Page 9

Chapter 9

Brodie

C harlie Harrington sings like she does everything else. As if she’s got nothing to lose and a world full of bastards to prove wrong.

She’s up on that tiny, sticky-floored stage of the hotel pub, gripping the mic like she’s daring it to break. Her eyes are half-lidded as she sings Livin’ on a Prayer .

And fuck me, but I can’t stop looking at her.

I lean back in the booth, head tipped against cracked leather, empty glass in my hand. Tipsy but lucid. Loose, but locked in.

Because something is happening here, and there’s no stopping it.

The small crowd is eating her up. Of course they are. Charlie’s got that thing. That thing that makes people lean in without meaning to, makes them watch. It’s not about being pretty or the best. It’s about being impossible to ignore. And Charlie Harrington? Always impossible to ignore.

But especially when she’s belting out Bon Jovi.

Barefoot, tights torn at the knee, blazer long gone, she’s a fucking sight for the gods. The simple grey dress clings in all the right places, riding higher every time she jumps, the hem threatening absolute chaos. Her hair – caramel and whisky in the stage lights – has won the battle against the straightener, waves bouncing as she moves, defiant and unruly.

And then she throws her head back and pours her whole ambitious, untamed self into one note.

She’s not just drop-dead gorgeous. She’s everything at once. Pure temptation with boardroom fangs, a high-maintenance hurricane with a heart of gold, a brilliant menace wrapped in cashmere.

I clutch my glass.

There’s something free and unguarded in her, the way she loses herself to the song. She points straight at me when the chorus hits, mischief and intent. The whole pub is screaming the words, but her voice rises over the noise. For a split second, it’s just us. And I swear to god, my dick twitches like it’s applauding her.

Something sharp braces between my lungs as it sinks in.

I might be fucked.

Charlie Harrington. Aye.

It hits me in pieces.

Starts with how she had my back tonight. No hesitation, no question. When that dickhead journalist tried to dig his claws in, she eviscerated him.

Not for PR. Not for herself.

For me.

She always challenges me. Pushes and pokes, calls me on my nonsense, stands her ground when most people fold. I don’t intimidate her. I fuel her. How’s that even possible?

And it’s the way I feel when she’s around. Comfortable and at ease. I can let my guard down without someone waiting to twist the knife.

But the worst part? The part that knots my stomach and makes my pulse hammer?

I find myself wanting to be near her, let her light chase away my clouds.

Yep, probably fucked.

Charlie hits the last note, winking at some poor sod in the front row, then stumbles off stage and laughs as someone claps her on the back. A blink later she’s in front of me, flushed and high on chaos, hair messy, eyes bright.

She needs this tonight. That’s why I agreed to join her.

Not for me. For her.

Charlie’s dad’s a cunt. Callum’s always been one. Pembroke? Just the latest recruit to the cuntery club.

And because Charlie’s so professional, so sharp, so fierce, it’s easy to forget that she’s only twenty-six. Same as me. After being screwed over by the men in her life, after weeks of dealing with my antics, and after fighting a battle that shouldn’t be hers at the distillery, she deserves to let loose. To be loud, to be careless, to feel good for no other reason than that she fucking can.

‘What?’ she asks as she slides onto the bench opposite me, heels in hands and voice still hoarse from singing.

I tip my empty glass at her. ‘Wasn’t aware you had pipes.’

‘I have layers, MacRae. Layers .’

‘You did good tonight,’ I say, voice low. ‘You did good…with me.’

She stills, caught off guard. As if she didn’t expect me to say it. Hell, maybe I didn’t either. But something shifts in the air between us. That current. That charge. That buzz under my anger. The part I’ve been ignoring for weeks, acting like it isn’t real.

She pulls back, clears her throat. ‘Another round?’

‘You trying to keep up with me, Harrington?’

She grins, a bit wobbly but full of fire. ‘No. I’m trying to win.’

For a second, I almost let it slide. Almost let the moment stretch out without bringing up the thing that’s been gnawing at the back of my mind. But she’s got that look. Wide open and real. And that makes it impossible.

I can’t keep acting like it doesn’t matter.

If I don’t ask now, it’ll make it harder and harder to separate what I thought I knew from what I’m starting to see. To…like.

Aye, I need to know once and for all.

‘Was it really not you? Leaking the gambling rumours to the media?’

Charlie doesn’t freeze or yield. She just goes quiet in a way that cuts and looks at me. Flat and blank and direct.

‘You know it wasn’t me.’ Her voice isn’t sharp or cold. It isn’t anything, and that’s what hits hardest.

She runs a thumb over the condensation on her glass, watching it smear.

‘I never leaked a damn thing, Brodie,’ she says in that way that tells me she’s beyond tired of this conversation. ‘Wasn’t even aware that you had poker debts. And yes, I’m loyal. But I don’t do anyone’s cheap dirty work. And certainly not Callum’s. Never have, never will.’

