Page 8

Chapter 8

Charlie

T he ferry engine thrums through my soles as I grip the rust-speckled railing. A fine drizzle mists the deck and seeps through my Burberry trench. The sea churns slate-grey, same as the sky. Early September and Scotland is already showing its autumn colours.

Brodie leans against the starboard side, arms crossed over his Rebels training jacket. Rain clings to his ridiculously long lashes.

‘You must be aware this is pure shite.’ His voice carries over the wind.

I shrug, watching a cormorant dive into the foam. ‘Management wants you playing nice with whisky folks and rich tossers. Consider it an extension of your captaincy duties.’

‘Captaincy duties don’t include prancing around with crystal glasses while my team drills set pieces without me.’

God, the drama. He’s missing a strength block, a skills drill, one tactical, and a match sim. Survivable. Otherwise, Wallace wouldn’t have let him go.

The ferry lurches, and my hip bumps into the railing. His hand shoots out, palm catching my elbow. I jolt away, but the heat lingers.

‘They’ll manage three and a half days without your divine guidance,’ I say. ‘Might even enjoy the break from your charming leadership.’

He steps closer, rainwater tracing the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. ‘And you? Are you enjoying this?’

‘Watching you sulk like a toddler denied a biscuit? Immensely.’

His harsh laugh is swallowed by the wind. ‘You’re shitting yourself that I’ll tank your precious PR circus tonight.’

‘Maybe,’ I admit and turn into the gale, letting it whip salt spray against my burning cheeks.

The ferry slices through the Sound of Islay, the island’s pelt of heather and pine emerging through the mist. It’s a bit savage here. Beautiful in a way that claws at your ribs.

The ferry dips, and our shoulders brush. Neither of us moves away.

‘I’ll behave.’ He turns those peat-dark browns on me. ‘But only because you asked so nicely.’

‘I didn’t ask,’ I say.

‘Exactly.’

‘Dal Riata’s master distiller is a former Scotland prop player. Show him respect and schmooze a little, and he’ll have every whisky connoisseur in Argyll funding your comeback.’

‘And if I don’t?’ The challenge in his voice skims down the nape of my neck.

‘Then I’ll have to find creative ways to motivate you.’

‘Like what? Threaten to leak another false betting story?’ His mouth edges upward. Not a real smile. More like he’s baiting me to deny it.

He knows I can take it. That I’ll hit right back and he’ll love every second of it.

Something about the rough, stubbled line of his jaw catching the light just enough to highlight how chiselled it is, about the stubborn tilt of his angular chin, makes my belly pull tight, heat curling between my legs.

For one reckless second, I want to lick the rain from his throat.

‘You’re paranoid, MacRae. Not everything’s a conspiracy.’

The ferry horn blares, signalling Port Askaig. I shift back, pulse rabbiting against my collarbone. The deck judders as we dock.

Brodie shoulders his duffel, nodding toward the waiting cars. ‘Coming, agent?’

His broad shoulders part the misty drizzle as he walks ahead. I press my fingers to my lips, tasting salt and dangerous, dangerous wanting. Impossible, out-of-the-question, vagina-flooding, career-killing wanting.

His BMW’s heated seats are a luxury. I sink into leather, knees skimming the gearstick as Brodie takes a corner a smidge too fast. My Maserati would’ve handled this single-track road like a queen.

But he insisted on driving and taking his car, so…

For once, he’s not filling the silence with complaints. I should be grateful, but it makes me wonder what’s eating at him.

Peat bogs streak past, rain sluicing over windscreen wipers stuck on intermittent. The hotel appears ahead – a whitewashed inn with slate roofs and squat dormer windows.

Brodie parallel parks with maddening precision, tyres kissing the kerb. Not that I’d ever tell him that he out-parks me. He kills the engine as I step out into the Hebridean air, crisp despite the last trace of summer warmth in the September grey.

‘It’s atmospheric.’ I grab my Rimowa suitcase from the boot, wheels sticking in gravel. ‘Authentic.’

He swings his duffel over one shoulder. ‘Authentically mouldy.’

‘You’re hopeless. Okay, bags, then venue. Unless you have to style your hair for an hour first, MacRae.’

‘Unlike some, I can dress in under ten minutes. I’m not high maintenance.’

‘Because you’re no maintenance.’

