Page 10

Chapter 10

Charlie

O uch. I wake up face down, feeling like someone took a jackhammer to my skull. My mouth tastes like something died in it. My eyeballs hurt. Still fully dressed. I groan and peel my face off the pillow, barely cracking one eye open to squint at my watch. 5:45. In the morning. Jesus. Why am I awake?

And then—

Oh god.

The drinks. The karaoke.

The kiss .

I fucking kissed Brodie MacRae.

Not just kissed him. I grabbed him. Pulled his massive hand between my legs like some sex-starved lunatic. And I knew what I was doing. No doubts, no hesitation. I wanted it. Wanted him . The way he felt against me… Hot, solid, overwhelming. The way he touched me. As if he couldn’t help himself. As if he wanted me as badly. As if he was seconds from sinking his thick fingers inside me right there against the door, from giving me exactly what I was begging for.

But he… What did he say again? My brain stutters, wading through the alcohol still sloshing around my system. Something about me being drunk. Him being drunk. And how when he finally fucks me, he wants me to remember it.

Oh, mighty Jesus.

I roll onto my back and slap both hands over my face. My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on a wool sock. Tongue is too dry, too thick. Full-body ache. I prop myself up, and everything shifts in a sickening lurch. My insides revolt. The booze, yeah – but it’s not the only thing making me churn.

It’s everything else.

Unprofessional. Completely, unforgivably unprofessional.

This isn’t me. I’m tough, controlled, clever. I’m in charge. I don’t do this. I don’t make impulsive, irresponsible decisions. I don’t get off my face and throw myself at clients like I’m starring in some low-budget office porn. I don’t go off the rails.

Except I did.

All the above.

And if I’m really honest with myself, it was bound to happen. I had it coming. Of course, the instant I let myself loosen – just a little, just for one night – all the shit I’d been holding back came pouring out at once.

For almost five months, I’ve been charging through at full speed. No breaks. No processing. No time to feel anything because the minute I slowed down, it would all crash in.

As it just did.

I never took a moment to grieve the cheating. The humiliation of ending my engagement in the public eye. The betrayal by my father, who should have supported me. The sheer panic of leaving the nest. Walking away from my old life, Harrington Sports, the legacy I was meant to take over. Selling my London flat, scraping together my savings, begging and convincing investors to take a chance on me. Relocating to Edinburgh. Buying out Henderson’s. Building Elite Edge from the ground up, working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely functioning…

And last night, my body and brain finally called it.

So maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked. This was inevitable. It doesn’t make last night any less mortifying, though.

I groan again, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and—

Trip over my own fucking shoes.

A table lamp hits the carpet with a loud thud. My ankle smacks into something hard, my arms windmilling as I try and fail not to face-plant onto the floor.

I push up onto my knees, wincing as the spike drills through my temple and pulses right in time with the pounding behind my forehead. My dress is twisted, riding up my hips, and the sheer effort of wearing it feels like too much. I mumble some half-formed curse and yank the thing off. I fumble for anything on the chair beside the bed. First thing my fingers grab is soft. I haul it on and barely register the faint, clean smell still hanging in the fabric.

All I care about is water.

I stagger to the bathroom, muttering profanities as I go. Turn the tap on. Drink straight from the faucet, swallowing down mouthful after mouthful.

And then—

Knock, knock.

‘Hey. You okay?’

No. No, no, no, no.

Brodie. Right outside my room. I clamp my lids shut. If I’m very, very quiet, he might go away.

Another knock, firmer this time. ‘I know you’re in there, Charlie. I heard a bang. Are you okay?’

I croak and shuffle to the door, yanking it open with a miserable scowl before he can wake up the entire hotel with his baritone.

He stands there, rumpled and disgustingly well-rested, in a plain white tee and grey joggers that shouldn’t look that good. But of course, they do. Everything on him looks fabulous.

His pupils widen when he sees me. ‘You know what they say?’

‘Hngh?’ That’s all I’ve got. I have no words. No thoughts. No brain function.

He lifts his chin, eyes dark and amused. ‘Wear the shirt, try the player.’

I blink. Slow. Wait. What?

I glance down, and a jolt fires through my chest.

Big. Loose. Hem at mid-thigh. Crisp scent clinging to it.

Oh shit.

