Page 12

Chapter 12

Charlie

T he bridge to Skye rises ahead, a sleek arc over the steel-blue sea leading toward mist-dusted mountains. The road narrows as we climb, the guardrails disappearing into open sky. A good place to clear my head.

Not that it’s working.

Brodie’s driving, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the gearstick. He’s humming to the radio, utterly at ease. Every so often, he flicks me a glance, checking in without saying a word.

And I don’t know how to deal with it.

I don’t know how to deal with him .

Somewhere between him holding my hair back while I puked out my dignity, going to that event alone, then coming straight back to take care of me – something seriously changed.

His hand grazes my knee every time he shifts gears, and I leave it right where it is, so he doesn’t miss it.

I thought I knew what I was getting with Brodie MacRae. Brutally ambitious. Obnoxiously cocky. Hot temper. Impossible to control.

But this? The patience. The quiet steadiness beneath all that bluster. The way he lets me be imperfect – not just allows it, but accepts it – like it’s not something I have to apologise for?

I’ve never had that.

Callum was nice. Or so I thought. I also thought I loved him. But with him, I think I was always performing to an extent. Always shaping myself into the right kind of girlfriend. Callum never… Callum preferred me polished. And for my father, I had to be the right kind of daughter, the right kind of businesswoman, the right kind of heir to his sports management empire.

Fucking exhausting is what it was.

Brodie doesn’t want a performance, and that’s a lot for a girl like me.

The real gut punch, though?

He said he wants to meet Hannah.

No hesitation. No polite nod and change of subject. Just straight-up wanting to know her, be part of that side of my life. It’s cracking through a place I’ve kept bolted shut.

Tyres hum. My pulse skitters in my wrists. I stare out at the road as we descend the bridge onto the island. Past Kyleakin, the land unfolds in dramatic sweeps. In the distance, Cuillin peaks pierce low clouds. They move fast here, chasing shadows across the hills.

Beside me, Brodie reaches into the centre console and grabs a roll of Polos. He pops one in his mouth and holds them out.

I shake my head.

‘Suit yourself.’ He crunches down. ‘Still bitter about the song game?’

‘You had an unfair advantage. Most of those songs were from the nineties, and you grew up with two older brothers.’

‘Excuses.’ He drums against the steering wheel, smirking. ‘But you won Yellow Car.’

‘Damn right, I did. Your reaction speed is tragic for a professional athlete.’

‘Maybe I was going easy on you.’

The laugh that comes out of me isn’t pretty, but it’s real. Unguarded. This is easy. Being with him is insanely easy.

We stopped for food in Glencoe earlier. One of those places with wooden beams, mounted stag heads, and an open fire. He stole chips off my plate, told me about his ambition to be the best fly-half of the decade. His dream of leading Scotland to a Six Nations victory, but also building something real with the Rebels. Something lasting.

I loved listening to him talk like that. Loved how his face lit up when he wasn’t playing it cool.

I love—

I slam the brakes on that thought.

I can’t fall for Brodie MacRae.

He’s my biggest client. The entire future of Elite Edge depends on getting his career off the ground again. If I let myself slip, if I let myself want him the way I do, it endangers everything we’ve built so far.

Everything I want to prove.

One night, one moment of weakness, and I was face-down in a hotel bed instead of at that event.

It mustn’t happen again.

But it’s not only that.

It’s also what would happen after.

It starts with a spark. Then a rush. Promises that feel real. And eventually, it turns. Like a tide pulling back. It wouldn’t even be his fault. Rugby comes first. It always does. It’s in his bones, the same way it was in Callum’s. Probably even more. And when the season ramps up, when the stakes get higher, when the demands of the game start pressing in…

I know how this ends. Slowly, inevitably, I become a footnote in someone else’s ambition. And if I let that happen again – if I let it be Brodie – I won’t recover.

I can’t. No more athletes. No more rugby players. My agency comes first.

I set my shoulders, eyes on the road ahead. We’ve got one more event tomorrow morning – a promo gig at another Dal Riata distillery – before we head back to Stirling. I have to keep my distance until then.

No lingering glances. No offhand smiles. No thinking about how his hands felt under my dress. Not remembering the low warmth in his voice when he said he wanted to meet my sister.

Not only can I do this, I have to.

But I don’t have to like it.

Portree is packed. Skye is a tourist magnet, which means the B&B is buzzing with the sort of people who wear waterproof trousers and maps. It’s half eight, but the reception’s still open. I step up to the desk, stifling a yawn. Brodie leans against the counter beside me, all broad shoulders and wind-ruffled hair, thumbing lazily at his screen like he isn’t about to collapse from exhaustion after hours of driving.

The receptionist squints at the computer in front of her. ‘Ah, yes. Harrington and MacRae. Booked under Elite Edge.’

Relief unfurls in my chest. Thank god for Theo.

But then the woman hesitates with a scrunched-up face, and my relief dies a sudden death. That’s never a good sign.

She clicks around, pressing her lips together. ‘Looks like there was a mix-up with the rooms.’

I stiffen. ‘What kind of mix-up?’

