I shrug. ‘I want to win.’
‘Aye, but—’ He exhales hard through his nose, shakes his head. ‘Och, fuck it.’
He clocks my grip on the drink, then meets my eyes. That look. The one that makes my stomach tighten, like the moment before you dive into deep water.
Then he lifts his drink, never breaking eye contact, and knocks it back in a few gulps.
‘That’s what I thought.’ I sit back and sip mine.
Heat slides down my spine. Because now he’s watching me like a problem hewantsto have.
‘You’re a bad, bad influence, Harrington,’ he murmurs, voice sandpapered at the edges.
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ I clink my mug against his, brine and citrus bursting onmy tongue. ‘The taste of victory.’
He takes another swig and swallows hard. ‘Tastes like arse.’
And I laugh so hard that the liquid spurts out of my nose.
Round two: heather-infused gin with pickled elderflower garnish. Brodie licks salt from his wrist before shooting it. A droplet escapes, gliding down his stubbled neck. My fingertips burn with the treasonous urge to chase it.
‘Not bad. I’ve had worse at stag dos.’
‘Liar.’ My own words slur ever so slightly. ‘You’re two drinks from singing karaoke.’
‘Three.’ He corrects, stealing my lemon twist. ‘Minimum.’
By round three – a peat-smoked old fashioned – the room tilts pleasantly. Brodie’s laugh sounds deeper, hand accidentally-on-purpose grazing mine when reaching for napkins.
‘Cheating.’ I stab a cherry with a cocktail stick. ‘Distracting me with…’ My gesture encompasses his shoulders, his mouth, the way his shirt strains at the biceps.
‘With what?’ He pops his cherry in his mouth, tongue swiping syrup from his lower lip. ‘My natural charm?’
‘With your inability to follow rules.’ The card slaps the table. ‘Barkeep! Your most lethal concoction. Extra fire.’
Brodie grabs my wrist. His hand is as rough as the island’s coastline, and his thumb presses my pulse point. ‘You’re gonna regret this.’
‘Already do.’
The final round arrives flaming. Literally. Blue fire licks the brims of twin copper mugs.
Brodie eyes his like it’s a live grenade. ‘What’s in this? Jet fuel?’
‘Drink or forfeit.’ I blow out my flame, liquid scorching a trail to my stomach.
He hesitates. Swears under his breath. Tips the mug back. Firelight dances across his throat as he swallows. Slams the mug down. Grins, wild and unchained. ‘Still in the game, Harrington.’
So am I. Barely.
‘You’re lucky your beard isn’t on fire, MacRae.’
He’s looking at me like I’m an opponent he’s trying to figure out, unable to decide whether to let me win or drag me down with him. But that wild grin stays in place. He’s not letting up.
And hell, I’m just getting started.
Chapter9
Brodie
