Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘She’ll be living in a convent by then,’ he adds prosaically. ‘Isn’t Nat a wee bit . . . off the wall?’

‘As nutty as a fruitcake. Auchkeld, the village I’m from? It seems to breed that kind of doolally.’ I remember Fin once saying the Scots don’t believe in hiding crazy. Instead, they pour it a cuppa and invite it to pull up a chair. I sigh heavily—not with the recollection but rather with the thoughts of her. ‘It must be the lack of sun or something,’ I mumble, realising Keir’s watching me carefully.

‘What I’ve learned is, you can tell a lot about a Scottish woman by her hands.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Like how, if they’re around your throat, she’s none too pleased with you.’

‘Your ex was’nae Scots, was she?’ I ask, chuckling. Not that he needs to answer; I know she wasn’t. ‘And I can see Nat being into strangling,’ I add. Unfortunately, she seems to have a lack of filter when it comes to her sexual exploits.

‘How’d you meet her?’

‘She’s the manager of the beauty salon Ivy owns back home since her arsehole of a husband moves her backwards and forwards between Scotland and the States.’

I’m probably being unfair to him. Like I give a flying fuck.

‘Married to Dylan Duffy, isn’t she?’ His name usually inspires starry eyes and many questions. Not that I’d expect that from Keir, but it’s something I don’t talk about much.

‘She is.’ And she did so without breathing a word to her family for months. Bitter? Me? Just a bit.

‘But you can’t wave a blow dryer for a living when you’re married to a superstar.’

I shrug because he’s right. It’s just that the way their marriage came to light left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. In fact, all coupledom pisses me off right now.

‘Imagine the rabid fans and nutters she’d have at her door,’ he continues. ‘She’d need full-time security. Besides, why drag yourself out of bed every day to work when you have the means to bide at home? Especially when you’ve a little one to look after.’

‘What, like you, you mean?’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Why because only womenfolk are interested in raising kiddies?’ I bait.

‘My situation is different. I don’t have a Nat to look after my company interests, or the support of someone by my side. Without work, I’d be skint.’

‘Down to your last million? Oh, no,’ I add flatly. ‘Whatever would you do.’

‘Baw bag,’ he retorts.

‘Now, let’s not start throwing names about just because you can’t see yourself watching the same princess cartoon for four years straight.’

Kids. I can’t see myself having them. I just don’t get the attraction. I mean, I love little Alisdair, Ivy’s son, but there’s no gettin’ away from the fact that he’s hard fucking work.

‘That’s very insightful for someone with no kids.’

‘Last time I was at the castle—’

‘The castle? And you’re takin’ the piss out of my lifestyle!’

‘It’s Ivy’s castle, fuck face.’ And shite if that doesn’t sound weird. Ivy’s salon, Ivy’s flat, even. But Ivy’s castle? Or rather Ivy’s Scottish pad, Claish Castle. I suppose owning a castle is normal when you marry into movie stardom. ‘Anyway,’ I continue, in a somewhat warning tone, ‘last time I spent time with my nephew, Ivy had this Genius Baby thing playing the whole time. She said it was to teach him how to communicate with sign language while his verbal skills were developing.’

‘Mind numbing watching?’

I nod. ‘Multilingual singsongs, characters in leotards and leg warmers, annoying and inane music. And little Alisdair didn’t exactly need sign language when he chucked a paddy, a fucking great tantrum, in the kitchen that weekend. It was abundantly fucking clear he wanted a biscuit and not the piece of celery he was being offered.’ I chuckle with the recollection. ‘When I pointed out as much to Ivy, she seemed to think it didn’t matter if he was signing or speaking in sophisticated sentences because she said she doesn’t negotiate wi’ terrorists.’

Keir laughs heartily. ‘That sounds about right.’

Kids. I think I’m right about them, too.

3

Ella

‘Please turn this off.’

‘But it’s a classic, this,’ Jules wails, sloshing cab sav over the edge of her glass. Jules. Julia. My best friend since forever. ‘And you’ve always loved the whole French thing.’

‘I do, you’re right. And Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien totally is a classic. But it also sends a very powerful message that, right now, does anything but resonate with me. You may as well be blasting out The Spice Girls.’

I pull my reddish-brown hair off my neck, my head falling back against her sofa. The sofa I’m currently crashing on. Much like the rest of her flat, the sofa is tiny, but I’ve been too busy worrying to do any sleeping. Which is just as well as it’s also pretty lumpy.

‘I love a bit of Spice Girls,’ Jules answers. ‘Remember when we were at school and I got sent home for wearing a cropped top?’