I turn to look at her. So does Brodie. Only my expression is apologetic, and his could strip paint.
‘Not happening,’ he says.
The assistant falters. ‘It’s just some powder—’
‘Not. Happening.’
‘You’re on camera—’
‘I’m not a Kardashian,’ he states grimly.
She looks at me. I look at Brodie. Brodie looks like a man about to walk straight out of the building and into a pub.
‘Jesus Christ, would you stop being such a diva? Studio lights make you look like a deep-fried Mars bar,’ I explain.
He doesn’t move, and my patience is fraying like a worn-out bootlace.
The assistant shifts nervously. ‘It’s literally two minutes.’
‘So is getting knocked out,’ Brodie mutters, loud enough that half the room hears it. ‘Doesn’t mean I’ll volunteer for it.’
I dig my nails into my palm to keep from snapping back. Arrogant, stubborn, insufferable piece of work.
I’m done playing nice. I close the distance, keeping my voice low and lethal. ‘I don’t give a shit if you think you’re too good for this, but if you blow this, it’s my arse on the line. So, pull your head out of it for five fucking minutes.’
Tense silence hums between us. Then a deep, suffering exhale. ‘Fine.’
He stomps off toward the makeup station, drops into the chair, and sits there radiating raging misery while a makeup artist pats his face with a brush like she’s defusing a bomb.
‘This is a joke.’ Brodie’s voice could cut glass. ‘A fucking joke.’
‘Shut up and smile,’ I hiss.
Ailsa emerges from behind the counter, beaming as she wipes her hands on a gingham apron. ‘Brodie MacRae! Welcome to Ailsa’s Kitchen. So thrilled to have you. Thank you for coming.’
Brodie stares at her like she handed him a live grenade. ‘Right. Thrilled.’
Undeterred, Ailsa clasps her hands together. ‘We’re making spaghetti with meatballs today. Your gran’s recipe, actually.’
His entire body goes still. ‘What?’
‘Well, a vegetarian twist on it,’ she clarifies and nods in the direction of the prep station where neat bowls of ingredients wait. ‘We thought it’d be fun. Bit of nostalgia, bit of a challenge. Sound good?’
Brodie’s gaze flicks to the recipe card. A muscle ticks beneath his eye as he picks it up, reading the measurements.
That’s when he turns to me. ‘Was this your idea? Where the fuck did you get this?’
I bristle, irritation needling under my skin. Typical. Immediately assuming I’m out to sabotage him.
‘Research,’ I say. ‘You mentioned it in a Knights interview three years ago. Not exactly state secrets, MacRae.’
The lights catch the sharp planes of his face as he reads, and something shifts in his expression. Something boyish that makes my chest tight. He doesn’t get to look vulnerable when he’s been nothing but a man-child with a mood problem since he walked in.
‘You contacted my mother?’ He asks.
‘Theo did. Your mother told her about your nonna’s recipe. How you’d help make the meatballs every Sunday.’
He turns away, but not before I glimpse that crack in his armour. I try not to feel guilty – or anything at all. I’m not out to torment him, no matter what his paranoid brain seems to think.
