‘Well, he hadn’t. I keep files on problematic journalists.’
‘Ruthless.’ His breath gusts hot against my nape.
‘Prepared. My job is protecting you, even from yourself.’
The pause after is heavy. When he speaks again, it lands lower, tighter. I look up. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, almost black.
‘Is that what you were doing in there? Protecting me?’
‘Yes,’ I say simply.
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re my client.’
His nostrils pinch, and I see it. The second he realises he’s let too much slip.
‘If you say so.’ He’s deflecting. But his short laugh rolls right through me. ‘You’re terrifying.’
‘You’re welcome. Now let’s make our excuses and get out of here. I’m famished.’
Brodie follows me as I navigate through the crowd, making polite farewells. The master distiller presses a bottle into Brodie’s hands. ‘For standing your ground, lad.’
And then we slip out into the rain-soaked night.
The hotel pub’s low ceiling presses down like a sodden cloud, peat smoke clinging to my silk blouse. I root through my purse for lip balm, fingers touching something cold. Dad’s platinum Amex winks beneath a tampon wrapper. Forgotten relic from a life I torched.
Brodie slouches in the corner booth, long legs invading my space. His knee bumps mine, and he doesn’t move it. ‘Pub grub’s on me. No need to flash your plastic.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ The card’s embossed edges bite my palm. Not so much a safety net as a reminder, a fuck-you to a father who never expected me to make it on my own.
I spin it between my fingers. ‘Let’s use it for liquid therapy. And you’re paying me back in humility.’
‘Season starts in two weeks,’ he says. ‘Not getting pished now.’
I ignore him and flag down the waiter. ‘Two of your most inventive cocktails. Local ingredients only. Surprise us.’
Brodie’s eyebrow arcs. ‘Inventive?’
‘Competitive inventive. Loser covers breakfast.’
He leans forward, elbows denting beer-stained coasters. ‘Define lose.’
‘Whoever taps out first, can’t finish their drink, or pukes, loses.’
‘Christ, you’re mental.’ But he’s smiling now, that rare crinkle-eyed grin that has my pulse stuttering like it’s deciding whether to speed up or stop altogether.
‘Shitting your knickers, MacRae?’
‘Never. But first, tell me why’d you really keep that Amex?’
Air evacuates my lungs. The truth claws its way up. ‘To prove I don’t need it.’
He just nods. I know he gets it.
The first round arrives in clay mugs frothing with sea buckthorn foam.
Brodie sniffs his. ‘Smells like my Scottish gran’s cough syrup.’ He watches me, fingers drumming against his glass. He hasn’t tried it yet. ‘You really want this, don’t you?’ His voice is quiet and a bit rougher than before.
