Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

I look around guilty, embarrassed and just a little turned on by the context of his text. Hand to my cheek, I then realise I’m not in a coffee shop or the tube. I’m not sitting with Jules, who’d be all grabby hands right now, trying to get a peek at the reason I currently look like an overripe tomato. But this is silly. Louis is three. He can’t even read.

Mac: Are you still there?

Me: I might be. I definitely am. Like I’d definitely be interested in another spanking. I shake my head and the deviancy away.

Me: Hey, Louis just asked for you to come home. For his daddy, more specifically, You’re wanted, hot daddy . . .

Mac: Tell him I’m on my way. That’s not quite the response I was expecting. Wait. I just got that comes his next text. I can’t wait to see my wee man. And I can’t wait to get my mouth on you again.

I send him a smiley face emoji. Okay, and maybe a water squirting emoji. And then a thumbs-up, but refrain from sending him the D. Or should that be the E, as in the eggplant emoji.

A second later, I get another text, but this time from a number I don’t recognise.

Unknown: Have you got a minute to talk?

Unknown: This is Will, by the way.

As it happens, I don’t have a minute to talk as my phone bings again with Mac’s next text. What is it with this guy? I thought he and Mac were supposed to be friends? I’d only given him my number at the coffee shop to make a point to Mac. I’d thought Mac would’ve somehow warned him off, given the whole let’s-talk-about-how-much-I-want-your-pussy conversation. Not that he’s used the word pussy, but the other one. The more shocking one—even somehow making me say it. Brushing aside Will’s texts, I make a mental note to ask Mac what’s going on with the two of them before returning to sexting—I mean, texting.

Mac: And I can’t wait to get you on my lap later tonight.

Me: Your text said lap, your brain thought . . .

Okay, so I set that one up.

Mac: Face.

Mac: Definitely on my face. Your sweet arse squirming. Your sweet pussy dripping.

Me: Not so hypothetical, then.

Mac: Ah, I did have a question for you, but I’ve decided the answer already. No underwear for you.

No hidden meaning there.

Mac: See you soon x

A kiss. The man sent me a kiss. My heart takes wings, the contents of my knickers doing flips at his textual promises. But as the intercom buzzes, things take a turn down reality street again.

20

Mac

I park and practically bound to the elevator, impatient to see my boy. And Ella. To get my hands on them both. It’s gone seven when I feed my key in the lock. Today has been manic; meetings with investors and the bank. I’m planning on expanding my low-cost membership model of urban gyms into towns and cities across the country. And now on the way home, the traffic is total shite. Still, my chest feels kind of settled as I push my front door wide. Dropping my wallet and phone to the hall table, I’m at the threshold of the living room in a few purposeful strides . . . my thoughts turn to vapour, my day spinning on its head.

‘Mac!’

It’s a tone filled with warmth and familiarity and none of the things I’ve longed for years to hear. Passion. Ecstasy. Love. How many times have I imagined this? Fin waiting for me at home, my child on her lap.

‘Fin!’ I fix my expression, not that she’s ever seen past the boy she grew up with. The one who, in her words, fumbled with her virginity back when we were kids. When she had blue hair and wore Doc Marten boots. Yeah, so we might’ve grown up mostly in the same house, but there was that one time. As a teenager, out with my mates those days, on Saturday nights, we’d get pissed on cans of Tennants in the local park. If you were lucky enough to have the company of lassies, you’d be sure to get your hands on cheap bottles of cider or sweet, fizzy wine. Hospitality, y’ken. It’s ingrained. But that Saturday night, there were just the two of us. Fin and me. Ivy had gone off with her flavour of the week—to the cinema, I think. Maybe my mates were out of town, or maybe I just didn’t feel like getting pished.

Left to our own devices that night, I’d gotten bold and smuggled a bottle of whisky out of the kitchen, left over from some party of the olds. We got hammered, and before I knew it, our mouths were fused, and I had my hands in her knickers. I hadn’t meant it. I hadn’t taken her out with the idea of fucking her. She was my little sister’s friend—she’d eaten almost as many Sunday roasts at our kitchen table as I had. Her body had trembled in my arms, and my awareness had kicked in. She wasn’t one of the girls who hung out at the park, smelling of desperation, cider, and cheap perfume. She was worth more than that. Her virginity was a gift that didn’t belong to me, and what we were doing suddenly seemed wrong. And I knew Da would end up kicking my arse if he knew. So I’d gently pulled both hand and mouth away, and we’d stopped.