No hesitation. No polite nod and change of subject. Just straight-up wanting to know her, be part of that side of my life. It’s cracking through a place I’ve kept bolted shut.
Tyres hum. My pulse skitters in my wrists. I stare out at the road as we descend the bridge onto the island. Past Kyleakin, the land unfolds in dramatic sweeps. In the distance, Cuillin peaks pierce low clouds. They move fast here, chasing shadows across the hills.
Beside me, Brodie reaches into the centre console and grabs a roll of Polos. He pops one in his mouth and holds them out.
I shake my head.
‘Suit yourself.’ He crunches down. ‘Still bitter about the song game?’
‘You had an unfair advantage. Most of those songs were from the nineties, and you grew up with two older brothers.’
‘Excuses.’ He drums against the steering wheel, smirking. ‘But you won Yellow Car.’
‘Damn right, I did. Your reaction speed is tragic for a professional athlete.’
‘Maybe I was going easy on you.’
The laugh that comes out of me isn’t pretty, but it’s real. Unguarded. Thisiseasy. Being with him is insanely easy.
We stopped for food in Glencoe earlier. One of those places with wooden beams, mounted stag heads, and an open fire. He stole chips off my plate, told me about his ambition to be the best fly-half of the decade. His dream of leading Scotland to a Six Nations victory, but also building something real with the Rebels. Something lasting.
I loved listening to him talk like that. Loved how his face lit up when he wasn’t playing it cool.
I love—
I slam the brakes on that thought.
I can’t fall for Brodie MacRae.
He’s my biggest client. The entire future of Elite Edge depends on getting his career off the ground again. If I let myself slip, if I let myself want him the way I do, it endangers everything we’ve built so far.
Everything I want to prove.
One night, one moment of weakness, and I was face-down in a hotel bed instead of at that event.
It mustn’t happen again.
But it’s not only that.
It’s also what would happen after.
It starts with a spark. Then a rush. Promises that feel real. And eventually, it turns. Like a tide pulling back. It wouldn’t even be his fault. Rugby comes first. It always does. It’s in his bones, the same way it was in Callum’s. Probably even more. And when the season ramps up, when the stakes get higher, when the demands of the game start pressing in…
I know how this ends. Slowly, inevitably, I become a footnote in someone else’s ambition. And if I let that happen again – if I let it be Brodie – I won’t recover.
I can’t. No more athletes. No more rugby players. My agency comes first.
I set my shoulders, eyes on the road ahead. We’ve got one more event tomorrow morning – a promo gig at another Dal Riata distillery – before we head back to Stirling. I have to keep my distance until then.
No lingering glances. No offhand smiles. No thinking about how his hands felt under my dress. Not remembering the low warmth in his voice when he said he wanted to meet my sister.
Not only can I do this, Ihaveto.
But I don’t have to like it.
Portree is packed. Skye is a tourist magnet, which means the B&B is buzzing with the sort of people who wear waterproof trousers and maps. It’s half eight, but the reception’s still open. I step up to the desk, stifling a yawn. Brodie leans against the counter beside me, all broad shoulders and wind-ruffled hair, thumbing lazily at his screen like he isn’t about to collapse from exhaustion after hours of driving.
The receptionist squints at the computer in front of her. ‘Ah, yes. Harrington and MacRae. Booked under Elite Edge.’
