Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

Generic come-on number twelve.

‘Does it ever get tiring?’ I find myself asking. His perfectly smooth brow furrows. ‘You know, always being on?’ I encapsulate the word in air quotes.

‘On as in attentive . . . charming?’

‘As in always ready with the patter—the come-on.’ I place my chin in my hands, trying to avoid gulping down my second large glass of wine. ‘Do you ever get turned down?’

‘Aha.’ The noise isn’t quite a laugh as he takes a moment to straighten the cuffs of his shirt. ‘Why do I feel that’s on the cards tonight?’

‘Will.’ I try not to fill his name with chastisement. ‘Have you forgotten we came out as friends?’

He sighs deeply, his eyes roaming the room. I’ll admit to being disconcerted as, when his gaze returns, he pins me with a hot look. ‘Honestly, Ella? It’s hard to be friends with someone you want to screw.’

‘Ah, the truth.’ I concentrate on the stem of my glass. ‘We’re playing it that way?’

‘I promise to give you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I sense nothing else will do for you. What’s so funny?’ he asks as I cover my mouth with my hand, trying not to giggle. I wave the reason away. I don’t think he’d appreciate me repeating Mac’s court quip and mention of anatomically correct cloth dollies.

‘I appreciate your candour,’ I reply, composing myself. ‘I’ll try to deliver the same.’

‘I’d rather you pandered to my ego, hen.’ He might have delivered his reply with a wolfish smile, but I sensed no little chagrin. ‘My self-worth is pretty fragile.’

‘What happened to the truth, the whole truth?’

In our corner booth, we settle in, a bottle of wine between us and a charcuterie board. I don’t want to say I find him shallow, but I can’t find an alternative descriptive. And I sort of feel like his audience. Talked at, not to.

‘Do you date often, Will?’

‘I wouldn’t say date is the word I’d use.’

‘But you see lots of women?’

‘I do all right,’ he says, rubbing his ear, making me wonder if this is a sort of tell.

‘Why don’t you say it. Own it? You’re a very attractive man. Women want to sleep with you.’

‘Not all women,’ he answers a little irritated.

‘But if I was a bloke, you wouldn’t hold back. You’d say it how it is—that you get lucky lots.’

‘Truthfully, Ella? Because women judge. Forgive me for saying it, but your gender tends to put us into compartments. I don’t want to be judged or viewed as superficial or only good for a screw. I have feelings, and like everyone, I want to settle down at some point, too.’

Untruths numbers thirteen to . . . ? I think I’ve lost count.

‘What’s going on with you and Mac?’

‘What do you mean?’ Looking down at my glass, I make a triangle with my fingers around the base of my glass.

‘I sort of feel like he’s here with us. A looming figure at the table. The elephant in the room. I don’t mind telling you, it’s putting me off my stride.’

I’m being unfair. I shouldn’t be here. Though, in my defence, I find myself saying, ‘I did say we’d have a drink tonight just as friends.’

‘Friends,’ he repeats, leaning back in his chair and sighing. ‘Is that what you are with Mac?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ I answer quietly.

‘And what about him?’ He leans forward quickly, picking up the wine bottle and topping up my glass. ‘You ask about intentions; well, let me tell you, he’s no slouch himself. I reckon he could match me girl for girl. The difference is, he’s not looking for love. It’s almost like . . . ’ He places the bottle back in the bucket. ‘It’s almost like, he picks up girls as a distraction. Like there’s something he’s avoiding. And you know,’ he adds with a half-smile, ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were his type.’

His words pierce my chest. Could it be he knows about Fin? Or is it more a case that in his seduction, he’ll throw his friend under the bus? Maybe this is the way it works for men like him. A darkened bar, a saucy smile, a few glasses of wine, and a solid line in self-deprecation. I’m not like other men, darlin’. Then the next thing you know, your knickers are lying on his bedroom floor, and he’s moved on to other prospects.

Still, with all the practise he’s had, I’d bet he’d be really good at it. You know—it. Not that it matters. He and I aren’t ever going to happen. I pick up my glass and take a small sip. ‘So what chapter are we at in this playbook of yours?’

I take an Uber home, much to Will’s consternation. I don’t think he’s upset because we’re not going via his place or a nearby hotel, but that he genuinely feels like it’s his job to deliver me back. Despite his very obvious flaws, I can’t help but like him. But I can be pretty insistent when I need to be. Like when I’d changed my mind about sleeping with Henri. So we part at the door to the wine bar with a kiss on the cheek and a promise that I’ll text when I get back.