Page 4

Chapter 4

Charlie

T he engine purrs like a panther as I gun it down the M9. My Maserati Grecale Trofeo – the only thing I kept from my old life in London. I love that car. Makes me feel safe and powerful, in control, no matter where I’m headed.

The morning light gleams over the Kelpies, two colossal steel horse heads rising out of the ground. I’ve been awake since five, drafting contracts and rescheduling meetings because a certain rugby player can’t manage basic timekeeping and is as reliable as the Scottish weather.

Let’s face it: I’m a babysitter. I’m babysitting a six-foot-two, sixteen-stone toddler with stubble and a grudge the size of Scotland.

Fuck my life.

Half an hour later, I’m rolling past Duncraig’s houses, their blonde sandstone frowning in the morning chill. Brodie’s address gleams on my phone screen. Willowbank Crescent. Cosy and quaint.

As if.

The morning fog hasn’t fully lifted here yet, wreathing the street in milky shadows. Perfect weather for murder. And if he’s not ready for this cooking show appearance, murder is precisely what’s going to happen.

I shove the gear stick into park outside Brodie’s terraced house. Twenty minutes early because I don’t trust him as far as I could throw his irritatingly muscled body.

My phone buzzes. Theo.

‘Studio’s ready. Hair and makeup waiting. Please tell me he’s awake.’

‘We’ll find out.’ I check my lipstick in the rear-view. ‘If not, I’m dragging him there in his Spider-Man panties or SpongeBob jammies. I don’t care.’

‘I have no doubt,’ she says. ‘Good luck with broody Brodie, boss.’

I hang up and march up his front path, heels clicking against stone. His BMW M4 Competition xDrive gleams in the driveway.

Tight ride, MacRae. I’ll give you that.

The house is decent enough. Red sandstone, black door, tidy garden. Came with the Rebels contract, furnished and all. Perks of being captain. Most of the team is stuck flat-sharing in Duncraig — Knox Everett Montgomery’s experiment. Five years ago, the Canadian billionaire showed up, looking for his Scottish roots. He took one glance at the struggling former mining town and threw his money at it. New jobs, new tourism, and the Stirling Rebels, complete with a 5,000-seater stadium. Better than building a rocket, I guess.

One sharp knock. Two. The sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

The lock clicks. The door swings inward.

My lungs collapse.

Brodie leans against the frame. Shirtless and sleep-mussed. Morning light gilds the ridges of his abs. A trail of dark hair arrows down, disappearing beneath the waistband that sits indecently low on his hips. And–

Oh.

Those briefs hide exactly nothing.

My throat closes up. This is inappropriate. This is out of line. This is…

A big problem. Literally.

‘You’re early, Harrington.’ That lazy Scottish drawl, all rough edges and sleep-thick heat, could probably charm the knickers off someone who wasn’t me.

I drag my gaze up, slow and deliberate, taking in way too much before I get to his face. My throat goes sandpaper-dry. Jesus.

‘And you’re still naked,’ I say.

The corner of his mouth pulls up with the hint of an arrogant smile. ‘If I were naked, you wouldn’t still be standing here.’

Heat surges up my neck, swift and humiliating. I want to slap that self-satisfied look clean off his stubbled face. Maybe then I’d stop thinking about what’s in those briefs.

I grasp for composure. The flex of his biceps as he scrubs a hand through freshly trimmed hair. My directive. He actually listened. Shorter on the sides, long enough on top to run your fingers through.

‘At least you followed one instruction.’ I push past him into the house, refusing to let my arm touch his bare torso. ‘Now put some clothes on. We’re leaving in ten.’

‘Fifteen.’

I spin to face him and immediately regret it. Because sweet Jesus, he’s all lean muscle and sculpted strength, built to take a hit and keep moving. Tall enough to make me feel small even in heels.

Callum was fit, sure. But this? This is different.

I grew up around athletes. I’ve seen them dressed, half-dressed, in gear, in ice baths. Brodie MacRae is something else. It’s not just the body, it’s the restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. The reality-bending willpower. His whole presence.

I steady my breath, chin lifting like that’ll help. ‘Ten, MacRae.’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Nine, now.’

