Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘I’m really sorry for spoiling your evening.’ God, I am such a screw-up.

‘You totes didn’t. Hot dad is the beaver impeder here.’

‘He’s . . . what?’

‘Hot dad,’ she repeats. ‘He’s the cause of my clit-orference. The reason for my va-gection.’

Maybe I did her a favour by turning up tonight although her beau didn’t have two heads or horns or look like a serial killer. In fact, he looked pretty normal, but she’s perhaps too buzzed to be making good decisions.

‘Besides, I can always bang him on my lunch hour. We work in the same building. He’s a cunt.’

‘Wow. We are sweary tonight. And if he’s that bad, then why are you shagging him?’

Jules looks on confused for a moment, her eyes rolling ceiling-ward as though to rewind. ‘No, no, no. A quant,’ she repeats, beginning a drunk girl semaphore. Or maybe an expansive wave of her hands; I’m not sure which. ‘He’s a quantitative anananlyst!’ She staggers back a little as though the mere effort of speech is taxing, causing her to fall into a nearby armchair.

‘So what exactly did he say, this knob-head you like so much?’

‘Who said I like him?’

‘Because A, you haven’t run away yet.’

‘Run—’

‘And three, you’re a wreck.’

‘This is what I do. I cry.’ My shoulders rise and fall in defeat.

‘Did you cry like this when it fell apart with Henri?’

No, because it didn’t happen exactly as I told her it had. And returning to London hadn’t been a case of running away from my heartbreak. More a realisation that I couldn’t escape from myself. That I was the one who had to change.

Only, any change I’ve undergone is more to do with Mac than any dance class or club. The way he touches me and the responses he wrings from me? I’ve never felt desire like this before. The man plays my body like I’m a finely tuned instrument and he’s the maestro.

If I performed well at all tonight—if I’ve an increase in my confidence at all, it’s because of the way he makes me feel. Like a grown up. Desirable. Sexual.

‘Something must be keeping you from buggering off, other than my company and my very comfy sofa. He might be a douche whatshisface, but he must’ve done something right.’

He asked me to meet his parents. Told me he no longer loves Fin. And is the nicest man I’ve met in forever. Well, once I got past the gruff veneer.

Those things he said in the back lane? They aren’t the Mac I know. He’s a man who does what’s right, not what’s convenient. A man who rearranged his life for his son. Not a hater, or a misogynist, or ridiculously possessive. Okay, maybe the last one he is. Just a smidge. But the rest? That wasn’t him.

How he reacted was legitimate. I hid the show from him. Kept him in the dark about my dance class. About my ridiculous reasons for doing this—and they were ridiculous. And just like that, I’m crying again.

‘He’ll regret it. You’ll be the one that gottaway.’

‘But I don’t want to get away. I want to get back.’ The realisation doesn’t help. In fact, it makes me feel worse.

‘Nup. All you need is a glass of wine and a few come to Jules moments. And ice cream and a little man hating. Oh, and some pizza. I could totes go for some pizza right now. Tomorrow, you’ll be seein’ things much more clearly.’

‘Yes, I think you’re right.’

‘Thas a girl.’ She yawns. ‘You order some pizza, and then we’ll discuss men, the bloody bastards.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ I say as her eyelids flutter closed. ‘You have a snooze, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Swinging my legs from the sofa, I sit upright and swipe my phone from the coffee table.

She’s right. Tomorrow is another day. Tonight, I need to put things right.

31

Mac

What becomes of the broken-hearted?

Aye, broken-hearted because that’s what I am. I’d realised it the minute she’d sent me away from her as she’d leaned against the door in that grubby back lane. Because why else would I give a fuck? Why else would I be feeling this way?

How do you know when you’ve lost your heart to someone?

I know the answer to that. When the muscle in question is no longer present yet the place it once was physically aches.

As for what becomes of the broken-hearted, that I din’nae ken. In the short term, I suppose, they hang out with their mates as a distraction. To blow off steam. They might even find willing pussy to bury themselves in.

‘So Mac. You must work out a lot. And I mean a lot.’ The blonde’s fingers tiptoe down my arm, the muscle tight under my white shirt. It’s not tight because I’m showing off or flexing. It’s tight because I’m not into this. My skin is fucking crawlin’.