The space between us stretches, too tight, too thin.

She inhales slowly, weighing up if it’s even worth continuing. I’m glad she does.

‘But you had to blame someone, right? And I was convenient. PR girl. Callum’s fiancée, in his thrall. Easy target.’

Something tightens painfully behind my ribs.

‘Me and Callum—’ she huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh, ‘—we made a neat package deal, didn’t we?’

I swallow. They did.

‘Not saying it was definitely him.’ She shrugs. ‘But I wouldn’t be shocked. And he was shagging that presenter from the station that first broke the “story”. Could’ve been a coincidence. But I doubt it. Well, I’ll guess we’ll never find out.’

I’m an absolute eejit. I let this sit in my chest for months. Let it fester. Let it turn into something that coloured the way I saw her. Part of me still doesn’t want to accept it – because if I do, I have to admit I’ve been wrong this entire time. But the more I look at her, the better I get to know her, the harder it is to hold on to my version of events.

She says she never even knew about the fucking poker debts. I want to believe her. More than I should. And if she’s lying, she’s doing a damn good job of it.

So no, I don’t think she was involved.

I misjudged her. I put her in the same box as Callum, and I should have known. Should have seen her the way I’m seeing her now. Exhausted from having to defend herself, fight for herself, looking at me like she’s tired of caring whether I believe her or not.

And that makes me feel worse than anything. I’m not exactly generous with apologies. But even I know when one’s due.

‘I’m sorry, Charlie. Truly. You’ve always been better than Fraser. Always been too good for him.’

Her shoulders drop, and the tension that’s been locked in her spine unwinds. She watches me for a beat. Then she knocks twice on the table, like we’ve settled a deal.

‘Now that’s out of the way,’ she says. ‘Go get us another round. I’m in the lead!’

I push up from the booth, rolling my shoulders. ‘Aye, Your Highness.’

The barman’s wiping down the counter, and I catch his eye. ‘One gin and tonic. Heavy on the tonic. Or do you have that non-alcoholic stuff?’

He clocks the request, nods, and reaches for the zero-proof bottle tucked behind the proper stuff.

When I set the drink in front of her, Charlie barely glances at it before taking a sip, and another.

She smacks her lips and frowns. ‘Ugh. That’s weak.’

I lean back. ‘Barman’s slacking.’

She scoffs and downs the rest in one go, none the wiser. ‘You’re at least two drinks behind, MacRae.’

That’s not true. But I let her think she’s winning. And I keep her upright.

Because Charlie Harrington deserves to have someone looking out for her for a change.

Charlie stumbles, and I catch her. She’s light in my arms, laughter bubbling up like it’s got nowhere else to go, warm and careless. Her forehead knocks against my shoulder as she tries to straighten up.

‘Woah! Steady, agent.’ My palm finds the small of her back, right where the curve begins.

‘Steady’s boring,’ she mumbles and presses her face into my shirt for half a second before peeling away, blinking up at me.

I don’t think she realises how close we are. How easy it would be to dip my head, let my mouth skim the top of her ear, pull her flush against me. I fight the urge to grab her properly. Not just a hand at her elbow, a palm on her back.

I can’t. I’m not an arsehole.

The dim hallway buzzes around us. The walls are damp with age, the air thick with the smell of old carpet, but all I can focus on is her. The way her body moves and leans against me, as if she trusts me not to let her fall.

I wouldn’t.

She giggles again, high on whatever the fuck it is – alcohol, relief, winning, exhaustion, something else or all of it – and fumbles for her key card in her purse. It clatters to the carpet. I stoop to grab it. She sways forward, knees bumping mine.

‘You’re not as much of a dickhead as I thought, MacRae.’ It tumbles out with a laugh, unfiltered and a touch too honest.

And hell, it hits me right in the ribs before I’ve got a chance to shove the feeling down.

I lean against the doorframe as she swipes the card the wrong way up. ‘That sounded like a compliment, Harrington. Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me.’

She half-turns and looks up at me.

Really looks.

And something in her heavy-lidded gaze slams right through me, blood rushing south so fast I’m dizzy.

I should step back.

I should .

But her face is right there. So close that I see where her lipstick has worn off at the edges, the ghost of it still clinging to her plush bottom lip. There’s a flare of something untamed in her eyes. Fierce and fevered. Her breath stutters. Mine stalls. The air between us crackles, swollen with whatever the hell this is turning into.

And I know – I fucking know – what’s about to happen before she even moves.

I don’t stop her.

Charlie fists the front of my shirt and kisses me.

Not tentative. Not testing. Full fucking tilt.

I make a sound I don’t recognise, something raw. Because Christ… She’s on me like she’s been dying to do this as badly as I have.

And I have it bad for her.

She twists her fingers in the fabric and yanks me closer. Not bossy – needy. Her mouth is hot, parted, eager, and when her tongue brushes mine, something inside me breaks. Another low, guttural sound rips out. Me or her? Don’t know. Don’t care.

