‘Okay.’ Charlie coughs softly, resetting the room. ‘The agenda. Theo, the Valentine’s pitch?’
Theo taps her screen, her professional mask snapping back into place. ‘The Sunday Post is interested in a “Power Couples of Scottish Sport” feature. It’s a soft-focus fluff piece. Home life, shared interests, how you support each other.’
I cough out a sound that’s only a half-laugh. ‘Our shared interests are me being a pain in the arse and her making lists about it.’
‘I can spin that,’ Theo says without missing a beat. ‘“He’s the chaos, she’s the calm. A perfect balance.” Readers love that dynamic.’
‘Do they?’ I watch the way her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip as she concentrates on the screen.
‘This isn’t a joke, Finn,’ Charlie says. ‘The fake relationship is helping. But it’s not helping enough.’
My smile falters. ‘What do you mean, not enough? We held hands in public. I bought her a coffee. Smooching and all that.’
‘The press is still circling,’ Charlie continues. ‘Leadership’s spooked. The board wants reassurance. And as I mentioned, we’re losing clients.’ She scans from me to Theo. ‘We need a bigger gesture. Something that feels undeniable.’
Theo’s fingers are poised over her tablet, but she’s gone still. ‘What kind of gesture?’
‘Okay, listen. One of the top UK lifestyle magazines wants an exclusive with the both of you,’ Charlie says, dropping the words one by one. ‘Feature piece. Big spread. The works.’
I feel a flicker of relief. ‘Right. Great. We can do that. I’m painfully photogenic, as you’ve noticed.’
Charlie gives a tight smile. ‘They’re thrilled. But they don’t just want a story. They want a home story.’
I take a bite of shortbread. The crumbs catch in my windpipe, and I cough – a dry, hacking sound that fills the suddenly silent office. A home story. My home is a revolving door of takeaway cartons and laundry I haven’t done in weeks.
Beside me, Theo turns into a statue carved from ice.
Charlie hits the spacebar on her keyboard once, waking the screen. ‘They want to see the loved-up couple in their natural habitat. The cosy nights in, the shared mugs, the whole domestic fantasy.’ She lets the idea settle, a toxic cloud in the clean air. ‘So. Finn, I suggest you move in with Theo. Temporarily.’
My heart thuds and breath stalls as if the floodlights have just cut out. Move in with her. With Theodora ‘no comment’ MacMickin. With her things. Her bed. Her wandering around in a towel.
I wonder if a man can die from a raging boner. Seems medically plausible.
‘For a week or so,’ Charlie adds, as if that makes it any less insane. ‘Enough to stage some photos, let the press believe this is serious. Convince them you’re a reformed man in a committed relationship.’
I open my mouth to say something. Anything. A joke, a protest. Even a scream. But no sound comes out. My gaze drifts to Theo. Her knuckles are white where she’s clamping onto her tablet. Her perfect, serene mask has glitched, and for a second, I see the panic underneath. It’s the same expression she had when I got the cut during the match.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she says calmly.
‘We won’t do it if you’re not on board. Your call.’ Charlie’s expression doesn’t change. ‘But why not?’
‘I don’t think we need to escalate this all the way to cohabitation.’ Theo’s words are clipped.
I glance at her. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t let me move in with me either.’
‘It’s our best shot at getting the feature,’ Charlie explains. ‘Which is our best shot at keeping Dalcrieff off Finn’s back. And that’s our best shot at stopping more sponsors and clients from pulling out.’
‘A week?’ I ask.
‘You showing up for a shoot and then disappearing the next day, no one buys it,’ Charlie says. ‘But give us seven to ten days of breakfast runs, blurred selfies, you in her doorway half-dressed? That sells the redemption arc and domestication, on socials and otherwise.’
Domestication?
A thick silence descends. I hear the hum of the air conditioning, the distant city traffic. We’re both trapped. The shame from before returns, hot and acidic. I don’t want to invade her home. But Theo’s a strategist. She’s weighing the fallout and making a call, the same way she always does.
‘Why can’t we rent an Airbnb?’ Theo asks. ‘Or a fake house? We could stage it.’
‘Because they want to do the shoot in two days,’ Charlie replies. ‘We don’t have the time or resources to find a suitable location, vet it, and dress it to appear authentic. This is Edinburgh, everything is always booked way in advance. I’m not pushing it on you if you don’t want to, but your flat is perfect. It’s real and lived-in. It tells the story we need to sell. And we can’t risk anyone finding out that we’re faking it.’
