‘And you’re still naked,’ I say.
The corner of his mouth pulls up with the hint of an arrogant smile. ‘If Iwerenaked, 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.Mydirective. 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 onMatch 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.’
