by Alam, Donna
Hot Scot’s Christmas
A Hot Scots Holiday Novella
By Donna Alam
Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam
Published By: Donna Alam
Copyright and Disclaimer
The moral right of this author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express permission of the author
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Donna Alam
Contents
Hot Scots Christmas
Copyright and Disclaimer
HOW ABOUT A FREEBIE?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
One Hot Scot
Two Wrongs
Acknowledgements
About the Author
HOW ABOUT A FREEBIE?
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Chapter One
MAC
THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
‘Mummy likes the wed wons.’
My son’s dark curls bounce as he hops down from the bar at the far end of the shopping cart, his mittens dancing from the string threaded through his sleeves. Ten minutes in a supermarket is about nine minutes too long in my experience, especially with a half French child who delights in all things gourmet.
‘But she asked for Granny Smiths,’ I reason calmly, much more calmly than I feel. ‘See?’ I gesture to the packaging and the unevenly shaped greenness contained.
‘I’m not old enough to wead yet,’ he returns, ignoring me to climb onto the shelving, reaching out to grasp a packet of apples that aren’t on the list.
‘No, but you’re not colour blind,’ I grate out, grabbing him by the elbow to prevent him from tumbling. I might have said that a little too loudly, judging by the very reproving looks sent my way. Reproving looks on top of the judgmental ones for allowing a four-year-old to hang on the edge of the cart like he’s a figurehead of a ship. And I might look a tad angry as I appear to manhandle him down from the ledge . . . like someone who’d crack open their son’s head rather than prevent said injury. But, Christ, I’d rather have a cavity filled than grocery shop. A cavity filled without anaesthesia!
I thought I’d been smart, ordering our online shopping weeks in advance, but upon its delivery yesterday, it seems I’d missed a few vital things. Cooking apples and chestnuts. Who, I ask you, other than squirrels, eats chestnuts, for fuck’s sake? So, here I am, on the eve of Christmas Eve, frozen to my balls, being tortured by piped Christmas carols. Carols that have, no doubt, been playing since mid-November, judging by the pained expression of the supermarket staff.
‘We’ll take a pack of each.’ I growl my response through gritted teeth as I take the red contraband from his hand. I place it in the cart alongside several pieces of very expensive cheese, a paper bag holding a half-eaten Gougère , and a quarter of a kilo of truffle smoked Jambon. None of which were on the list. ‘I thought you were supposed to be helping.’
‘I am helping. If I wasn’t helping, you’d get the wong apples.’ He shrugs, full of attitude.
‘Listen, ye’ wee sh—you little helper, you.’ I smile stiffly at my son, feeling the weight of the gazes of those around us—those yummy-mummies in their Hunter branded wellington boots, the prerequisite dressed-by-Burberry tot, dangling from the BABYBJÖRN like parachutists stuck in the branches of a tree. ‘See this bit of paper?’ I wave the crumpled note in front of him, tension in my jaw making it ache. ‘This is a list. In Mummy’s handwriting, see?’
‘I prepose so.’
‘Aye, well, it is. Trust me, it says cooking apples .’ I underline the words with my finger as I speak.
‘But I didn’t say wed apples were on the list. I said wed apples are Mummy’s favourite. You want to see her smile, don’t you?’
My heart sinks because, God, yes, I do. I’d do anything to lighten her load these days, including making a shopping trip at her behest—a shopping trip with Louis.
With a sigh, my gaze slides to the half full cart again.
‘Promise me when you grow up, you’ll use your powers for good.’ His negotiation skills are second to none. I wonder if I should loan him out to world leaders to see if he can broker peace in the Middle East.
‘Excuse me.’ I inhale a nose full of Jo Malone perfume as a shopper leans across Louis’s head, also in the market for red Fuji apples. ‘Mac, is that you?’ she exclaims. Long time, no see!’
‘H . . . ’ Hannah? Helena? Shite, what was her name, again? I know her from the gym—my flagship place. And, truth be told, I might have banged her once or twice before. In another life, B.E. Before Ella. ‘H-hi. How are you?’ Hailey? Hazel? Hell.
‘Good. I’m good,’ she replies, her eyes doing a full body inventory. Up, then down. ‘I think I might need to start coming to the gym again.’
Her tone drips with innuendo and, at a guess, I think that’s probably my cue to say she doesn’t need to. And she doesn’t. The words rail and thin spring to mind. Along with no longer my type. Not that I’d be interested were she rounder either. B.E. all the way these days.
‘Aye, I thought I hadn’t seen you around in a while.’
‘Yeah, I got a new job.’ She shrugs. ‘No time.’
‘It’s the way of the world, hen.’
‘But we should catch up sometime. You know, other than in the produce aisle.’
‘Daddy, can I have one of these?’ Louis holds up a chocolate-covered apple between H . . . her and I. And I don’t know which is funnier; my gourmand son eating a brown apple on a stick, or the look of horror on the woman’s face. I can almost see the cogs turning. How old is the boy? Has he made me complicit in adultery?
‘I-I didn’t know you had a son.’ And between the lines I read: do you also have a wife? ‘How old is he?’