He stretches, muscles shifting like it’s all for show. ‘Coffee first,’ he grumbles.

‘No time.’

‘Then I’m not going.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Eight minutes. Tick-tock.’

He disappears upstairs, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush. I lean against his wall, pressing my forehead to the cool plaster.

Get it together, Charlie.

The lounge is a bombsite. Rugby kits strewn across a battered sofa, PlayStation, a massive flatscreen paused on Match of the Day . I nudge a stray boot. This room tells me nothing. Blank walls, generic furniture, the kind that screams ‘furnished rental property’. A bushy basil plant on the windowsill, an extraordinarily green rubber plant, and a Benjamin Fig that looks like it’s never shed a single leaf in its life. No other personal touches except…

Wait.

A cluster of frames on the mantel catches my eye. Brodie, younger, grinning with two other lads who share his dark hair and sharp features. Brothers, clearly. In another photo, a stern-faced man with Brodie’s build stands beside a petite woman whose smile could light up Glasgow. His dad looks like the type who’d push his sons to excel. To compete. To prove themselves.

Explains a lot.

More photos. Rugby matches. Trophies. Medals. The visual timeline of a career built on innate talent and relentless drive. Even with the Knights, Brodie was notorious for staying late, pushing harder, and demanding more. From himself, from everyone. Natural ability wasn’t enough, he had to dominate.

Footsteps thunder down the stairs. I turn away from the photos. Brodie emerges in dark jeans and a grey Henley that stretches across his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms.

Keep focusing, Charlie .

‘Finally.’ I dangle my keys. ‘My car.’

‘Not a fat chance.’ He grabs his BMW fob. ‘I don’t need a chauffeur.’

‘And I don’t trust you not to conveniently get lost on the way to the studio,’ I say.

A breath grates out through his gritted teeth. ‘I said I’d do it.’

‘You also said you’d answer my calls.’ I edge forward. ‘Get in the car, MacRae.’

‘On one condition.’ For a beat, he glowers at me. Unyielding. I stare back. Then he snatches the keys from my hand.

‘I’m driving,’ he declares. ‘Need to see if that Maserati’s all show or if there’s something real under the hood.’

I fold my arms, squaring off with him. ‘You’re not prepared for what she can do.’

‘Bet I am.’

‘Ah, I wouldn’t use that particular word if I were you.’ I smile intentionally sweetly, but there’s a sting in my words.

He slants a look in my direction, and I hesitate, weighing the pros and cons.

‘Okay, fine,’ I give in. ‘This once.’

Honestly, the things I do for my clients.

The Maserati purrs to life under his touch and he seems…pleased. The leather seat cradles me as he adjusts everything – mirrors, seat position, temperature. His scent fills the car. Clean, sharp, maddeningly masculine. My body lights up like it’s been flipped on at the mains.

I cross my legs and press my thighs together. This is ridiculous.

‘Stop touching everything,’ I snap.

‘Stop being a control freak.’

He says it like it’s a character flaw. And yeah, perhaps I am too controlling. But with guys like him, it’s the only way to survive. If I let him get away with even one thing, he’ll bulldoze right over me. He’s too used to being the biggest, baddest guy in the room. I can’t afford to be steamrolled, not with so much riding on this.

The success of my entire agency.

And now he’s changing the radio settings.

‘Grubby fingers off my radio! What’s next? You gonna mark your territory?’

‘I could, if that’s what you’re into.’

I grab my knees, suppressing the urge to wrap my hands around his thick neck. ‘Just drive my car like a normal human, instead of acting like it’s your dick on wheels.’

‘Maybe if you weren’t riding my arse every minute, I wouldn’t have to mark my space.’

The way he says it makes something tingle low in my belly, and I hate him a little bit more for it.

‘Serious case of small dick energy. Classic.’

‘You keep talking to me like that, and we’re gonna have a problem, Harrington,’ he grumbles under his breath.

He pulls out onto the street with unnecessary aggression, the engine growling. My nipples stiffen in response, and I hate how my body doesn’t give a damn that he’s a stubborn prick. I hate how his thigh shifts every time he changes gear, the way his shoulders fill out that shirt like it’s painted on.

