Page 11 of Single Daddy Scot
Chapter Four
MAC
I try, when possible, to get a workout in before I start my workday. Unfortunately, this means my alarm goes off at a ridiculous hour, and it’s dark when I leave my flat for at least part of the year. Thankfully, that’s not the case today. It’s as if Sunday was a whole season ago and not just yesterday. In contrast to that cold, wet Sunday, this morning, the birds are tweeting, blossom covers the trees like candy floss, and the low sun is already cheerfully warming the air as I make my way to the car. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to matter how early I head to the gym; I’ve always got to contend with the traffic. I love London, I really do, but I hate the fucking traffic. Almost as much as I hate Rory, Fin’s new husband. Only that’s not really true. I can’t truly hate a man I don’t know. But I can envy the fuck out of him.
I park, then use my key card to enter the building. The chain of gyms I own are open twenty-four hours a day and situated in urban areas. Low-cost models with minimal staffing overheads and affordable membership fees. But this gym is a little bit different. My flagship gym. Very high end. We have the usual equipment; though all state of the art. The usual spaces; areas for exercise classes, yoga, and the like. There’s also a spa with vibes of Bali and the Far East.And luxury.A pool. A juice bar. And a well-financed clientele.
With its blond wood, mirrors, and chrome, I never fail to be warmed internally when I step through the door.
As well as the chain of gyms, I also offer a custom design of commercial gym spaces. Usually country clubs, office blocks, and hotels, but sometimes this service extends to London’s rich elite for their multi-million-pound homes. It often seems that, for each of these types of contracts, there’s a bored, rich housewife to hit on me in the process.
I bet you look impressive in your gym kit.
You look more Italian than Scot.
What does a Scotsman really wear under his kilt?
This all addressed to the vicinity of my cock.
I’m not blaming them. Not exactly. Their husbands work a hundred-hour week in the city while they spend their years running the children between school, fencing, and piano lessons, consumed by constant cycles of redecorating and personal care. Endless salon and personal training appointments. Fillers and lip pumping and all that kind of stuff. And eventually, trips to Harley Street plastic surgeons as they fight the ever-present tide of age. There seems to be a point where many of them seem to look for fulfilment elsewhere. It’s the ultimate cliché, isn’t it? Me with my rugged looks and accent—they’re all looking for their own Lady Chatterley experience, as far as I can tell. I can empathise, but as far as I’ve ever been concerned, they can keep on looking. I’ll never be the reason for someone’s marriage breakup. I’m no one’s Oliver Mellors.
It’s one such client who comes into the room as I’m finishing my workout. She has a home gym that cost fifty grand, but for some reason, she prefers to work out here, dropping hints about personal training. Very personal, if you know what I mean.
‘Morning, Mac,’ she purrs, placing her Mercedes car keys in a pea green purse, one of those monstrous things you could smuggle a baby out of a hospital in. One that no doubt cost as much as a first-class flight to New York. One that signifies she’s not here to work out.Wouldn’t it be in a locker, or else?
‘Mornin’, Jacqueline.’ I swing my legs around, coming upright, though not moving away from the leg press.Will was right yesterday, the bastard. It is leg day.
‘Mac,’ she scolds with a flutter of her lashes, ‘how many times do I need to tell you, my friends call me Jax!’
‘You’re up and about early this morning,’ I reply, ignoring her suggestive tone.
‘I know.’ She draws the words out over far too many syllables as she plonks her bag on a machine that recently cost me eight grand. Like a good businessman, I make no complaint. ‘Valentina has her grade four piano exam coming up, and her usual tutor isn’t cutting it. I had to drive her an hour to get her to the new tutor—who is fantastic, by all accounts—but there seemed no point in schlepping through the traffic home.’To Knightsbridge. Where people as rich as knights live.‘So I thought I’d come get an early workout... in.’
Yeah. Sure. Jax, or Mrs. Alescio, as I’d prefer to call her. Not that she’ll let me. No point going home to work out in your own gym.
‘Parenting. It’s a hard gig, I hear.’ I’m pretty sure she has three daughters, from what I recall, though she’s never mentioned their ages. In fact, it’s hard to tell how old she is herself—she could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, such is her discreetly Botox-enhanced face. Of course, I’m just guessing Botox is the reason, rather than her clearly Mediterranean heritage, but I’ve never seen her crack a frown. Not even when she’s working out. Wonder if you can get Botox to stop you sweating, too? Because she never breaks out in a sweat, and her makeup is always as perfect when she leaves as when she arrives. She’s one of a subset of members here. Expensive gym wear fitted tight to augmented chests.Call this an educated guess.Midriff and racerback tops flashingholidayed-in-Mauritiustans. And I’d be lying if I said she hadn’t flashed more than her tan at me.
Oops, I didn’t see you there...
‘Plenty of time for you to find out about parenting. You’re still young. You should be sowing those wild oats.’
And fuck me if she doesn’t look a little turned on by that thought.
I pick up the towel and water bottle I’d stowed nearby, drying the sweat from the back of my neck and bringing the bottle to my mouth. Here’s the thing; I enjoy the hell out of women—I might enjoy looking at them, appreciating their faces or their forms, but I never look at them like she’s looking at me. I feel like a bag of sweeties in a diabetic clinic. But it’s harmless staring. Mostly. I hope.
That said, I’m pretty sure she did touch my arse while I was checking on the installation of her machinery last year.
‘Yeah.’ She blinks heavily. ‘I thought I’d come here.’
Not with my assistance, lady. And what you do in the changing rooms is your own business.
‘Right.’ Hands on the front of my taut and aching thighs, I push to stand. ‘I might’ve been born to dance, but money forces me to work.’
‘Oh, I bet you’ve got allthe moves, darling.’
I laugh, because what other answer is there? Grabbing my things, I head off in the direction of the changing rooms when she calls, ‘Just yell out if you need help towelling off.’
This isn’t the first time, nor can I foresee it being the last, a female client has made me blush.