‘This many!’ Louis exclaims, holding up two fingers on both hands and dropping the apple in the process. ‘Merde! ’
‘Now, Louis,’ I warn, not that he’s listening as he scampers off to retrieve his rolling prize. ‘What have I told you about using bad language?’
‘What?’ he stands, pushing a mop of dark curls from his face as though contemplating the question. He doesn’t fool me because this is a conversation we have often. ‘I sink you said I can say merde away from Mummy but never to say shite in public again.’
I wince because that’s about the strength of it. Except I also said, ‘You’re not supposed to swear in any language in public.’ I keep my expression serious even though I feel quite proud. I don’t know about her, but I’d sure love to be able to curse in two tongues. That’s my boy. The one with the sweary mouth.
‘Daddy, who is the lady?’
‘This is my friend. Say hello,�
�� I add quickly, brushing over the bit where I can’t remember her name.
‘I really didn’t know you had a son.’ Her words drip with accusation and I can’t help but chuckle at her expression.
‘Me neither.’
‘Because I am a surprise!’ yells Louis, throwing his arms wide.
‘And where’s your mummy?’ she asks, her words saccharine sweet for my boy.
‘At home, having my baby!’ he yells at the top of his voice. He’s so excited about this baby, he’s begun to refer to the little girl Ella is expecting as his. He also refuses to believe she’s a girl.
‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ I add. And, yep, I’m still laughing. Her face is a picture, even if the lad’s not quite right. For a start, Ella isn’t at home alone in labour. She isn’t due for another two weeks.
‘You have a wife and son!’ From accusation to hostility, and it appears we’re now causing a wee bit of a scene.
‘Aye. No. What I mean is—’
‘Men like you give your gender a bad name.’
‘Don’t shout at my daddy!’ Louis yells right back, stamping his wee booted foot. ‘He’s not a bad mame!’
‘Hang on. Louis only recently came into my life. I didn’t know about him when you and me . . . you know.’
She folds her arms across her chest, one hip cocked. But honestly? She can piss right off if she thinks I’m going to spill the full story in the middle of the fruit aisle, scene or not. My boy lost his birth mum at the age of three; she doesn’t need to know that, and he doesn’t need a reminder of the day he was thrust into the arms of a father he’d never known.
‘But he’s my boy, and we’re a family now; aren’t we, big man?’ He and I and Ella, the woman he now refers to as Mummy. And in a couple of weeks, there’ll be a new addition to our family.
Louis nods vigorously. ‘And my daddy has Mummy the biggest wed wuby from Santa Claus.’
‘I thought you said you could keep a secret?’ I rub my hand over his silken head. ‘That’s supposed to be our secret.’ As I look up, my former and temporary bed friend’s expression appears to thaw.
‘What’s Daddy going to do with the ruby?’ she asks. A touch too wistfully for my comfort.
‘Perpose,’ he answers with a shrug. ‘But it’s a secret.’ Brows down, he brings a finger to his lips. ‘Shh!’
‘My lips are sealed,’ she whispers back, pretending to lock her mouth. ‘And when is Daddy going to propose?’
‘Frismas Eve. He’s going to pull the wuby from his sack.’
And for my next trick . . .
‘And is the ruby very pretty?’ Louis screws up his wee nose, unimpressed. ‘Is it very big?’
‘It’s lots smaller than my chocolate apple,’ he answers contemplatively, examining the thing in his hand. ‘But much bigger than a boogie from my nose.’
I try not to laugh, I really do. Try and fail . But it could’ve been worse. He could’ve pulled one from his nose for comparison sakes.
Chapter Two
MAC
THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
‘We’re home.’
In answer to Louis’s exclamation, Charles, his tiny rat-like mutt yaps loudly as he scampers to greet us as, courtesy of the toe of Louis’s boot, the door slams closed.
‘Gently, lad!’
‘Sowwy.’
We trudge into the warm kitchen, the flesh of my fingers smarting as I place the heavily laden grocery bags onto the island countertop. As I turn to help Louis out of his layers, the sound of shuffling feet draws my attention. ‘You’re out of bed.’ And I’m frowning.
‘Well spotted, Sherlock,’ Ella responds lightly. ‘I was just getting a glass of water.’ She blinks back at me innocently. ‘No need to be so growly about it.’
‘I find there is, especially when I left a jug of the stuff next to the bed.’ Along with a wee box of Louis’s orange juice, her iPad, her phone, a bowl of fruit, a bar of chocolate, and a packet of crackers, just in case. Supplies enough for a zombie apocalypse, Ella had said.
I bite back my frustrations as I slap a couple of magazines onto the countertop. And I don’t remind her she’s in bed on doctor’s orders because she doesn’t need reminding. Or the added guilt. It doesn’t matter how many times I reassure her she did nothing wrong, that she’s being the best mum ever—doing the best she can in caring for our unborn baby girl, she still feels the weight of our joint fear. And Christ knows, if the tables were reversed, I’d be guilty of more than just pottering around the apartment in my pyjamas. I’d probably take up pregnancy parkour or something equally as reckless.
‘Oh, good, more tabloid rags,’ she says, shuffling her way into the kitchen.
