’No.’ I sigh. ‘I need to get up in a bit.’
‘No, you fucking don’t.’
I salvage what little dignity I have left. ‘Yes. I do. We have an event later. Rugby kids—’
‘—at a local community club,’ he finishes. ‘Nothing that can’t happen without you. No reporters, no worries. I’ll be fine.’
‘It’s work,’ I argue and shove a hand over my eyes.
‘And this…’ he gestures at me, a shell of a human being bundled under the covers, ‘…is what happens when you don’t let yourself rest.’
His voice is calm, but something in it sticks. Something that lands deep in my ribs and lingers. I force my eyes open. ‘I don’t have time to rest.’
‘How long have you been running at this speed?’
I don’t reply.
‘I mean it, Harrington. How long?’
A muscle in my jaw tenses.
He nods, like that’s answer enough. ‘So what, you finally slamming the brakes last night is just a coincidence?’
‘I was drunk.’
‘You’re exhausted. And since you’ve clearly forgotten how to pace yourself, I’m stepping in.’
I glare at him. ‘That’s not how this works, MacRae. You don’t get to decide what I do with my day simply because I had one rough night. You’re not the boss of me. I’m the boss of you!’
His brows lift, unimpressed. ‘Not today. Charlie, you didn’t have one rough night. You’ve been running on fumes for ages. Pretending it’s fine, pretending you can keep going. Last night was the final crack.’
He leans in, forearms braced on his knees. Rugby scars. A silver slash along his thumb I’ve never noticed.
‘You wouldn’t let an athlete train without recovery time, would you? You’d call it reckless and unsustainable. But that’s exactly what you’re doing to yourself.’
The words sink in before I can block them. A nerve hit dead-on.
‘I’m not an athlete,’ I mutter weakly.
‘No,’ he agrees. ‘You’re the whole damn team.’
I look away, but it doesn’t stop his words from finding their mark.
‘And since you’re my agent,’ he continues, that impossible, steady conviction rolling through every syllable, ‘and I literally can’t afford to lose you, you’re going to take the day off.’
I swallow hard and don’t say anything. But I don’t exactly fight it, either.
‘Good. I’m going to make sure you get rest.’
Brodie’s phone is already in his hand. He dials.
‘Theo. It’s Brodie. Aye, could you shift whatever’s in Charlie’s calendar for today? Reschedule. She’s fine, she’s just been a stubborn pain in my arse and run herself into the ground. Aye, I’ll tell her. You’re a star. Cheers, love.’ He hangs up and tosses the phone onto the nightstand like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just pull me out of my entire day with a single phone call.
‘You—’
‘Handled it. Theo thinks a break’s overdue and said to keep you in bed.’ He stands, stretching like the conversation is already over. ‘Now, you sleep. I’ll be back with Irn Bru, paracetamol, and food.’
I should argue. Tell him I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. But I merely watch as he heads for the door, pausing only to glance over his shoulder.
