I seriously dig Weekend Zach.
First, he’s in shorts and a white polo that show off his great legs and his deep tan and make him look a tad less put-together than he is at work.
Second, his daughters are adorable. They’re stunningly pretty and so sweet I just want to play with them like they’re my little dolls. I had this weird and, I now realise, completely stupid, expectation that they’d be these grief-stricken little ghosts with huge, sad eyes and pale faces.
But of course they aren’t.
They’re kids, and kids are fucking resilient.
Yeah, they’ve lost their mum, which is beyond horrific. But I’d love to believe they may still, on some superficial level, appreciate the simple pleasure of an ice cream or a new dress almost as much as if their mum was still around, and I for one would call that a superpower.
It turns out they can also appreciate the simple pleasure of many, many Ladurée macarons, judging from the enthusiasm with which they crack open and delve into the massive box Zach’s brought. Belle and I laugh as the little one, Nancy, rams a whole vanilla one into her tiny mouth.
They definitely look like Zach, and they strongly resemble each other, but I suspect they take after their mum, too. For one, they both have incredible, deep brown eyes they definitely didn’t inherit from their blue-eyed dad. Nancy is slightly darker—her hair is dark brown and glossy as fuck. It’s naturally curly and has got pretty tangled at the bottom. Stella’s hair is lighter and straighter, with golden highlights through it.
They’re both wearing identical outfits: pale blue broderie anglaise dresses and white leather sandals embellished with cut-out daisies. And this is just the best thing ever, because if I had two little girls, I would definitely always dress them the same. I mean, why wouldn’t you? It’s the cutest.
But even cuter than these two little twinning-is-winning people is the way their dad is with them. He’s ditched the specs today in favour of sunglasses, which he’s collapsed and hung from the open V of his polo shirt, and I can see the light of pride shining in those blue eyes as he watches them.
‘There are a lot of furtive glances being exchanged between you two,’ Belle mumbles out of the corner of her mouth as she leans over to refill my glass of rosé. On this sunny afternoon, it’s slipping down very nicely indeed.
I lift the glass to my lips. ‘Shut up. Though, really?’ I’ve caught Zach looking over this way more than a couple of times, but I’ve told myself he’s watching his girls.
‘Yup.’ She nods decisively.
‘Probably making sure I’m not corrupting his little ones,’ I mouth, tilting my head back obediently as Nancy tugs at my hair. She and Stella have Belle and me sitting side by side on Belle’s lounger. They’re behind us, armed with a couple of hairbrushes and the paltry selection of hair ties and clips Belle was able to offer up from her stash.
Having Nancy’s tiny fingers roaming reverently through my hair is actually super sweet and very relaxing. She’s so worried about hurting me that she’s brushing my hair very slowly and very gently, and it’s putting me in a kind of trance as I sit there humming Bad Guy. Which, now I think of it, is the most unsuitable song ever for her hot dad.
Even better, the way Belle and I are sitting has us facing the guys, whose pair of loungers are set away from ours, and damn am I enjoying the view. Rafe’s taken off his shirt again, which allows me to pronounce with authority that my BFF’s new Daddy is indeed in excellent shape.
And, much to my delight, it looks like Zach has decided to join him. He sits upright, sets his glass of rosé down on the ground next to his lounger, pulls his sunglasses off his shirt and, arching his back, tugs his polo up and over his head in one fell swoop before swiping it over his forehead like a towel and chucking it on the end of his lounger.
Bloody hell.
I only get a side view, sadly, but that’s enough to tell me that Rafe is not the only oldie who keeps himself in superior shape.
The guy’s a knockout.
In profile, his pecs are perfectly defined and just as bronzed as I figured they’d be. This man was not sunbathing in a t-shirt in Italy. As I suspected, his tan is flawless. Even. Deep.
As he collapses back on his lounger, he slides his sunglasses over his eyes and feels around for his glass. There’s not the slightest roll of belly fat over his shorts. Instead, the sliver of stomach I can spy from where I’m sitting is perfectly flat. Toned.
I am absolutely, one hundred percent, concocting an excuse to go over there and get a closer look.
‘Not bad,’ Belle mutters so our little hairstylists can’t hear us.
‘Nope,’ I agree, letting the p pop comedically.
‘And what do you know, he’s looking over again,’ she observes casually.
He is, and I hope he’s looking at me.
Why is that?
What is it about this quiet man, who is in a world of pain right now and whom I have no business noticing at all, that gets me flustered like a schoolgirl?
He’s not my type. My type is kinky and insatiable. I’m looking for Christian Grey—or a whole roomful of Christian Greys on rotation, if you please—and this guy is Gilbert fucking Blythe.
It must be his implacability. His aloofness. That instinct I’ve felt these past weeks that, right below his impenetrable surface, lies heat and yearning and need that’s all the sexier because of his refusal to act on any of it.
There’s also the possibility—and I flush just considering it—that I’m that shallow, fucked-up little bitch who treats his grief-stricken refusal to engage as a challenge. Like the big fat red Stop sign hanging over his entire demeanour is more of a big fat red rag to this horny, immature little bull.
I hope that’s not the case. But, painful as it is to admit it, there might be an element of truth to it.
Because I do love a challenge. And what greater walking challenge is there than this guy, short of going after a priest or a married man?
Actually, that makes me feel better. Because he’s definitely neither of those. It’s worryingly reassuring to know my rusty moral compass has some vague idea of which way north is.
‘This hairbrush is stupid,’ Stella moans from behind Belle. ‘It’s too slidey.’
Before Belle can placate her, Zach is sitting up straight and lowering his sunglasses so he can peer over them at her.