The typing stops. She glances up and winces. ‘We had you down for two rooms, but I’m afraid all that’s left is a queen-sized double on the top floor.’

I inhale sharply.

Next to me, Brodie swears under his breath. Half grunt, half muttered curse.

‘Excuse me, but how’s this possible?’

‘If it was booked through a travel platform, sometimes the room inventory isn’t updated in real-time. I’m so, so sorry.’ The receptionist shrugs, clearly frazzled. ‘We’ve been overbooked all week. I just checked every other hotel in the area. Nothing left. Skye in early September, what can you do? If you want, I can get you a couple of extra blankets and drinks on the house?’

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Brilliant.

Brodie exhales. Not a sigh, exactly. Just this stoic release of a man who isn’t going to make this easier for me.

‘Not the end of the world,’ he says.

I glare at him. ‘You’re six foot two.’ I turn back to the receptionist. ‘Are you a thousand per cent sure there’s nothing else?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not unless you fancy sleeping in the drawing room.’

I hiss a breath out through my teeth and don’t look at him. It’s past nine, I’m knackered.

‘We’ll take it.’

The receptionist hands us the key. I snatch it before Brodie can, grab my suitcase, and head for the stairs.

The second I push open the door to our room, I stop dead. So does Brodie. It’s nice enough. Cosy, small window, little desk. The air smells like lavender and old books. Cute.

But the bed?

A queen-sized vintage metal frame bed sits in the middle of the room. Looks as though it belongs in a gran’s spare, right down to the white throw and patterned pillows. Delicate and decorative, guaranteed to squeak if you so much as cough on it.

Brodie drops his bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. ‘Christ.’ His voice is far too amused for my liking. ‘This’ll be fun.’

I cut him a dry look. He lifts one shoulder, eyes flicking to the bed, then to me, then back to the bed. Like he’s weighing something up.

Okay, yeah. We’ve already snogged like horny teenagers. Which was ill-judged enough. But sharing a bed means something else. Something I’m not ready to name, let alone risk.

I fold my arms. ‘I’ll take the floor.’

Brodie scoffs. ‘Don’t be daft. I’ll take it.’

‘You’ve got a match in two weeks.’

‘You’re the one who’s still crawling out of the hangover hole.’

We stare each other down, silent, the air between us brimming. He’s standing too close. I can smell him. Salt, the faintest trace of whatever soap he took from the hotel, and underneath it all…Brodie.

My stomach tenses, and I pull my arms in tight. I am not making the same mistake twice.

He rubs the back of his neck. ‘We’ll both fit. It’s only a few hours of sleep, Harrington.’

Oh, sure. Just sleep. As if that’s all it would be. As if I wouldn’t be hyper-aware of every carved inch of him. As if my body wouldn’t remember the feel of his calloused hands, the scratch of his stubble.

‘Yeah, fine.’

But it’s not fine. Not even close. And we both know it.

I yank open my suitcase and dig through it with far too much intensity for someone who is getting ready for bed. I only have a strap-top and matching shorts. Far too sexy, far too dangerous. So, I grab his rugby shirt. That’ll do.

I grip the fabric, turn…and immediately regret everything.

Because Brodie – entirely too much man for this tiny room – has yanked off his hoodie, and his T-shirt with it. No undershirt or any other barrier. Bare golden skin, cut from years of tackles and scrums, stretching over thick shoulders and a chest that looks like it was forged in a blacksmith’s daydream.

I don’t stare.

I absolutely don’t stare.

Except for the moment his abs shift, going tight as he shoves a hand through his hair like it’s no big deal, and – Jesus, Mary, and all the saints – his biceps. They flex, and suddenly the temperature in the room spikes to hellfire.

I snap my gaze back to my suitcase, grab something, spin on my heel, bolt into the bathroom, and lock the door.

I take longer than usual. Brush my teeth, wash my face, do the entire nighttime routine I usually skip when travelling.

I’m not walking back into that room until I’ve composed myself and he’s dressed.

Brodie MacRae looks too fucking good without a T-shirt.

And now I have to share a tiny metal-frame bed with him.

Eventually, I can’t delay any longer. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and step out.

He’s already sprawled out on one side of the bed, propped up against the rail frame, in boxers and a worn Nirvana tee that’s holding on by sheer loyalty at this point, scrolling on his phone without a care in the world.

He lifts his eyes. ‘Took you long enough.’

‘Didn’t realise I was on a timer.’

‘Didn’t think you’d need hours to put on jammies and brush your teeth.’ He tosses his phone onto the bedside cabinet.

I march over, grab two extra pillows, and plonk them right between us in the middle of the bed. A line in the sand.

Brodie watches me, expression unreadable, but his gaze falters for a second. A hesitation. He grinds his jaw once. Biting something back. His fingers drum once against his quad before he stills them. Like he’s making a decision. He reaches for his phone and deliberately turns it off. No scrolling. No distractions. Just silence.

I don’t know why that makes my stomach flip. I don’t know why it feels like some kind of restraint, as if he’s holding himself back as much as I am.

