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Charlie

‘I still can’t believe you killed a cactus,’ Brodie mumbles, glancing over his shoulder from the stove. ‘Who does that?’

He’s wearing my shirt like it was made for him.

Which, to be fair, it was.

It’s black and gold, ‘Harrington’ in bold letters across the back with the number one below. Of course, it’s a cheeky, silly joke. But I thought it was a cute Christmas gift. Brodie thought so, too. It’s unfair how good he looks in it. Enough that I almost forget he’s roasting me.

I lean against the counter and make a face. ‘It died alone in my office. I didn’t kill it. It…gave up.’

‘Because you neglected it. You don’t get a plant and leave it to fend for itself.’

‘That’s what plants do! They sit there and survive. I didn’t know it needed emotional support.’

He shakes his head and keeps stirring the sauce.

‘Oh, don’t give me that ‘tude,’ I zing, arching a brow. ‘People follow you on Instagram because of your sexy forearms, not your horticultural expertise, Plant Daddy .’

He lets out a laugh that rocks his shoulders, then turns around and tips the pan to let me see the meatballs simmering in sauce. ‘Aye, well. The plants don’t know that, do they? They like being admired.’

‘Same, honestly.’ I throw him a wicked look when he rolls his eyes. I stretch out my legs, toes grazing the floor. The kitchen smells like garlic and tomatoes, warm and comforting.

Like home.

Which reminds me… There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him.

It’s Hogmanay, but instead of partying it out at the Sin 3