Oh, sure. Just sleep. As if that’s all it would be. As if I wouldn’t be hyper-aware of every carved inch of him. As if my body wouldn’t remember the feel of his calloused hands, the scratch of his stubble.
‘Yeah, fine.’
But it’s not fine. Not even close. And we both know it.
I yank open my suitcase and dig through it with far too much intensity for someone who is getting ready for bed. I only have a strap-top and matching shorts. Far too sexy, far too dangerous. So, I grab his rugby shirt. That’ll do.
I grip the fabric, turn…and immediately regret everything.
Because Brodie – entirely too much man for this tiny room – has yanked off his hoodie, and his T-shirt with it. No undershirt or any other barrier. Bare golden skin, cut from years of tackles and scrums, stretching over thick shoulders and a chest that looks like it was forged in a blacksmith’s daydream.
I don’t stare.
I absolutely don’t stare.
Except for the moment his abs shift, going tight as he shoves a hand through his hair like it’s no big deal, and – Jesus, Mary, and all the saints – his biceps. They flex, and suddenly the temperature in the room spikes to hellfire.
I snap my gaze back to my suitcase, grab something, spin on my heel, bolt into the bathroom, and lock the door.
I take longer than usual. Brush my teeth, wash my face, do the entire nighttime routine I usually skip when travelling.
I’m not walking back into that room until I’ve composed myself and he’s dressed.
Brodie MacRae looks too fucking good without a T-shirt.
And now I have to share a tiny metal-frame bed with him.
Eventually, I can’t delay any longer. I take a deep breath, steel myself, and step out.
He’s already sprawled out on one side of the bed, propped up against the rail frame, in boxers and a worn Nirvana tee that’s holding on by sheer loyalty at this point, scrolling on his phone without a care in the world.
He lifts his eyes. ‘Took you long enough.’
‘Didn’t realise I was on a timer.’
‘Didn’t think you’d need hours to put on jammies and brush your teeth.’ He tosses his phone onto the bedside cabinet.
I march over, grab two extra pillows, and plonk them right between us in the middle of the bed. A line in the sand.
Brodie watches me, expression unreadable, but his gaze falters for a second. A hesitation. He grinds his jaw once. Biting something back. His fingers drum once against his quad before he stills them. Like he’s making a decision. He reaches for his phone and deliberately turns it off. No scrolling. No distractions. Just silence.
I don’t know why that makes my stomach flip. I don’t know why it feels like some kind of restraint, as if he’s holding himself back as much as I am.
He brushes his teeth and comes back within three minutes. I crawl into the squeaky bed and lie down, yank the duvet over me, and stare daggers at the ceiling. It’s not the bed or the warmth radiating off his body. It’s the fact that every nerve in me is screaming to roll over, sink my teeth into his shoulder, and let him fuck me apart until I forget why I swore I’d never touch another rugby player again.
‘Night, MacRae.’
‘Night, Harrington.’
I wake to heat.
To the slow push and pull of his breath against my hair. To the weight of his arm slung low over my waist, his palm resting flat over my navel. And for a long, frozen moment, I don’t move.
At some point in the night, the two pillows I’d barricaded between us gave up and wandered to the foot of the bed.
This quiet intimacy is more dangerous than anything that could’ve happened when we were awake.
I should ease away. Should break the contact, should remind us both that this is not what we do. Instead, I lie there and stare into the dark. Only until my heart stops clawing at my ribs. It’s safe here. In the hush before morning, before words and choices and regret. Before I have to remember what’s at stake.