He brushes his teeth and comes back within three minutes. I crawl into the squeaky bed and lie down, yank the duvet over me, and stare daggers at the ceiling. It’s not the bed or the warmth radiating off his body. It’s the fact that every nerve in me is screaming to roll over, sink my teeth into his shoulder, and let him fuck me apart until I forget why I swore I’d never touch another rugby player again.

‘Night, MacRae.’

‘Night, Harrington.’

I wake to heat.

To the slow push and pull of his breath against my hair. To the weight of his arm slung low over my waist, his palm resting flat over my navel. And for a long, frozen moment, I don’t move.

At some point in the night, the two pillows I’d barricaded between us gave up and wandered to the foot of the bed.

This quiet intimacy is more dangerous than anything that could’ve happened when we were awake.

I should ease away. Should break the contact, should remind us both that this is not what we do. Instead, I lie there and stare into the dark. Only until my heart stops clawing at my ribs. It’s safe here. In the hush before morning, before words and choices and regret. Before I have to remember what’s at stake.

His fingers curl slightly, just enough that I feel it. His chest is moulded to my back, broad and warm, his muscled thigh slotted between mine in a way that should make me bolt. Should make me shove him off, retreat, stop whatever the hell this is before it starts.

But it’s already too late, isn’t it?

Brodie MacRae isn’t careful. Not with his words, not with his temper, not with anything. But here, in sleep, he is.

And that does something awful to me.

His fingertips dig into my belly for a split second, and I know he’s waking up. This is my chance to move. My chance to salvage what’s left of my control before—

He makes a sound. An almost pained exhale against the back of my neck. Like he’s trying not to pull me closer.

And that’s what has my throat closing up, my chest twisting in on itself.

I know what that sound means.

It means this isn’t just me.

It means I’m not the only one barely holding it together.

I close my eyes, but it’s pointless. There’s no escaping the way my pulse flares beneath his hand, the way I can feel him forcing himself still. He’s trying to be good.

I stay. Just for another moment. Just until morning comes and I can put it back in the box and lock the lid.

But deep down, I know. Morning won’t change a damn thing.

I already feel myself losing.

I am so gone for Brodie.

His palm is hot, branding me through the fabric. His fingers spread, enough to send a warning – he could grip. He could hold. He could lower and… Jesus. Need pulses where I’m already aching, because I remember how it felt when he eased that same hand under my dress, got me whimpering into his mouth like I had no shame.

His breath is speeding up, each exhale hotter against my neck. My nipples pebble, yearning for his mouth, his hands. A broken sigh lodges in my throat. It would take nothing – nothing – for him to move those fingers lower. To find me wet. Waiting for him.

And I think he knows it.

I don’t mean to move.

But his thigh is right there. Powerful, sculpted, heat-etched muscle wedged flush between my legs, and when I shift – the tiniest bit – a jagged shock rolls through me. My breath catches and breaks. I tense around him instinctively, seeking more.

And then I do it again. Testing. A tiny rock forward, enough pressure to feel the heavy drag against my clit. Enough to make a flush of tension knot deep in my belly and my pulse jerk.

I seal my mouth on a gasp that would give me away, drowning in the way it feels. The way he feels.

His chest presses harder against my back, breath fraying at the edges, fingers twitching below my navel.

He’s awake.

Waiting to see if I’ll do it again.

And I do. I can’t help it.

It feels so good.

So good I can’t stop.

A groan rips from him, straight from the chest. ‘You really gonna do this to me, Charlie?’ He presses his hand against my stomach. ‘Gonna ride my fucking thigh, all wet and needy, and expect me to just lie here? Expect me to be good? To not flip you over, spread you out, and bury my tongue in you till you’re begging for my cock?’

He exhales hard, forehead resting against the crown of my head. ‘Tell me right now if this is just you getting yourself off. If you need to use me – fuck, baby, I’ll let you. I’ll take it, if that’s what you want.’ A pause, a sharp, shaky inhale. ‘But if this is you giving in – if this is you wanting me the way I want you… Then say the word. Say it, and I’ll make you come so hard you forget every single reason you tried to resist me.’

I don’t breathe. Can’t.

Because my body isn’t my own anymore.

Brodie’s words settle low in my stomach. They curl hot into the apex of my thighs, creep up my spine, wrap tight around my lungs until I’m shaking.

I’ve never – never – had a man say something like that. Offer himself up like a prayer.

He wants this.

Wants me.

He’s been thinking about me. Wanting me.

And my brain can’t handle it. Can’t process the way his voice cracked. I should shove him away, tell him this can’t happen, remind myself that I have rules, boundaries.

But his leg is dense and hard and right fucking there.

And his voice is still ringing in my ears.

And my body is already betraying me.

Because I rock against him harder. A strangled noise punches out of me, too hot, too desperate. Because fuck, riding his thigh feels forbidden and good. Too damn good.

And then…

He moves his palm lower.

And I know what’s going to happen. This will break me later. I know that. But right now? I need this. Him.

So, fuck it.

‘Yes… Please.’ I bite my lip.

And I do it again.