The reception smells of wet Labrador. My heels sink into thick carpet as I walk in behind him. A large antique mirror reflects us side by side – him towering and broad-shouldered, me compact but commanding in grey and navy.

I catch the way he looks at me in the glass. And for one breath – one charged, electric second – it’s there. A glint of something raw, something dark, something that burns . Hunger caged behind smouldering brown eyes, teeth bared against its leash. As if he didn’t expect to want. As if it hit him low, fast, and mean – right in the gut – and he’d rather bleed than admit it.

And I’d rather choke on my own damn pride than admit that I feel it too.

The receptionist glances up from her computer and smiles. ‘Evening and welcome to Islay. I hope the crossing wasn’t too rough. You’re in rooms 204 and 207.’

The key jingles on a tartan fob. Brodie hefts his bag and my suitcase with insulting ease.

Show-off.

There’s no lift, so we have to squeeze through a tiny, narrow, and steep Victorian staircase to the second floor.

‘Still think authenticity’s worth it?’ he asks.

‘Still think complaining’s a personality? Now shut up, get ready, and let’s go save your career.’

The amber glow of Dal Riata’s copper stills bathes the tasting room in liquid warmth. A hint of peat smoke and yeast hangs in the air, settling into wool jackets and polished wood panelling. Outside, rain lashes against leaded windows, but inside it’s all crackling hearths and the velvet burn of single malt.

I perch on a leather armchair at the edge of the small semicircle, watching Brodie handle himself with surprising calm and grace. He slouches comfortably in the central armchair, one ankle hooked over his knee, tumbler balanced on his broad thigh. He looks almost relaxed in dark jeans and a white shirt that stretches across his shoulders.

Because there’s simply no other way for a shirt to be on this body than stretched.

I cross my legs, silk stockings whispering. Brodie’s forearm rests against the chair’s wing, veins mapping tension down to his fist.

‘The transition from Glasgow to Stirling wasn’t what I expected,’ he admits. His voice carries through the intimate space where thirty or so whisky enthusiasts and potential sponsors lean forward in their seats. ‘But sometimes the path you didn’t choose turns out to be exactly where you have to be.’

The master distiller – a burly ex-prop with hands like shovels – nods. ‘Second chances are like good whisky,’ he says. ‘Takes time, patience, and the right conditions to mature.’

A ripple of knowing chortles flows through the room. These are wealthy, cultured snobs who love nothing more than a redemption story they can attach their brand to. And Brodie’s giving them what they want. Humility wrapped in quiet confidence, vulnerability without weakness.

I take a sip of the eighteen-year single malt, letting it scorch a path down my tongue. Pride blooms in my chest. He’s nailing this. Absolutely fucking nailing it.

‘What about discipline?’ The question cuts through the comfortable atmosphere. My gaze cuts to a middle-aged man in the third row. Expensive watch, cheaper suit, old school notebook in hand. ‘Do you think your…extracurricular activities showed a lack of discipline that might affect your captaincy?’

I recognise him. Oliver Pembroke. The Scottish Sentinel’ s sports columnist with a hard-on for taking down athletes he deems ‘unworthy’. I’ve tangled with him before. Never ends well for anyone.

Brodie’s shoulders lift almost imperceptibly, but his voice remains steady. ‘Fair question. I’ve always been disciplined on the pitch. Off it, I made a few choices I regret.’

‘Choices?’ Pembroke’s smile is a shark’s. ‘Gambling debts exceeding a hundred thousand pounds isn’t a choice, it’s a pathology. Wouldn’t you agree?’

The room temperature drops ten degrees. I straighten and tighten my fingers around my glass.

Brodie’s jaw works. ‘I played poker. Competitively. But as I’ve said many times before, I never bet on rugby.’

‘But surely, you understand how it looks ?’ Pembroke leans forward, eyes gleaming with predatory interest. ‘A professional athlete with a gambling problem—’

‘I don’t have a gambling problem.’ The first crack in Brodie’s composure. A hairline fracture in the careful veneer.

‘Six figures suggests otherwise. Were you addicted, Mr MacRae? Are you still?’

The master distiller shifts uncomfortably. A sponsor from Edinburgh whispers to his companion. This is spiralling.

‘No bets.’ Brodie says, voice tight.

I taste copper and realise I’ve bitten through my lip.

