It’s not just the bed that feels too wide. It’s me. Hollowed out in the exact shape of him.
I flatten my palms over my eyes until colours pop behind my lids. I think about what he said. About how I’m acting like just being with him would destroy me.
And maybe that’s what scares me most.
Because it might.
Because hecoulddestroy me.
Not like Callum or Dad. Not like anyone else who tore bits off me until I didn’t know who I was anymore. Brodie doesn’t chip away at me. He builds me up. He makes me feel like I could be and have all the things I was too afraid to want before.
And that’s what’s dangerous.
It’s scary. Because if I get used to that and lose it? If I lose Brodie? I don’t know how to go back to being the woman who didn’t have him.
I breathe through the ache in my centre.
He didn’t deserve my fucking shitshow on the plane. He didn’t deserve me pulling away like that.
Brodie’s been nothing but good. Stopped gambling, did all the shit I forced him to do. Cooking show, library, media training, karaoke. Massaged my feet. And the rest of it, too. He’s never done a single thing to make me feel less than adored. Appreciated.
I’m the one being an arsehole, and for what? The fear of people talking? The worry about losing a few clients who can’t handle me having a fucking life? They didn’t sign me because I was some pristine, corporate lapdog.
They signed me because Charlie Harrington… Gets. Shit. Done.
Because I’m ambitious and clever, and I know how to make them money.
The MacKenzie deal for Brodie and the Rebels? Exhibit bloody A.
I’m good enough at my job to keep doing it even if I’m dating a rugby star. They can deal. They have to if they want me working for them.
And theywillwant me working for them.
Callum? Inconsequential. He can sneer all he wants.
And my dad? It’s not his life. I don’t need his approval anymore. I’m a grown woman.
And I’m in all-encompassing love with Brodie MacRae.
Love him so much it’s turning me inside out.
The truth lands so fast I forget to breathe. When did that happen? How long have I known? Doesn’t matter. I know it now. And that’s not something to run from.
My breath shakes as I pick up my phone. I’m done hiding and letting fear pull me backwards. I yank on my joggers and a baggy jumper, shove my feet into my UGG slippers. With trembling fingers, I grab my key card and head out, not giving myself time to second-guess it.
I’m going to find him and tell him I love him. I have to. He deserves it. And so do I.
My furry slippers shuffle over the carpet as I scan the corridor for any sign of Brodie. Nothing but stale air and hush. I knock on his door. Hesitant, like I’m afraid he’ll actually answer.
Nothing.
I frown and pull out my phone, shooting him a quick text.
(ME, 21:44): You in there, babe?
The message stays unread.
Weird.
