That chiselled chest.
The way those fucking shorts hug his granite glutes.
My mind is made up.
I’m going to fuck Ronan Rivers.
And the sooner the better.
The buzzing of my phone steals my attention. I tut at the interruption, fumbling in my handbag to silence it, but one look at the screen has me swiping to answer instead.
My agent, Cassandra Steele, never calls unless it’s urgent. And given it’s the weekend, I assume it’s something serious.
I stand, moving towards the changing rooms and away from my kids who are squealing at Ronan in his smoking scarlet shorts.
‘Savannah,’ Cassandra rasps with the voice of a woman who smokes forty fags a day. ‘I’ve got some big news. Inkwell Imprints have reached out. They want you to write another book on parenting solo, especially with divorce rates higher than they’ve ever been.,’
‘They do?’ You couldn’t make it up. The second I decide to end my celibacy, in rolls an offer I can’t refuse.
‘ThinkSingle Sav’s Guide to Winging Working and Whining Kids,’ Cassandra booms. I imagine her hand gesticulating wildly, like the title is written in the stars in the sky.
‘So, they want me to write a book about work life balance for parents?’ I clarify.
‘No, they want you to write a guide specifically for single mothers like you.’ I flinch. ‘How to work without feeling guilty. How to decide on a creche versus a childminder at home. How to make these decisions solo. Throw in some practical tips, maybe mindfulness or journaling or something, that shit is really popular these days, although why, I have no idea. I barely have time to work, let alone parent, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon,’ she cackles.
‘I guess I could do it…’ My heart isn’t in it. My heart is somewhere else.
I told you I can’t differentiate between sex and emotions, and there hasn’t even been any sex.
‘Youguess?’ Cassandra’s tone is incredulous. ‘Inkwell is offering a huge advance, generous royalties, and a countrywide book tour.’
I sigh.
The universe is conspiring against me.
How can I write, let alone promote, a book about being a single parent if I’m not one?
But then again, Ronan doesn’t want to date me. He wants to fuck me, apparently. Obsessed or not, he’s a player and I’d be a fool to forget it.
It’s not even midday and I could do with a drink.
By the time Cassandra runs through the brief, the stipulations, and the contract offer, the twins’ lesson is almost over.
I glance at the clock as I rush back to take my seat, hoping for even a couple of minutes alone with Ronan but his next pupil and her parents arrived before Isla and Eden were even out of the pool.
Ronan bids my daughters goodbye with high fives before turning to me. ‘I’ll text you a time for tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’ I bolt out of the door before I do something stupid like beg him to come over tonight. Then again, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I have somewhere else I need to be.
Tonight marks the official opening of my friend Holly’s Dublin-based art gallery. She already has two galleries in the States, but given how much time she and her movie star husband, Nate Jackson, spend on Irish soil, it made sense thatthey have somewhere this side of the Atlantic to showcase her paintings.
I knew it was going to be a lavish affair, but the old, refurbished church is a work of art itself. A high vaulted ceiling soars above my head, and evening sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the polished concrete floors.
Huge oil-based portraits have been carefully suspended from the exposed brick walls, many of which capture the image of Holly’s handsome husband. It’s not hard to work out why the Hollywood movie star is her muse. I can’t paint the wall, let alone a portrait, but with dark hair, startling green eyes, and a jaw that could cut glass, I’d be inspired to paint Nate too.
In a red, backless, full-length Gabriela Hearst dress and with a glass of champagne in my hand, I look and feel more like Single Sav than I have done all week. The publishing contract is a gift horse. I’d be a fool to turn it down. I’ve worked too hard to fuck things up for a flash in the pan. If it got out that I’d had sex with Ronan Rivers, Dublin’s magnetic manwhore, it would ruin my brand.
Ashley is my date tonight. Matt is once again ‘working on his novel’ and I, for one, am delighted not to be the only one here flying solo.