‘And your temper? The incident with the reporter in Glasgow – was that also a lapse in discipline?’

Brodie scratches his nose. ‘The reporter in question made comments about my family that—’

‘So, provocation justifies violence? Interesting philosophy for a team captain.’

That’s it. I rise, glass clinking as I set it on the side table.

‘Mr Pembroke, fascinating line of questioning. Reminds me of your piece on women’s football last month. Equally nuanced and not at all full of ill-informed contempt.’

Pembroke’s head swivels toward me. ‘Miss Harrington. Didn’t realise you were moderating tonight. Does your father know you’re here?’

‘Does your wife?’ I smile. ‘I’m sure she worries. It can’t be easy, you attending a whisky event after you’ve spoken so openly about your recovery.’

His face drains of colour.

See, that’s the perk of preparing yourself. I’m a Harrington. I was bred to excel, to win. But I’m also a young woman and older guys never take me seriously, so of course I do my fucking homework. Research. Basic due diligence.

When they go low, I’m not going high. I’m already down there, waiting for them with my fists out.

I step into the circle, positioning myself between Brodie and the journalist. ‘Since we’re discussing integrity, let’s talk about yours. Your editor might be interested in how you’re pursuing a vendetta against a player who refused to give you an exclusive last year.’

His face flushes. ‘That’s absurd.’

‘Is it?’ I smile again. ‘Because I’ve read the email chain, and it’s petty.’

A murmur ripples through the audience. Pembroke’s mouth opens, then closes. Brodie pins me with that dark, shuttered stare. I can’t tell if he’s about to thank me or rip me a new one for stepping in. I’d take either.

I’m doing it because it’s my job. Or because I can’t stand watching vultures pick him apart like he’s too broken to be worth anything.

That’s far from the truth.

I turn to the room, voice warming again. ‘Now, I believe we were discussing resilience and second chances? Mr Campbell, as someone who’s rebuilt after injury, what advice would you give to athletes facing setbacks?’

The master distiller seizes the lifeline gratefully, launching into a story about his career-ending knee injury. I catch Brodie’s eye, and the corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile, but close.

Pembroke slumps back, defeated. I remain standing, a guard in stilettos, letting him know I’m ready for round two if he so much as coughs in the wrong direction.

The conversation flows back to safer waters. Ten minutes later, when the formal portion ends and guests mingle with glasses refilled, I feel Brodie’s hand on my lower back.

‘You didn’t need to do that,’ he says, his breath warm and private against my ear.

I turn, finding his face closer than expected. ‘Yes, I did. He was being a prick.’

‘I could’ve handled it.’

‘By knocking his teeth out? Because your right hand was locked into a fist so tight I thought you’d crush that poor tumbler.’ I keep my voice light, but my heartbeat pounds loud enough to feel it in my teeth.

He narrows his eyes. ‘You researched that twat?’

‘I research everyone who might be a threat to my clients.’

‘Including me?’ There’s no distance in the way he looks at me. No armour.

‘Especially to you.’

‘What you said back there,’ he continues after a moment. ‘About Pembroke. Was it true?’

‘Every word. He’s had it out for you since you told him to piss off last season.’

‘I’d forgotten about that,’ Brodie says.

‘Well, he hadn’t. I keep files on problematic journalists.’

‘Ruthless.’ His breath gusts hot against my nape.

‘Prepared. My job is protecting you, even from yourself.’

The pause after is heavy. When he speaks again, it lands lower, tighter. I look up. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, almost black.

‘Is that what you were doing in there? Protecting me?’

‘Yes,’ I say simply.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re my client.’

His nostrils pinch, and I see it. The second he realises he’s let too much slip.

‘If you say so.’ He’s deflecting. But his short laugh rolls right through me. ‘You’re terrifying.’

‘You’re welcome. Now let’s make our excuses and get out of here. I’m famished.’

Brodie follows me as I navigate through the crowd, making polite farewells. The master distiller presses a bottle into Brodie’s hands. ‘For standing your ground, lad.’

And then we slip out into the rain-soaked night.

The hotel pub’s low ceiling presses down like a sodden cloud, peat smoke clinging to my silk blouse. I root through my purse for lip balm, fingers touching something cold. Dad’s platinum Amex winks beneath a tampon wrapper. Forgotten relic from a life I torched.