‘You know we don’t use that word,’ he tells her firmly. ‘Don’t make me take you girls home.’
‘Sorry, Daddy,’ she says meekly, and with that, he nods his approval, shoves his glasses back on and lies back.
Holy fuck.
What the hell was that, and why is my pussy clenching beneath these skimpy AF bottoms?
It was his sternness, I decide. He was unequivocally stern just then, and it makes me want to earn a delicious scolding from him.
Don’t make me put you over my knee, Madeleine.
Don’t make me pull down those pretty panties of yours and spank that bottom till it’s sore and pink.
Don’t make me tease that wet pussy with my strong fingers and edge you into fucking oblivion because you’ve been a bad, bad girl.
OMFG.
Is it rude if I run inside and use Rafe’s Zuber-papered cloakroom to make myself come while I pretend it’s Zach who has me pressed up against the vanity, his erection probing me from behind and his breath hot against my ear as he works me up?
Yes. It would probably be rude.
I squeeze my thighs together instead, bidding the throbbing to subside.
I take back the Gilbert Blythe comparison. This guy could definitely be a spankier version of Captain von Trapp. That said, I’ve long held the view that the good Captain had a twitchy palm of his own behind closed doors.
Lucky Maria. That’s all I can say.
‘Daddy kink activated,’ I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, and Belle snorts so hard that she leans forward, coughing out her wine and escaping the hands of poor little Stella and her ‘slidey’ hairbrush.
Rafe’s on his feet instantly, and I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses at his predictable overprotectiveness. God help us all when they actually have kids. He’ll be the worst kind of helicopter parent to mini Rafe or Rafette.
‘You okay, baby?’ he asks as he rushes over.
Belle holds a hand up as proof of life while she gets her coughing under control. I slap her heartily on the back and twist around to reassure Stella, who’s staring at her in utter horror.
‘She’s fine, sweetie.’
‘Is she going to die?’ Stella asks in a tiny voice that cuts me to the core, and all thoughts of stern, sexy daddies go right out of my brain as I lose the wineglass and scramble up onto my knees to reassure her.
My arms go around her as I pull her in towards me for a hug.
Oh my God.
The poor, poor little mite. That beautiful little souls this young should be so painfully aware of the fragility of life fucking slays me.
‘No, no,’ I say against her hair. Kneeling on the lounger, I’m the same height as her. ‘She’s fine! She was being silly, and her wine went down the wrong way. She’s totally fine.’
‘Okay,’ she says, and I swear her little shoulders drop a foot as her worry lifts.
‘What are you planning on doing with her hair?’ I whisper conspiratorially while I have her close. Next to me, Rafe’s rubbing his beloved’s back as she recovers from the rosé she just inhaled. ‘If you tell me, I’ll keep it a secret.’
‘I’m going to give her one big plait, but all on one side,’ she whispers back, existential angst already forgotten. These kids are little stars.
I pull back so I can give her a huge grin and a thumbs-up. ‘That’ll be amazing! She’ll look gorgeous.’
Next thing I know, my vision is full of bronzed, rippling male flesh, and Zach is reaching between us and scooping Stella up into his arms. He tugs little Nancy, who’s been watching the drama unfold in silent bewilderment, hairbrush suspended in midair, into his side.
‘You alright, angels?’ he asks.
I give myself permission to gape as fully and lasciviously as I desire from behind my sunglasses (Chanel, if you must know, and wonderfully opaque from the outside in).
From my kneeling position I run my gaze up over the navy shorts that lie low on his hips, showing off the top of his Adonis belt. Mmm. His stomach is indeed flat, and hard, and tanned, his pecs toned and curved. The dusting of dark hair across his chest tapers into a subtle happy trail, and I take in the extravagant flexes of his delts as he adjusts Stella on his hip. She puts her skinny little arms around him like an adorable pet monkey.
Oh hooooly fuck.
I’ve always prided myself on having a high-maintenance pussy but low-maintenance ovaries. I mean, who the fuck has a ticking biological clock aged twenty-three? Not me, that’s for sure. But as I watch Mr Stern Nerdy Sex God stand there in all his bronzed glory as he holds his little girls tight, I get it.
I mean, I really, really get it.
It’s like my Neanderthal cave-dwelling ancestors just served me up a winsome dollop of the most primal, age-old fantasy of all time. In case you need me to spell it out for you, that’s the he whips out that big cock and puts lots of babies in me fantasy.
And jeez, it’s a powerful one. Like, Class-A-drug powerful.
I kneel, and I gape, before I realise that Zach is in fact frowning at me from beneath his sunglasses.
‘What on earth happened?’ he mouths.
‘It’s fine,’ I tell him, recovering my power of speech. ‘Stella was just a bit… worried about Belle.’
I see the moment he clocks what I’m saying, because the guy physically slumps. I can’t see his eyes, but I can definitely see the deep groove that’s appeared between his brows.
‘She’s fine, angel,’ he says.
‘Honestly, I’m totally fine, Stella,’ Belle tells her with a big smile, her voice still hoarse. ‘I’m so sorry I worried you. And I really want you to do my hair, so I promise I’ll sit still.’
I could really do without being happy-trail level with and, like, a foot away from, Daddy Spanky. I sincerely hope he can’t see through my sunglasses as I take in his magical torso, already slightly slicked with sweat. I ignore the small bare leg dangling from his arms and instead imagine getting my hands on him. Getting my tongue on that skin.
The things I could do to cheer this poor man up.
He has no fucking clue.
To make the situation even more interesting, every instinct I have tells me I’m not the only one up to no good. Despite the opacity of his sunglasses, I’d put a great deal of money on the fact that he’s standing there fantasising about coming all over my tits right now.