I’m supposed to be in charge here, not getting hot over Brodie fucking MacRae.

He tightens his knuckles around the steering wheel, tendons flexing under his skin, but he says nothing. Keeps his eyes on the road, tension welded into every line of his frame. Like he’s holding something back.

We’re possibly going to kill each other before we reach the studio.

If my hormones don’t kill me first.

The studio hunkers in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Stirling, sandwiched between a craft brewery and what looks like an artisan cheese shop. Very hipster. Very YouTube-friendly. The building’s facade has been painted with murals. Inside, fairy lights are strung across exposed beams, and the ‘kitchen’ set is barely bigger than my first flat’s cooking space. Cream cabinets, wooden worktops, copper pots hanging from hooks. It’s meant to feel homely, intimate.

I shoot Brodie a sidelong glance. ‘The woman’s basically the local Mary Berry but with more sass. Her show started out locally on Central Scotland TV, but it’s been blowing up online. 800k views on her last episode.’

A production assistant appears at my side, headset in place. ‘Hair and makeup first, Brodie. A quick touch-up.’

I turn to look at her. So does Brodie. Only my expression is apologetic, and his could strip paint.

‘Not happening,’ he says.

The assistant falters. ‘It’s just some powder—’

‘Not. Happening.’

‘You’re on camera—’

‘I’m not a Kardashian,’ he states grimly.

She looks at me. I look at Brodie. Brodie looks like a man about to walk straight out of the building and into a pub.

‘Jesus Christ, would you stop being such a diva? Studio lights make you look like a deep-fried Mars bar,’ I explain.

He doesn’t move, and my patience is fraying like a worn-out bootlace.

The assistant shifts nervously. ‘It’s literally two minutes.’

‘So is getting knocked out,’ Brodie mutters, loud enough that half the room hears it. ‘Doesn’t mean I’ll volunteer for it.’

I dig my nails into my palm to keep from snapping back. Arrogant, stubborn, insufferable piece of work.

I’m done playing nice. I close the distance, keeping my voice low and lethal. ‘I don’t give a shit if you think you’re too good for this, but if you blow this, it’s my arse on the line. So, pull your head out of it for five fucking minutes.’

Tense silence hums between us. Then a deep, suffering exhale. ‘Fine.’

He stomps off toward the makeup station, drops into the chair, and sits there radiating raging misery while a makeup artist pats his face with a brush like she’s defusing a bomb.

‘This is a joke.’ Brodie’s voice could cut glass. ‘A fucking joke.’

‘Shut up and smile,’ I hiss.

Ailsa emerges from behind the counter, beaming as she wipes her hands on a gingham apron. ‘Brodie MacRae! Welcome to Ailsa’s Kitchen. So thrilled to have you. Thank you for coming.’

Brodie stares at her like she handed him a live grenade. ‘Right. Thrilled.’

Undeterred, Ailsa clasps her hands together. ‘We’re making spaghetti with meatballs today. Your gran’s recipe, actually.’

His entire body goes still. ‘What?’

‘Well, a vegetarian twist on it,’ she clarifies and nods in the direction of the prep station where neat bowls of ingredients wait. ‘We thought it’d be fun. Bit of nostalgia, bit of a challenge. Sound good?’

Brodie’s gaze flicks to the recipe card. A muscle ticks beneath his eye as he picks it up, reading the measurements.

That’s when he turns to me. ‘Was this your idea? Where the fuck did you get this?’

I bristle, irritation needling under my skin. Typical. Immediately assuming I’m out to sabotage him.

‘Research,’ I say. ‘You mentioned it in a Knights interview three years ago. Not exactly state secrets, MacRae.’

The lights catch the sharp planes of his face as he reads, and something shifts in his expression. Something boyish that makes my chest tight. He doesn’t get to look vulnerable when he’s been nothing but a man-child with a mood problem since he walked in.

‘You contacted my mother?’ He asks.

‘Theo did. Your mother told her about your nonna’s recipe. How you’d help make the meatballs every Sunday.’