Brodie slouches in the corner booth, long legs invading my space. His knee bumps mine, and he doesn’t move it. ‘Pub grub’s on me. No need to flash your plastic.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ The card’s embossed edges bite my palm. Not so much a safety net as a reminder, a fuck-you to a father who never expected me to make it on my own.

I spin it between my fingers. ‘Let’s use it for liquid therapy. And you’re paying me back in humility.’

‘Season starts in two weeks,’ he says. ‘Not getting pished now.’

I ignore him and flag down the waiter. ‘Two of your most inventive cocktails. Local ingredients only. Surprise us.’

Brodie’s eyebrow arcs. ‘Inventive?’

‘Competitive inventive. Loser covers breakfast.’

He leans forward, elbows denting beer-stained coasters. ‘Define lose.’

‘Whoever taps out first, can’t finish their drink, or pukes, loses.’

‘Christ, you’re mental.’ But he’s smiling now, that rare crinkle-eyed grin that has my pulse stuttering like it’s deciding whether to speed up or stop altogether.

‘Shitting your knickers, MacRae?’

‘Never. But first, tell me why’d you really keep that Amex?’

Air evacuates my lungs. The truth claws its way up. ‘To prove I don’t need it.’

He just nods. I know he gets it.

The first round arrives in clay mugs frothing with sea buckthorn foam.

Brodie sniffs his. ‘Smells like my Scottish gran’s cough syrup.’ He watches me, fingers drumming against his glass. He hasn’t tried it yet. ‘You really want this, don’t you?’ His voice is quiet and a bit rougher than before.

I shrug. ‘I want to win.’

‘Aye, but—’ He exhales hard through his nose, shakes his head. ‘Och, fuck it.’

He clocks my grip on the drink, then meets my eyes. That look. The one that makes my stomach tighten, like the moment before you dive into deep water.

Then he lifts his drink, never breaking eye contact, and knocks it back in a few gulps.

‘That’s what I thought.’ I sit back and sip mine.

Heat slides down my spine. Because now he’s watching me like a problem he wants to have.

‘You’re a bad, bad influence, Harrington,’ he murmurs, voice sandpapered at the edges.

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ I clink my mug against his, brine and citrus bursting on my tongue. ‘The taste of victory.’

He takes another swig and swallows hard. ‘Tastes like arse.’

And I laugh so hard that the liquid spurts out of my nose.

Round two: heather-infused gin with pickled elderflower garnish. Brodie licks salt from his wrist before shooting it. A droplet escapes, gliding down his stubbled neck. My fingertips burn with the treasonous urge to chase it.

‘Not bad. I’ve had worse at stag dos.’

‘Liar.’ My own words slur ever so slightly. ‘You’re two drinks from singing karaoke.’

‘Three.’ He corrects, stealing my lemon twist. ‘Minimum.’

By round three – a peat-smoked old fashioned – the room tilts pleasantly. Brodie’s laugh sounds deeper, hand accidentally-on-purpose grazing mine when reaching for napkins.

‘Cheating.’ I stab a cherry with a cocktail stick. ‘Distracting me with…’ My gesture encompasses his shoulders, his mouth, the way his shirt strains at the biceps.

‘With what?’ He pops his cherry in his mouth, tongue swiping syrup from his lower lip. ‘My natural charm?’

‘With your inability to follow rules.’ The card slaps the table. ‘Barkeep! Your most lethal concoction. Extra fire.’

Brodie grabs my wrist. His hand is as rough as the island’s coastline, and his thumb presses my pulse point. ‘You’re gonna regret this.’

‘Already do.’

The final round arrives flaming. Literally. Blue fire licks the brims of twin copper mugs.

Brodie eyes his like it’s a live grenade. ‘What’s in this? Jet fuel?’

‘Drink or forfeit.’ I blow out my flame, liquid scorching a trail to my stomach.

He hesitates. Swears under his breath. Tips the mug back. Firelight dances across his throat as he swallows. Slams the mug down. Grins, wild and unchained. ‘Still in the game, Harrington.’

So am I. Barely.

‘You’re lucky your beard isn’t on fire, MacRae.’

He’s looking at me like I’m an opponent he’s trying to figure out, unable to decide whether to let me win or drag me down with him. But that wild grin stays in place. He’s not letting up.

And hell, I’m just getting started.