I dig my fingers into her hips, and I feel it. Her gasp, the way her body tenses and yields in the same sharp second. I’m already so hard it’s painful. My balls are drawn up tight, heavy with that aching build of pressure that’s only got one way out.

She tastes like salt and gin, but it’s the fire of her that’s got me fucking gone. Her mouth’s soft and open, head angling just right. She’s rising onto her toes, pressing in hard, closing every last inch between us. Like she knows exactly how hard I am for her.

Like she needs to feel it.

I drag my hands down from her waist, greedy for the shape of her thighs, the burn where her dress has hitched up. My grip tightens as I haul her into me, back bumping the door with a muffled thud – and that sigh… That fucking sigh. It strikes down my spine like a match.

I need more. More Charlie. I deepen the kiss and swallow the sounds she makes when I take what she’s giving.

Goddammit.

I’ve kissed a lot of women.

But never like this.

Never like her.

Blood pounds thick and insistent. If I don’t stop this, if I don’t stop her, I’ll end up dry-humping her like some desperate fucker who can’t control himself. Could already be happening – because she tilts her hips against mine and a white-hot rush lances straight through me.

‘Yes, Brodie. Yes, yes!’ she hitches out between kisses.

I groan into her mouth. Because it’s not enough. The friction of her core against mine isn’t enough. The grip I have on her isn’t enough. Not when she’s clinging to me like that, tugging my shirt, dragging me closer.

It’s all fucking not enough.

I could come from this, clothes on and all. From her mouth on mine, from the way she grinds as if she owns every pulse in my cock. As if she already knows I’d let her have it. All of it. Everything.

She lets her fingers slip from my shirt and trails them down. ‘Brodie. Touch me. Here…right here…’

And before I can think, before I can fucking breathe , she grabs my wrist and tugs my hand between her thighs.

My brain flatlines. Static. White noise.

Heat. Heat so scalding it punches the air from my lungs. My fingers skim the soft stretch of… Not tights. A lace band. Bare skin above it. Nothing underneath. And my cock jerks so hard it hurts.

‘Stockings, Charlie? My fucking god.’

She shifts, pushes my palm harder against her, and fuck, fuck, fuck – she’s so soaked it’s insane. The damp lace has turned to nothing. Does fuck all to hide how badly she wants me. I feel everything. The frantic throb under my fingertips. The lush swell of her sex, and I can’t help it, my fingers slip past the seam, once, enough to feel how…

I press. Just a little. Just to see.

A tremor pulses against my fingers. And the sound she makes? I’m a dead man.

It’s not a moan, not yet. A whimper, a sharp little inhale. As if she wasn’t ready for how good it felt.

And I wasn’t ready for what it does to me.

No.

Fuck.

Stop.

She’s still kissing me. Messy now. Open and panting. Her tongue slides against mine, nails digging into my shoulders. I’m hanging on by a thread, and if she moves – if she so much as rocks forward – I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

Every inch of me is screaming not to stop. To keep going. To push her inside, kick the door shut, bury my face in that delicious, drenched pussy and not come up for air until the sun’s burning through the curtains.

But I can’t. And not because she’s my agent and a twisted part of me still tries to hold a grudge against her for some reason.

God help me, that woman pisses me off as much as she turns me on.

It’s not just the way she tastes, the way she moves against me like she was made to fit right here.

It’s her.

All of her. How she makes me mad, pulls me in. How she laughs. Fights. The fact that she’s got every reason not to trust me, and yet – right now – she does.

And fuck, I want to deserve it.

I let out a shuddering exhale and rest my forehead against hers, lungs burning, chest heaving, sucking in the scent of her.

‘Not like this.’

Charlie squints up at me, dazed, lips kiss-bruised.

‘What?’ Her voice is small. Confused. As if I told her the sky isn’t blue. As if she can’t wrap her head around the fact that I’m not already hauling her inside fucking her raw.

Which, by the way, I most definitely want.

‘You’re tipsy. I’m a bit pished.’ I cup her jaw and trace her cheek with my thumb. ‘And when I finally fuck you, Charlie, I want you to remember every damn second.’

The look she gives me – as if she doesn’t know if she wants to kiss me again or kill me right here in the hallway – makes my stomach bottom out. My balls feel like they might rupture. I’ve never done this before. Never stopped when I didn’t have to. Never stopped when she didn’t want me to. Never put someone else before me like this.

But Charlie’s not just someone, is she?

I force myself to step back, fighting for an inhale that does absolutely fuck all to contain what’s breaking loose in my chest.

God, I’m dying.

‘Sleep tight, agent. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

I kiss the tip of her nose, and then I turn and move to my door next to hers. What the hell did we just do? My throat is burning. Not from holding back what I wanted to do, but from everything I didn’t say.

I can’t. Not tonight.

Because, what I didn’t realise until just now: I want her too much to fuck this up.