Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

Standing at the door, she’d done something out of the ordinary then, one brow rising like a question mark. She didn’t look like the ingénue just then. She looked more like an accomplished flirt.

‘Aye, I understand well enough that it takes two to get horizontal,’ I’d said. ‘I’m just warning you. Don’t drink anything from him that tastes funny, and don’t expect any Nora Jones shit from him.’

‘We’re just going out for a drink. I told you,’ she’d said patiently. As though speaking to a doddery old fool. ‘I accepted his invitation earlier when I worried I’d be stuck in my bedroom all evening while you were reminiscing with Fin.’

‘You weren’t sent to your bedroom like a naughty little girl.’ Though right now, I’d like nothing more than to put her over my knee. ‘You must think I’m such a bastard.’

‘No. See, that’s the problem,’ she’d said with a light shrug. ‘I don’t.’

‘I’ll still be awake when you get home. Hopefully, you can tell me how the evening went. You know, without the use of those wee cloth dolls.’ Door handle still in her hand, Ella had furrowed her brow. ‘You know the ones,’ I continue, pitching my voice a wee bit higher. ‘The bad man touched me here . . . and here. I hope to see you soon without the use of a courtroom video link.’

She was still laughing softly as the door clicked closed. And the elevator couldn’t have been more than two floors down when I’d called him.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at,’ I snapped by way of a greeting.

‘Mackie boy, how are ye’?’ His answer sounded dipped in smug, then rolled in the upper hand.

‘I’m bustin’ fucking blood vessels here.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I’m just calling to tell you that if you lay a hand on Ella’s head, I’ll rip your fucking arm off and beat you to death with the soggy end, y’shit pouch. How’s that sound?’

‘Sounds like you’re about to have an aneurysm.’

‘You’re not that lucky,’ I growl.

‘And it wasn’t her head I had designs on.’

‘You what!’

‘Look, how the fuck was I supposed to know you were interested? She’s not your type, and you said she just worked for you.’

‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I just don’t want you sniffing around her.’

‘And I want a threesome with Beyoncé and Katy Perry, but for all my charm and good looks, that’s not likely to happen, is it?’

‘I swear to God, next time I see you, I’m gonna break your face.’

‘Make it a rib or something, will you? Be a mate. My face is too pretty to spoil. Sorry. Got to go. I’ve just pulled up at your place, and would you look at that? There’s a beautiful girl waiting for me. And she has a smile on her face.’

And with that, he hung up.

23

Ella

I know Will is a total player even before we set foot in the wine bar. In fact, I know he’s a lot in love with himself when he pulls up to the kerb to pick me up. His car is a bit of a giveaway, for starters. Eye catching, attractive, and expensive looking. A bit like the man himself.

But I’m not impressed by such things. I grew up with money. To me, a car is a means of getting you from point A to point B. Unless you live in the heart of London, because then there’s just a lot of time sitting at point A before you get anywhere near point B.

Turns out, the same could be said of my evening with Will. Point B was sitting at home waiting for me. Point A I was . . . enduring. Much like an endless sea of traffic.

I suppose what I’m trying to say, in the politest way possible, is it’s obvious Will drives an extension of his penis—well-loved and probably polished often. By someone else. And that he’s definitely a little bit in love with himself.

And why wouldn’t he be? He’s handsome, has buckets of confidence, and flirting is his default mode. Not my type at all. In fact, I didn’t realise I had a type until recently. Turns out, it’s buff and muscular with a gruff expression. And a heart of gold. The type I’d left in the flat, fuming because I’d agreed to come out with his friend.

His friend. I wonder just how friendly they are, regretting, not for the first time, replying to Will’s text earlier this evening. At the time, it had just seemed like an escape—an escape from listening to Mac and Fin. Seeing him look at her the way he did, knowing he’d never look at me that way.

Right now, I’m being looked at. Watched. But I’ve no illusions. The man is a shark.

‘Ella, has any one ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?’