I’m indeed wearing a rugby shirt. His rugby shirt.

His fucking shirt. Yeah, makes sense. I packed a bunch of signed #10 shirts for photo ops and giveaways.

‘Try the player how?’ I sound squeaky and scratchy.

His mouth kicks up at the corner. ‘Do I really have to ex—’

And then I stumble back and dive for the toilet, about to vomit up my entire goddamn soul.

The second my knees hit the cold tiles, there’s a sick pull behind my ribs. I gag once, and barely get the lid up before I’m retching. The room tilts and spins like a washing machine on high, and somewhere far, far away, I hear the bathroom door open.

Sweat beads along my hairline, cold and slick against my skin. I wave a weak, pathetic hand in the general direction of the door. ‘Go away.’

But instead of obeying like a decent person, he crouches beside me. A wall of muscle and quiet warmth, right there. A large hand sweeps my hair back, gathering the tangled mess and holding it firm, fingers settling against the nape of my neck.

His voice – low, calm, far too gentle – lands somewhere behind my ear. ‘Easy, Champ. I’ve got you.’

Kill me now.

I press my forehead against the rim as another wave heaves through me, acid burning my gullet. There is no lower point in my entire career – hell, my entire life – than this moment. And that includes the break-up. A public relations professional, CEO of an agency…throwing up into a hotel toilet with my highest-profile client rubbing soothing circles into my back.

I should be utterly humiliated.

But weirdly… I’m not. At least not as much. He’s steady, sure of himself, like looking after me is his calling. It shouldn’t be. I’m his bloody agent, not his responsibility.

‘You’re a menace, you know that?’ Brodie murmurs, his breath grazing my temple.

I mutter something unintelligible and spit into the bowl. Probably the last of my credibility and authority.

His huge thigh braces against my side, steadying me. ‘I’ve never met someone who could drink a rugby player almost one-and-a-half times their size under the table.’

My stomach keeps twisting. But again, not from the alcohol.

I know that at some point last night, he made sure I wasn’t drinking anything with actual alcohol in it. Far too late, obviously, but still.

He let me win.

The most competitive man who’s ever graced the earth – well, except maybe Michael Jordan – wants me to believe that I won a silly drinking contest when we both know I didn’t.

Why?

Brodie pulls his hand away, leaving behind a warmth that settles in and stays. The tap runs. Then a damp flannel appears in my periphery, chilled but not cold.

‘Here. Forehead or neck?’

‘Neck.’

Another convulsion racks me. Jesus. I grip the porcelain, burning up from the inside out, but Brodie simply adjusts his hold. Unshakable.

‘Why…are you…’

The next heave brings up nothing but bitterness. I sag against the cistern, temples throbbing.

‘Because you’d do the same for me,’ he answers my half-asked question. ‘Because you’re not the only one who needed to cut loose. And because someone should remind you it’s allowed.’

Silence stretches, broken only by the drip of the shower head. He cradles my skull – one broad palm cupping my crown, the other pressing the cool cloth to my nape.

‘Breathe.’ He kneads gentle pressure into my scalp with his thumbs. ‘In through the nose. Out through the mouth.’

I want to bite him. But I’m too weak. So, I obey.

His breath matches mine, steady as a metronome. The rhythm unravels the knots between my shoulders. My eyelids droop.

‘Aye, that’s it.’ His lips almost brush my ear, sending a traitorous shiver through me.

Slowly, gradually, I give in. My body eases against his. The warmth of him seeps into my skin. His touch is hypnotic and grounding, undoing me in ways I don’t even have words for. I let my cheek rest against his arm. Let his hands smooth over my hair. Let him hold me.

Too easy, that letting.

He threads his fingers through the strands, stroking absently. ‘Think you’re done here, Champ?’

I’m heavy. Utterly fucked. Bone-deep tired. ‘Yeah.’

Brodie shifts and rises, joints cracking. Before I can protest, before I can even think, he scoops me up and tucks me against his chest. My muscles stiffen with instinctive resistance. I don’t get carried. I’ve been holding myself up for months, gritting my teeth through every blow, hauling my own body forward step after step.

But his arms settle around me, and my pulse trips.

It doesn’t feel like being handled. It doesn’t feel like being rescued.

It feels like being supported.

Instead of telling me to push through, he lifts the weight for a little while. The fight slips out of me, and I curl my fingers into the cotton of his T-shirt.

