I side-eye her. ‘You think the internet’s gonna forget everything because I read a bloody picture book?’
‘No. But they’ll see something else. A different headline.Brodie MacRae: Rugby’s Loose Cannon, orBrodie MacRae: Secret Softie Who Reads to Kids? What looks better to a potential sponsor?’
I frown because she’s right. ‘You really think this’ll make a difference?’
‘It’s a start. Keep this up, and we can get you something good. And I don’t mean Ladbroke’s.’ She laughs.
‘You’re not funny. And still evil.’
‘But effective.’ Her shoulder bumps mine. ‘Admit it.’
I stare straight ahead, refusing to give her the satisfaction. But something tugs at the corner of my mouth.
‘Never.’
Shocking truth: having Charlie Harrington as my agent might not be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Doesn’t mean I have to say it to her face. She’ll take that victory and lord it over me until the end of time.
Besides, admitting it means letting her win – and I’m not wired to lose.
Chapter6
Charlie
Oh God. My ovaries. Betraying me with some primal, deeply unprofessional reaction to a hard-bodied grump with kids draped all over him. No, more than betraying. They’re screaming like the front row at a boy band concert.
The Maserati’s leather steering wheel creaks under my grip as I navigate through Stirling’s narrow streets back to Edinburgh. I force my fingers to unclench, nails leaving half-moons in the hide. Rain spits against the windscreen.
Focus on the PR win. Not the way his tone softened when he did the voices. He read a children’s book. He didn’t save orphans from a burning building.
To let myself get blindsided by charisma and good intentions once was bad enough. Doing it again – especially with a client and another rugby player – isn’t an option.
I jab the radio off as I get on the M9. Silence amplifies the memory as I drive. Corded forearms flexing as he held a picture book that looked like a postage stamp in his hands. How steel-cut quads strained against denim. How helpless he looked when those kids clambered onto him like he was a jungle gym.
And he let them.
Not only let them, but encouraged them. With those voices.
The children were entranced.
Iwas entranced.
‘Stop it,’ I hiss, swerving around a delivery van. ‘He’s a client. A reluctant, pain-in-the-arse client who loathes you.’
The light turns green, and I accelerate, fighting to recalibrate. This was meant to be straightforward. Drag the rugby grouch to a community event. Grab a few photos for damage control. Tick another box in Operation:Make Brodie MacRae Seem Like Less of an Angry Dick.
How his expression melted when that girl with the rainbow clips climbed onto his leg. The genuine laugh – not a media-trained chuckle, but an actual laugh – when one of the boys asked if he could lift the librarian over his head.
I hit the brakes at a red light, and a horn blares behind me.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter to no one, heart jerking. ‘Shit.’
My phone rings in the cup holder. Theo’s name lights up.
‘Tell me you got the footage, boss.’
I thumb the speaker button. ‘In your inbox.’
‘Brilliant. I’ll post the reel before the lunch crowd hits. I’ll tag the library, use #RugbyDads or something.’
