Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

Silly. I almost laugh at the absurdity of my thoughts. I don’t crave him. Okay, maybe a little bit. And I know I won’t be alone in this. A man like him probably has a whole harem to flatter him with attention. And he owns a gym, so he’s bound to be used to the insta-babes. You know the type. They exist on goji berry smoothies and lettuce leaves. Girls whose bottoms aren’t so much apple shaped as tiny perfect peaches. The kind of girls who arrive and leave the gym looking like they’re ready for a night out. A man like him wouldn’t settle for someone like me. Someone whose figure isn’t exactly de rigueur. Someone who hasn’t even had the courage to have sex yet at the grand old age of twenty-three.

But I do wonder. How can I not? Can I see myself bent over the stool, my skirt pushed up around my waist, and my panties dangling from one leg? Not really. For starters, I think I’d need to hold something a little more substantial. I’m no delicate flower, but that man doesn’t look the type to hold back.

And who would want him to?

Still thinking of the condoms and sex on countertops, I make a mental note to give the kitchen a quick wipe down with an antibacterial spray tomorrow and decide to turn in. I might read or watch a movie on my iPad while I drink my sneaky whisky. Anything than be in the way when Mac returns home. Yep. A shower, pyjamas, and an early night seem like the best plan. And then my phone rings.

‘You didn’t call.’

‘Because I’ve been working,’ I answer in well, duh sort of tone.

‘Yeah, well, I thought I’d check in on you. You know, just to make sure he hasn’t murdered you and stuffed your body in the freezer or something.’

‘Let me set your mind at rest, dear daft Jules. I’m neither dead nor small enough to shove in the freezer. Unless it’s an industrial sized,’ I say, eyeing the silver Smeg unit with a freezer big enough to store a couple of bottles of voddy and not much more.

‘What’s he like then?’ she asks, changing the subject.

‘Darling. Adorable . . . a total babe.’

‘Really?’ she answers a touch too squeal-y for my ears.

‘Yep. And we get along like a house on fire, and he hasn’t even peed on me or anything yet.’

‘Hang on a minute, he hasn’t what?’

‘Peed on me? Come on, I know you work in soulless finance, but I’m sure you’re not that sheltered.’

‘I might’ve been about a bit, babe, but no one’s asked to pee on me yet.’

‘He wouldn’t ask,’ I reply with just the smallest hint of laughter. Any minute now the penny will drop.

‘Because we’re . . . talking about the kid, right? Not the dad.’

‘Of course, we are. Can you imagine me letting any man pee on me?’

‘Not even if you were wearing a pink raincoat and heeled Wellington boots.’

‘Well, then. Ask a silly question, get a silly answer.’

‘But I didn’t ask a silly question. I asked what he’s like. Forgive me for worrying that this single dad is a serial au pair killer or something.’

‘Actually, he’s not.’ Not as far as I can tell. ‘He’s really rather nice.’ If not a little damaged. But who isn’t?

‘Marry, shag, kill?’

‘Shag, definitely,’ I answer. ‘Not that I will or anything, but Lord, is the man easy on the eyes.’

‘Shag,’ she repeats. I can almost hear her nodding her head appreciatively. ‘On a scale of one to ten, what are we rating him?’

‘About a fifteen,’ I answer, making my way to my bedroom as I trail my fingers along the hallway wall. ‘And he’s not had the easiest time as far as parenthood goes.’

‘So is this like a he’s-not-bad-looking-but-I’d-do-him-because-he’s-saintly or a he-puts-Liam-Hemsworth-to-shame kind of rating?’

‘Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘Hmm.’ Julia’s response hums down the line.

‘And that’s supposed to mean . . . what?’ I ask, opening my bedroom door.

‘Just that. Hmm. It’s my official stance on your non-answer.’

‘Well, this is my official non-goodbye. See you for brekkie in the morning?’

‘Absolument,’ she answers in her attempt at French.

‘Never assault my ears with that accent again.’

And with her laughter ringing in my ears, I hang up.

12

Mac

I’ve always found that exercise provides me with a good headspace. Whether it’s the rhythm of movement or repetition, it clears my mind of inconsequence, often giving the space for clarity where before there was none. And I suppose in a way that’s what tonight’s run has done.

The past. I can do fuck all about it. I’ve made some shit decisions, but that all ends here. There’s nothing I can do about loving Fin, short of bumping off her husband, and even then, there’s no guarantee she’d see me as anything but a brotherly type or a friend. And there’s nothing I can do about the time Annalise robbed me of my son. Nothing I can do about her death. But what I can do is try to put it all behind me and move on. For the sake of Louis. And my sanity.