He turns away, but not before I glimpse that crack in his armour. I try not to feel guilty – or anything at all. I’m not out to torment him, no matter what his paranoid brain seems to think.

His fingers trace the measurements and the instructions. For the length of a breath , he’s somewhere else entirely.

Ailsa bounces over, all sunshine and curls. ‘Ready to start? The ingredients are all prepped.’

‘Aye.’ Grit in his voice. ‘Let’s do this.’

Ailsa hands him the first bowl of ingredients. He blanks for a second, like he’s forgotten how hands work, before he takes it with a muttered ‘ cheers ’ and sets it down with unnecessary force.

He’s expectedly monosyllabic, but Ailsa is a bundle of charm. And Brodie’s transformation is subtle but unmistakable. His stance relaxes by degrees, movements losing that wound-spring tension. When Ailsa asks about the recipe’s origins, his answers flow more easily.

‘Nonna came from Naples in the sixties, met Grandda, and opened a café in Edinburgh.’ His hands work the meatballs with practised ease.

‘And your mum learned from them?’

‘Aye. Every recipe, every trick.’ A ghost of a smile touches his lips. ‘She’d let me help, even when I made a mess of everything.’

Something hot and disobedient unfurls deep behind my navel. This gentle version of Brodie sends warning signals firing through my brain and body.

The studio lights paint his forearms in gold as he works. Those hands that can send a rugby ball spiralling sixty metres now shape meat with surprising delicacy. The sauce bubbles, rich and red, filling the air with garlic and herbs.

‘Smells amazing.’ Ailsa stirs the pot. ‘You clearly know your way around a kitchen.’

‘Only with this.’ He shrugs. ‘Everything else is beans on toast.’

My lips tug upward, but I force them flat.

‘So.’ Ailsa’s tone remains light, but her eyes sharpen. ‘While we wait for the sauce, can we talk about what happened at the beginning of this year?’

We’d briefly discussed this possibility in prep, and he’d agreed. Still, the wooden spoon in Brodie’s hand stills. Heat prickles across the back of my neck.

‘The gambling,’ Ailsa clarifies.

The word drops like a stone. Ripples of tension spread through the studio. I straighten, ready to intervene, but…

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘We can talk about it.’

What? Is he really going…there?

‘It’s simple.’ He keeps stirring, eyes on the sauce. ‘I’m competitive. Always have been. Three boys, strict dad – everything was a competition. Who could run fastest, study hardest, win biggest. So I guess you could say I don’t have a gambling problem. I have a competition problem.’

‘Makes sense to me.’ Ailsa smiles and nods, encouraging.

‘Poker seemed perfect. Strategy, skill, that rush when you win.’ His jaw grinds. ‘I got caught up in it. Lost more than I should’ve. But I never…’ His eyes cut to me, sharp as glass, ‘…bet on rugby. Never. That was bullsh—…lies someone fed to the media.’

Warmth spreads its way upward all the way to my ears. Because he’s right, isn’t he? Someone leaked those rumours to the press. Someone made sure they stuck.

But that someone wasn’t me, even though Brodie seems to believe otherwise. I had no reason to do that. I was busy trying to build up Callum’s sponsorship deals and…

‘The headlines must have hurt.’ Ailsa says gently. ‘Your reputation—’

‘Got torched.’ His laugh holds no humour. ‘Amazing how quick people turn on you, isn’t it? One rumour, and suddenly you’re toxic.’

Guilt sits like lead in my gut. Was it Callum? Logically, it makes sense. Brodie left the Knights, and now Callum’s their starting fly-half. His market value has doubled, and he’s up for the national team. Something Brodie had his eye on, too. If Brodie had stayed, Callum would still be in his shadow. But with him gone, suddenly Callum’s not just a contender. He’s the contender.

Would he have been that calculated? I never thought he was the strategic type. But then again, I also never thought he’d pound another woman while I was working my butt off to make him a star. Perhaps I wasn’t just blind to Callum’s lies. Perhaps I was blind to what he was willing to do to get what he wanted.

Brodie thinks I was in on it, helped ruin his career.

And maybe I was. By staying with the man who did.

The realisation burns. I didn’t swing the axe, but I stood by while someone else did. Oblivious. Na?ve. Complicit.

