‘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 & Tonic with the rest of the team in town, we’re holed up in his place, cooking and planning to obliterate each other at Mario Kart. I did consider letting him win. Only once on the last day of this year.
But then I remembered I’m not a charity.
I haven’t been apart from Brodie for a single day since the Rebels played the Knights, and I don’t think I want to be ever again.
He catches me staring and winks. ‘What’re you plotting?’
‘Nothing,’ I lie. Not too convincingly, because he narrows his eyes and points the spoon at me. A splatter of sauce lands on the counter.
‘You’re thinking about beating me at something,’ he guesses.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Or maybe I’m thinking about ravishing you right here on this counter. Haven’t decided yet.’
His expression shifts, cocky and wild. ‘Do both. I can take it.’
A little flutter goes through me – damn him – but I play it off. ‘Big talk for someone who’s about to get annihilated on Rainbow Road.’
‘You’re all bark, Harrington.’
I flip him off, and he laughs, loud and real. Best sound ever.
Outside, the first few fireworks crackle in the sky, but we don’t need them. The air between us already sparks enough to light the whole place up.
I set the table, lining up the cutlery while Brodie plates up the spaghetti. The meatballs look like something out of an Italian food blog. Glistening, perfectly round, covered in rich, tomato sauce.
It’s my new favourite dish.
Things are settling, mostly. The Rebels’ ticket sales could still be better, but January kicks off the second half of the season, and I’m hopeful. We’ve got momentum. We’ve got Brodie. Who’s somehow become Stirling’s unofficial mascot. He reads to kids at the library every other week now. The toddlers lose their minds. So do their mums. I sit in the back and pretend I’m not swooning. Which I am. Hard.
‘God, that smells amazing, MacRae.’
‘Aye, well. I am amazing,’ he tosses back while loading my plate.
He sets his plate down and wipes his hands on a tea towel before joining me.
It’s a bit insane how right this all feels.
‘Agreed.’ I sprinkle enough parmesan to let it snow and take a bite – not ashamed to moan a little at how good it tastes.
I’m not ashamed of anything with Brodie.
That kiss he blew me and me in his shirt? Went viral. There wasn’t any of the fallout I’ve been afraid of. Clients didn’t bat an eyelid. Even the media wasn’t all that vicious. Half of them wrote he’s some kind of reformed hero now. As if finding balance means he’s a new man.
Yeah, he is.
Mine.
Two weeks ago, I didn’t think I’d ever sit in his kitchen again, let alone make sassy comments while he struts around in a shirt with my name on it.