‘Are those socks the ones with the grips on the bottom? Only you might slip. Especially after—’ Her hand cuts through the air, silencing me. ‘Too much?’ My shoulders hitch, my question delivered through an uncomfortable grimace.
‘Just a little suffocating,’ she answers airily. ‘But yes, the socks have grips, see?’ Leaning her forearm on the countertop, she lifts her foot. ‘And this is the first time I’ve been out of bed since this morning.’
‘Sorry,’ I whisper, placing my lips against her cheek.
‘Oh, you’re cold!’
‘Because it’s cold outside, silly!’ interjects Louis as he hops excitedly. ‘Cold enough for snow, Granny says.’
‘Maybe we’ll be lucky enough for a white Christmas.’ The thought seems to delight her, which, in turn, makes me feel all kinds of happy inside. I must be losing my marbles, but I don’t care. In fact, being snowed in with my gorgeous girl and our wee ones sounds pretty perfect, actually. But then my brain tacks on a reminder of Ella’s risky pregnancy.
So maybe not snowed in. Maybe just a dusting of the white stuff Christmas morning for my girl.
‘Mummy,’ Louis says, pulling me from my thoughts. ‘There was a very mad lady at the supermarket.’
‘Was there?’ Surprised, Ella looks to me for confirmation.
‘It’s two days before Christmas,’ I reply, shrugging. ‘The place was full of them.’ Ella giggles as I add, ‘You’d think London is facing Armageddon, not Christmas.’
‘Daddy! Daddy!’ Louis begins pulling at the leg of my jeans and, as I look down, he seems to be doing an odd hopping thing.
‘Do you need to pee?’
‘No, I’m just egg-cited to show Mummy the picture of Uncle Dylan on the front of the magazine!’ he replies, continuing to hop.
I hand over the magazine reluctantly, pleased he can’t read the headline: Dylan’s Dilemma. Both Wife and Girlfriend Up the Duff!
Utter shite.
‘See, Mummy?’ He jabs the cover with his pudgy finger. ‘Uncle Dylan! But no pictures of wee Alisdair or Auntie Ivy,’ he adds gravely, beginning to flick through the pages. Louis might be a new addition to our family, but he’s taken his standing as older cousin—and soon-to-be older brother—very seriously.
‘Maybe they were at Granny’s when this was taken?’ Ella replies, making absolutely no reference to the image of the pretty young redhead next to him. His assistant, Abby, who, I’m told, prefers women to men.
‘Yes. Daddy says I can draw a moostash and glasses on Uncle Dylan’s face when you’ve finished with it.’
‘Ah, that explains the purchase,’ Ella replies, chuckling.
On any day of the week, tabloid rags would not be on my shopping list, particularly those spreading lies about my family, but as Louis had spotted his uncle’s photograph, it was impossible to leave it on the shelf. And there’s also the fact that Ella, my much loved and heavily pregnant girlfriend, has a wee bit of a crush on the man. A harmless, star-struck sort of crush on Hollywood’s favourite bad boy, who also happens to be my sister’s husband.
‘Oh!’ Louis exclaims, hands at his crotch suddenly. ‘I do gots to pee!’ He darts off in the direction of the bathroom. Like most parents, we keep one ear open for the evidence of handwashing, following the telltale
flush. Moments later, the door to his bedroom slams closed.
‘That’ll be him out for the count in about five minutes.’ Since school broke for the Christmas holidays, Louis has taken to falling asleep for an hour around this time of day. Though this usually happens when he’s curled up alongside Ella in bed, yesterday I found him asleep on his bedroom floor, surrounded by Lego.
‘A moostash, eh?’ Coming up behind me, Ella wraps her arms around my waist. At least, she does her best given the half a metre of baby bump between us.
‘Aye, well, no doubt it won’t detract from his pretty boy face as far as you’re concerned.’
‘Don’t be bitter. You know I only love you.’ She presses her warm lips against my shoulder and even through my shirt, the simple touch has me instantly hard. And hard is a situation that’s impossible to remedy right now.
‘I dunno how you can read such shite,’ I grumble, turning in her arms to place my lips on her forehead. My hands fall to either side of her swollen belly, like they do dozens of times a day. I still have a hard time believing I’m so fucking lucky.
‘Because there’s only so much television a girl can stand? Besides, their ridiculousness appeals to me on a voyeuristic level. You need only spend five minutes in Dylan’s company to realise he dotes on Ivy. The thought he would cheat on your sister is ridiculous.’
Studiously keeping my swelling crotch from her notice, I take her hands from my waist, pulling away as I begin emptying groceries from bags.
‘If you’re going to ignore doctor’s orders, at least sit your arse down.’ Puppies. My dead granny. The fact I have to learn how to roast a bloody goose before tomorrow—all these things I think of as a means of distracting myself from what Ella looks like under her nightwear. Luscious and ripe. Seriously sexy. So fucking inviting . . . and untouchable. For the sake of her health and our wee one.
Should’ve thought of that first. Instant boner killer.
‘I’m tired of sitting down.’ Ella’s words are more groan than anything even as she heaves her swollen frame into a high stool and flips open the tabloid magazine. ‘And I’m tired of lying flat on my back.’