‘But you’re still here.’ Ailsa touches his arm. ‘Still fighting and starting over with the Stirling Rebels, right?’

‘Rugby is everything.’ He tests the sauce, adds a pinch of salt. ‘Has been since I was five. My whole life, that’s been the one constant. The one thing that never let me down.’ His eyes find mine again. ‘I’d never risk that. Not for anyone or anything.’

I can tell he’s not lying. This man, this proud, stubborn, annoying man – he’d cut his balls off and eat them before he’d compromise the game.

‘The pasta’s ready. I bet it’s the best sauce you’ve ever had.’ The words are barely out of his mouth before he catches himself. His face turns crimson.

There’s that cursed word again: bet.

A heartbeat of silence. ‘I mean…’

Ailsa, bless her, keeps stirring like nothing happened. ‘You do seem rather confident in your sauce.’

‘Because it’s good. And to be clear: it wasn’t a bet . It was a statement .’

Ailsa’s eyes twinkle. ‘Of course. Just like how I don’t bet this will be the best episode we’ve ever filmed…I simply know it.’

Brodie exhales, some of the tension easing from his posture. ‘Exactly. Want to do the honours?’

Ailsa perks up. ‘Yes, please.’

He lifts the pot with those strong hands, movements precise and controlled. Steam rises as Ailsa pours spaghetti into the sauce, the scent of basil and garlic wrapping around us. In the quiet pause that follows, Brodie’s face softens into something approaching peace.

My heart stumbles.

Ailsa giggles, shooting the camera a knowing wink before grabbing a spoon. ‘See, folks? This is what we call a high-stakes dish.’

The moment is defused. And Brodie actually looks like he might survive this after all.

Five minutes later, the cameras stop rolling, and the tightness bleeds out of me.

He did it. He actually did it.

Brodie MacRae, the man who punched a reporter a few months ago, charmed his way through thirty minutes of cooking television without a single death threat or f-bomb. Not only that, he also…shone. That’s the only word for it. When he talked about his grandmother’s recipes, his whole face changed.

Wish I could ignore that.

Only temporary, though. He approaches with a scowl deep enough to curdle milk, rubbing his palms dry with a tea towel. ‘Happy now?’

‘Ecstatic.’ I push off the wall. ‘You were almost human.’

‘Miracles happen.’

‘Clearly.’ I lean into his space, straightening his collar. ‘Who knew the big bad rugby player was actually a softie who makes his nonna’s meatballs?’

His grip on the tea towel tightens as if he imagines strangling me with it. ‘You’re pushing it again, Harrington.’

One second, he’s all soft over his nonna’s cooking. The next he’s back to being a sulk factory.

‘And you’re not finished.’ I grab his wrist, ignoring the static shock that zips through my fingertips. ‘Come on. Time for your glamour shots.’

‘What?’

I drag him around the corner to where Mac waits with his camera. The warehouse’s exposed brick will make a perfect backdrop. Industrial, masculine. Since I already have him here, I have to make the most of it. Is it a trap? Not really. But sort of.

‘No.’ Brodie plants his feet. ‘I did your cooking show. I’m done.’

‘New headshots. Now.’ I position him against the wall. ‘Stand still. I don’t think your face muscles are capable of smiling, but try not to look murderous.’

He glowers at the camera.

‘I said not murderous.’

‘What do you want from me? This is my fucking face.’

‘Then make a better one.’ I reach to fix his hair without thinking. My fingers ghost over his forehead, and he stills. My pulse jumps, nerves flaring as I realise how close we are. His eyes lock on mine.

I snatch my hand back. ‘Your hair’s a mess.’

Mac clears his throat. ‘Ready when you are.’

I step back, head spinning.

What the fuck was that?

‘Right.’ It comes out steadier than I feel. ‘Five shots. Make them count.’

The camera clicks. Again. Again. Each shot capturing that rare curve of his mouth, that knowing glint in his eyes. He’s not looking at the lens – he’s looking through it. Straight at me.

I need to leave. Now.

But I can’t leave without him. Brodie still has my car keys.

Fuck.