I fucking kissed Brodie MacRae.
Not just kissed him. Igrabbedhim. Pulled his massive hand between my legs like some sex-starved lunatic. And I knew what I was doing. No doubts, no hesitation. I wanted it. Wantedhim. The way he felt against me… Hot, solid, overwhelming. The way he touched me. As if he couldn’t help himself. As if he wanted me as badly. As if he was seconds from sinking his thick fingers inside me right there against the door, from giving me exactly what I was begging for.
But he… What did he say again? My brain stutters, wading through the alcohol still sloshing around my system. Something about me being drunk. Him being drunk. And how when he finally fucks me, he wants me to remember it.
Oh, mighty Jesus.
I roll onto my back and slap both hands over my face. My mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on a wool sock. Tongue is too dry, too thick. Full-body ache. I prop myself up, and everything shifts in a sickening lurch. My insides revolt. The booze, yeah – but it’s not the only thing making me churn.
It’s everything else.
Unprofessional. Completely, unforgivably unprofessional.
This isn’t me. I’m tough, controlled, clever. I’m in charge. I don’t do this. I don’t make impulsive, irresponsible decisions. I don’t get off my face and throw myself at clients like I’m starring in some low-budget office porn. I don’t go off the rails.
Except I did.
All the above.
And if I’m really honest with myself, it was bound to happen. I had it coming. Of course, the instant I let myself loosen – just a little, just for one night – all the shit I’d been holding back came pouring out at once.
For almost five months, I’ve been charging through at full speed. No breaks. No processing. No time to feel anything because the minute I slowed down, it would all crash in.
As it just did.
I never took a moment to grieve the cheating. The humiliation of ending my engagement in the public eye. The betrayal by my father, who should have supported me. The sheer panic of leaving the nest. Walking away from my old life, Harrington Sports, the legacy I was meant to take over. Selling my London flat, scraping together my savings, begging and convincing investors to take a chance on me. Relocating to Edinburgh. Buying out Henderson’s. Building Elite Edge from the ground up, working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, barely sleeping, barely eating, barely functioning…
And last night, my body and brain finally called it.
So maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked. This was inevitable. It doesn’t make last night any less mortifying, though.
I groan again, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and—
Trip over my own fucking shoes.
A table lamp hits the carpet with a loud thud. My ankle smacks into something hard, my arms windmilling as I try and fail not to face-plant onto the floor.
I push up onto my knees, wincing as the spike drills through my temple and pulses right in time with the pounding behind my forehead. My dress is twisted, riding up my hips, and the sheer effort of wearing it feels like too much. I mumble some half-formed curse and yank the thing off. I fumble for anything on the chair beside the bed. First thing my fingers grab is soft. I haul it on and barely register the faint, clean smell still hanging in the fabric.
All I care about is water.
I stagger to the bathroom, muttering profanities as I go. Turn the tap on. Drink straight from the faucet, swallowing down mouthful after mouthful.
And then—
Knock, knock.
‘Hey. You okay?’
No. No, no, no, no.
Brodie. Right outside my room. I clamp my lids shut. If I’m very, very quiet, he might go away.
Another knock, firmer this time. ‘I know you’re in there, Charlie. I heard a bang. Are you okay?’
I croak and shuffle to the door, yanking it open with a miserable scowl before he can wake up the entire hotel with his baritone.
He stands there, rumpled and disgustingly well-rested, in a plain white tee and grey joggers that shouldn’t look that good. But of course, they do. Everything on him looks fabulous.
