‘On one condition.’ For a beat, he glowers at me. Unyielding. I stare back. Then he snatches the keys from my hand.
‘I’m driving,’ he declares. ‘Need to see if that Maserati’s all show or if there’s something real under the hood.’
I fold my arms, squaring off with him. ‘You’re not prepared for what she can do.’
‘Bet I am.’
‘Ah, I wouldn’t use that particular word if I were you.’ I smile intentionally sweetly, but there’s a sting in my words.
He slants a look in my direction, and I hesitate, weighing the pros and cons.
‘Okay, fine,’ I give in. ‘This once.’
Honestly, the things I do for my clients.
The Maserati purrs to life under his touch and he seems…pleased. The leather seat cradles me as he adjusts everything – mirrors, seat position, temperature. His scent fills the car. Clean, sharp, maddeningly masculine. My body lights up like it’s been flipped on at the mains.
I cross my legs and press my thighs together. This is ridiculous.
‘Stop touching everything,’ I snap.
‘Stop being a control freak.’
He says it like it’s a character flaw. And yeah, perhaps I am too controlling. But with guys like him, it’s the only way to survive. If I let him get away with even one thing, he’ll bulldoze right over me. He’s too used to being the biggest, baddest guy in the room. I can’t afford to be steamrolled, not with so much riding on this.
The success of my entire agency.
And now he’s changing the radio settings.
‘Grubby fingers off my radio! What’s next? You gonna mark your territory?’
‘I could, if that’s what you’re into.’
I grab my knees, suppressing the urge to wrap my hands around his thick neck. ‘Just drive my car like a normal human, instead of acting like it’s your dick on wheels.’
‘Maybe if you weren’t riding my arse every minute, I wouldn’t have to mark my space.’
The way he says it makes something tingle low in my belly, and I hate him a little bit more for it.
‘Serious case of small dick energy. Classic.’
‘You keep talking to me like that, and we’re gonna have a problem, Harrington,’ he grumbles under his breath.
He pulls out onto the street with unnecessary aggression, the engine growling. My nipples stiffen in response, and I hate how my body doesn’t give a damn that he’s a stubborn prick. I hate how his thigh shifts every time he changes gear, the way his shoulders fill out that shirt like it’s painted on.
I’m supposed to be in charge here, not getting hot over Brodie fucking MacRae.
He tightens his knuckles around the steering wheel, tendons flexing under his skin, but he says nothing. Keeps his eyes on the road,tension welded into every line of his frame. Like he’s holding something back.
We’re possibly going to kill each other before we reach the studio.
If my hormones don’t kill me first.
The studio hunkers in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Stirling, sandwiched between a craft brewery and what looks like an artisan cheese shop. Very hipster. Very YouTube-friendly. The building’s facade has been painted with murals. Inside, fairy lights are strung across exposed beams, and the ‘kitchen’ set is barely bigger than my first flat’s cooking space. Cream cabinets, wooden worktops, copper pots hanging from hooks. It’s meant to feel homely, intimate.
I shoot Brodie a sidelong glance. ‘The woman’s basically the local Mary Berry but with more sass. Her show started out locally on Central Scotland TV, but it’s been blowing up online. 800k views on her last episode.’
A production assistant appears at my side, headset in place. ‘Hair and makeup first, Brodie. A quick touch-up.’
