Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘Well, I wished I hadn’t now.’

Me too, mate, I think as the familiar sense of loss returns. I know it’s ridiculous—she was never mine in the first place—but I could kid myself before that she might be. But not these days.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ I respond quietly. Except for maybe the time I have to commit to thinking about her. Thinking about him. Before black jealousy has time to rear its head, I breathe out long and slow.

‘Business as usual, eh?’ By his tone, he believes that about as much as I do.

‘Having bigger things to worry about doesn’t give me a break from the smaller things, unfortunately. Not that being in love with someone I can’nae have is small, but it’s less pressing. I might now be living in a shitstorm of my own making—’

‘No, that’s not fair. You can’t help that Louis’s mother died.’

‘Or that she didn’t tell me I had a son. But that’s beside the point. This unrequited-love-shite situation isn’t going anywhere. I can’t tell her, and I can’t fix it. I just have to deal. And meanwhile, I still have a fucking business to run. A fridge to fill wi’ things kids eat. I get the impression his mother was an accomplished cook ’cause the wee gommeral doesn’t like what I put down in front of him.’ Small practicalities sometimes seem insurmountable. ‘And there’s only so many days a week you can eat pizza without kissing your six-pack goodbye.’

‘No,’ Keir breathes, fake scandalised. ‘You mean he’s not into protein shakes and endless meals of chicken and kale? Steak and kale. Fish and kale. If you really are what you eat, you’d be boring.’

‘Listen, pal, I had a fucking breakfast burrito just now, and it’s given me indigestion.’

Keir laughs delightedly. ‘Aggravated your delicate constitution? As for the kid, give him pasta. They all love it.’

‘You think I’ve not tried? My kitchen pantry is carb heaven just now. He keeps asking for noogles, and I’ve tried every noogle, I mean, noodle, known to man.’

‘Ah, you’ll get there. There’s no secret formula with kids, unfortunately.’

‘My fucking oath.’

‘Just a word to the wise about au pairs,’ he adds.

‘Aye, what’s that, then?’

‘Steer clear of petite blondes.’

‘I’m not stupid, man.’ But I’m also not tempting fate. She can be black, white, yellow, or green, but if I’m going to do this right, she’ll be anything but blonde.

Just in case, you understand.

‘See you Saturday, then?’

‘Definitely.’

I’m just about to hang up when I hear him speak again.

‘Mac?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I forgot to say, it gets easier, you know. Parenthood. Welcome to the club.’

I hang up and return to my library of papers, trying hard to block out the thoughts of Fin. She’s back from her surprise honeymoon now, and she lives in the same city. I don’t know what I would do if I saw her here. Probably the same as always. Pretend. Despite working my way through a mountain of mail, quotes, and accounts, I still can’t get the lingering thoughts of her out of my head. So much so, I’m almost relieved when I hear a quick rap of knuckles against the door.

‘It’s only me.’ Jax, Jacqueline, Mrs. Alesci’s sleek ponytailed head pops around the door, trout pout slicked in bright lipstick. Anna must’ve gone for lunch, leaving Carly, the works experience girl, in charge. The same one who never looks up from her phone. She probably didn’t even notice her pass.

‘Hi, Jacqu-Jax. How can I help you?’ As much as my instincts tell me to get up from behind my desk and bundle her back through the door before she steps over the threshold, I decide it’s probably safer to stay on this side of the room.

‘I was thinking I could maybe help you.’

If this were a Scooby-Doo episode, this would probably be the moment when Scooby says, Ruh-roh. Incidentally, who knew Scooby-Doo was no longer appropriate for three-year-olds? According to my sister, it isn’t, even though we were raised on that shit.

‘Ask not what your personal trainer can do for you, but what you can do for your personal trainer,’ she sort of sings.

‘Jax, I’ve told you. I don’t do personal training, but I can give you the number of someone else . . .’ You can harass. I don’t really say the last three words. Just think them. Customer service and all that.

She laughs like it’s an inside joke before stepping into my office and closing the door at her back. And I suppose it is a sort of joke. For her, at least; subtle flirting and hints. It’s not a joke I want to be involved in. I can’t afford to—she’d probably take it as encouragement.

A joke that’s easily borderline harassment.

‘Can’t blame a girl for trying. Anyway,’ she adds in a change of direction, her eyes tracking the room. I’m not sure if she’s casing the joint or maybe memorising the layout and contents for a surprise ‘spot the difference’ quiz. ‘Anyway . . . ’ Her undressing gaze falls to me again. ‘I couldn’t help but hear you were having childcare problems.’