? How many times have you played hide the salami?’

‘Well, we haven’t.’

‘You haven’t?’ she repeats with a completely different intonation. ‘You’re just . . . comparing undie contents?’

‘You know we’re not.’ I scoff. ‘We just haven’t done the deed because it’s complicated.’ And I’m still a virgin, but I can’t really tell her that and contradict myself. ‘What if we take that step, and things go wrong? What if things become complicated? If I lose my job, I lose my home.’

‘So you’re saying he’s a good-looking nothing?’

‘No.’

‘A douche waffle?’

‘No . . . ’

‘A cunt canoe?’

‘No, he’s a really decent guy. Kind and thoughtful.’ The kind of guy willing to stand up for what’s right.

‘And he’s dick twinned with Alexander Skarsgård! Do I have to spell it out for you? Get on that thing.’

‘You’re weird,’ I reply, no longer laughing. ‘What’s the opposite of slut shaming?’

‘Shaming you for not being a slut?’ she answers disparagingly. ‘You’re a scaredy-cat, and you need the push. And if he’s as good as you say he is, he should be worth a go. Live a little, babe. And if it all turns tits up, you’ll never be homeless because you’ll always have me.’

And that kind of arse-kicking advice is why I keep her around.

‘I’m going to talk to him,’ I mutter, my feet hitting the pavement with purpose. ‘I’m going to lay it all out for him and hope he’ll still want to lay with me.’ Hmm, that sounds a little Amish.

On my way to my dance class, I think I see one or two people looking at me as though I might be a care in the community individual. It’s probably something to do with my muttered affirmations, because Jules is right. If Mac’s as nice as I think he is, this might work out. Not necessarily white satin sheets and a happily ever after, but maybe we could spend some time together for our mutual benefit. I could carry on helping with Louis, and he could help me with my virginity. I’d just have to guard my heart carefully—gird my loins against the idea of falling in love. Because that would be far too fantastical.