The realisation burns. I didn’t swing the axe, but I stood by while someone else did. Oblivious. Naïve. Complicit.
‘But you’re still here.’ Ailsa touches his arm. ‘Still fighting and starting over with the Stirling Rebels, right?’
‘Rugby is everything.’ He tests the sauce, adds a pinch of salt. ‘Has been since I was five. My whole life, that’s been the one constant. The one thing that never let me down.’ His eyes find mine again. ‘I’d never risk that. Not for anyone or anything.’
I can tell he’s not lying. This man, this proud, stubborn, annoying man – he’d cut his balls off and eat them before he’d compromise the game.
‘The pasta’s ready. I bet it’s the best sauce you’ve ever had.’ The words are barely out of his mouth before he catches himself. His face turns crimson.
There’s that cursed word again: bet.
A heartbeat of silence. ‘I mean…’
Ailsa, bless her, keeps stirring like nothing happened. ‘You do seem rather confident in your sauce.’
‘Because it’s good. And to be clear: it wasn’t abet. It was astatement.’
Ailsa’s eyes twinkle. ‘Of course. Just like how I don’t bet this will be the best episode we’ve ever filmed…I simply know it.’
Brodie exhales, some of the tension easing from his posture. ‘Exactly. Want to do the honours?’
Ailsa perks up. ‘Yes, please.’
He lifts the pot with those strong hands, movements precise and controlled. Steam rises as Ailsa pours spaghetti into the sauce, the scent of basil and garlic wrapping around us. In the quiet pause that follows, Brodie’s face softens into something approaching peace.
My heart stumbles.
Ailsa giggles, shooting the camera a knowing wink before grabbing a spoon. ‘See, folks? This is what we call a high-stakes dish.’
The moment is defused. And Brodie actually looks like he might survive this after all.
Five minutes later, the cameras stop rolling, and the tightness bleeds out of me.
He did it. He actually did it.
Brodie MacRae, the man who punched a reporter a few months ago, charmed his way through thirty minutes of cooking television without a single death threat or f-bomb. Not only that, he also…shone. That’s the only word for it. When he talked about his grandmother’s recipes, his whole face changed.
Wish I could ignore that.
Only temporary, though. He approaches with a scowl deep enough to curdle milk, rubbing his palms dry with a tea towel. ‘Happy now?’
‘Ecstatic.’ I push off the wall. ‘You were almost human.’
‘Miracles happen.’
‘Clearly.’ I lean into his space, straightening his collar. ‘Who knew the big bad rugby player was actually a softie who makes his nonna’s meatballs?’
His grip on the tea towel tightens as if he imagines strangling me with it. ‘You’re pushing it again, Harrington.’
One second, he’s all soft over his nonna’s cooking. The next he’s back to being a sulk factory.
‘And you’re not finished.’ I grab his wrist, ignoring the static shock that zips through my fingertips. ‘Come on. Time for your glamour shots.’
‘What?’
I drag him around the corner to where Mac waits with his camera. The warehouse’s exposed brick will make a perfect backdrop. Industrial, masculine. Since I already have him here, I have to make the most of it. Is it a trap? Not really. But sort of.
‘No.’ Brodie plants his feet. ‘I did your cooking show. I’m done.’
