His pupils widen when he sees me. ‘You know what they say?’
‘Hngh?’ That’s all I’ve got. I have no words. No thoughts. No brain function.
He lifts his chin, eyes dark and amused. ‘Wear the shirt, try the player.’
I blink. Slow. Wait. What?
I glance down, and a jolt fires through my chest.
Big. Loose. Hem at mid-thigh. Crisp scent clinging to it.
Oh shit.
I’m indeed wearing a rugby shirt.Hisrugby shirt.
His fucking shirt. Yeah, makes sense. I packed a bunch of signed #10 shirts for photo ops and giveaways.
‘Try the player how?’ I sound squeaky and scratchy.
His mouth kicks up at the corner. ‘Do Ireallyhave to ex—’
And then I stumble back and dive for the toilet, about to vomit up my entire goddamn soul.
The second my knees hit the cold tiles, there’s a sick pull behind my ribs. I gag once, and barely get the lid up before I’m retching. The room tilts and spins like a washing machine on high, and somewhere far, far away, I hear the bathroom door open.
Sweat beads along my hairline, cold and slick against my skin. I wave a weak, pathetic hand in the general direction of the door. ‘Go away.’
But instead of obeying like a decent person, he crouches beside me. A wall of muscle and quiet warmth, right there. A large hand sweeps my hair back, gathering the tangled mess and holding it firm, fingers settling against the nape of my neck.
His voice – low, calm, far too gentle – lands somewhere behind my ear. ‘Easy, Champ. I’ve got you.’
Kill me now.
I press my forehead against the rim as another wave heaves through me, acid burning my gullet. There is no lower point in my entire career – hell, my entire life – than this moment. And that includes the break-up. A public relations professional, CEO of an agency…throwing up into a hotel toilet with my highest-profile client rubbing soothing circles into my back.
I should be utterly humiliated.
But weirdly… I’m not. At least not as much. He’s steady, sure of himself, like looking after me is his calling. It shouldn’t be. I’m his bloody agent, not his responsibility.
‘You’re a menace, you know that?’ Brodie murmurs, his breath grazing my temple.
I mutter something unintelligible and spit into the bowl. Probably the last of my credibility and authority.
His huge thigh braces against my side, steadying me. ‘I’ve never met someone who could drink a rugby player almost one-and-a-half times their size under the table.’
My stomach keeps twisting. But again, not from the alcohol.
I know that at some point last night, he made sure I wasn’t drinking anything with actual alcohol in it. Far too late, obviously, but still.
Heletme win.
The most competitive man who’s ever graced the earth – well, exceptmaybeMichael Jordan – wants me to believe that I won a silly drinking contest when we both know I didn’t.
Why?
Brodie pulls his hand away, leaving behind a warmth that settles in and stays. The tap runs. Then a damp flannel appears in my periphery, chilled but not cold.
‘Here. Forehead or neck?’