Then I let him carry me straight to bed.

I probably should say something. About yesterday. About what we did. What I did. About how my body still remembers the feel of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my jaw, the weight of his hands…

But I can’t.

He tucks me in as if he’s done this a hundred times before. No hesitation as he pulls the duvet over my shoulders, pressing out the air between me and the rest of the world.

I should be resisting. Asserting control. But my muscles don’t get the memo. My body sinks, lids already shut.

So what if I let this happen? For a few hours. Until my body stops screaming at me.

Brodie doesn’t move. He sits there, arms on his thighs, watching me like I might spook if he so much as sneezes. ‘We should talk about last night.’

I meet his gaze. ‘We should.’

‘But not now. You’ve got enough to deal with as it is.’ A pause. ‘But don’t think I’ll let it slide.’

A breath leaves me, too shallow to be relief. ‘Didn’t think you would.’

‘Good. I’ll handle your schedule.’

’No.’ I sigh. ‘I need to get up in a bit.’

‘No, you fucking don’t.’

I salvage what little dignity I have left. ‘Yes. I do. We have an event later. Rugby kids—’

‘—at a local community club,’ he finishes. ‘Nothing that can’t happen without you. No reporters, no worries. I’ll be fine.’

‘It’s work,’ I argue and shove a hand over my eyes.

‘And this…’ he gestures at me, a shell of a human being bundled under the covers, ‘…is what happens when you don’t let yourself rest.’

His voice is calm, but something in it sticks. Something that lands deep in my ribs and lingers. I force my eyes open. ‘I don’t have time to rest.’

‘How long have you been running at this speed?’

I don’t reply.

‘I mean it, Harrington. How long?’

A muscle in my jaw tenses.

He nods, like that’s answer enough. ‘So what, you finally slamming the brakes last night is just a coincidence?’

‘I was drunk.’

‘You’re exhausted. And since you’ve clearly forgotten how to pace yourself, I’m stepping in.’

I glare at him. ‘That’s not how this works, MacRae. You don’t get to decide what I do with my day simply because I had one rough night. You’re not the boss of me. I’m the boss of you!’

His brows lift, unimpressed. ‘Not today. Charlie, you didn’t have one rough night. You’ve been running on fumes for ages. Pretending it’s fine, pretending you can keep going. Last night was the final crack.’

He leans in, forearms braced on his knees. Rugby scars. A silver slash along his thumb I’ve never noticed.

‘You wouldn’t let an athlete train without recovery time, would you? You’d call it reckless and unsustainable. But that’s exactly what you’re doing to yourself.’

The words sink in before I can block them. A nerve hit dead-on.

‘I’m not an athlete,’ I mutter weakly.

‘No,’ he agrees. ‘You’re the whole damn team.’

I look away, but it doesn’t stop his words from finding their mark.

‘And since you’re my agent,’ he continues, that impossible, steady conviction rolling through every syllable, ‘and I literally can’t afford to lose you, you’re going to take the day off.’

I swallow hard and don’t say anything. But I don’t exactly fight it, either.

‘Good. I’m going to make sure you get rest.’

Brodie’s phone is already in his hand. He dials.

‘Theo. It’s Brodie. Aye, could you shift whatever’s in Charlie’s calendar for today? Reschedule. She’s fine, she’s just been a stubborn pain in my arse and run herself into the ground. Aye, I’ll tell her. You’re a star. Cheers, love.’ He hangs up and tosses the phone onto the nightstand like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just pull me out of my entire day with a single phone call.

‘You—’

‘Handled it. Theo thinks a break’s overdue and said to keep you in bed.’ He stands, stretching like the conversation is already over. ‘Now, you sleep. I’ll be back with Irn Bru, paracetamol, and food.’

I should argue. Tell him I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. But I merely watch as he heads for the door, pausing only to glance over his shoulder.

‘This,’ he declares, ‘is Charlie Harrington’s day off.’

I swallow sourness and what’s left of my pride. ‘Aye, aye, Capt’n.’

The door closes, and silence floods in from all sides.

I stare at the ceiling. I should feel better. Lighter. Grateful. But instead, something quiet curls in the hollow space he left behind. And I don’t know if it’s shame, the hangover, exhaustion, or something much, much worse.