I flip him the bird without looking. If I make eye contact, I’ll end up doing time for assault.
They laugh and I watch them go, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue. Charlie Harrington played me in front of my entire team. Undermined me, humiliated me, and made my dick stir in the process.
Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate her?
Chapter4
Charlie
The 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.
