Page 106 of Power Play
I tuck my phone away, feeling that familiar buzz in my chest, thekind that tells me I’m exactly where I need to be, even if the grown-up stuff takes a while to catch up.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not the flat or the fancy events that matter, it’s the people you share it all with.
And with Sophie? I’m ready to handle whatever comes next.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
SOPHIE
Cardboard, it turns out, has a way of multiplying like rabbits.
I stare at the sea of boxes overtaking my tiny flat, wondering how on earth I managed to accumulate so much stuff in just a couple of years. Murphy is currently wedged halfway into the cupboard under my sink, pulling out a suspiciously heavy shoebox that I definitely do not remember packing.
“What even is this?” he grunts, staggering to his feet and depositing it on the floor. The box emits a worrying rattle. “Is this your secret stash of weaponised hairdryers or something?”
I smirk, taping up the box in front of me with more enthusiasm than skill. “It’s probably old Uni junk. Or my cursed collection of charger cables from phones that died in 2014.”
He stretches, brushing dust off his hoodie. “We’re gonna need a bloody moving van the size of a team bus. And that’s just for your novelty mugs.”
“Says the man who owns nine different hockey jerseys, all with his own name on them.”
“They weregifts, thank you very much. Fromfans.”
“Right. Fans.”
He flops down beside me on the floor, reaching for the roll of packing tape like it’s a beer. His hair is mussed, cheek smudged with dust, but he still somehow manages to look disgustingly attractive. It’s unfair, really.
“Speaking of fans,” he says, with the casual tone of someone who is not-so-casually teeing up a question, “there’s this charity gala thing next Thursday. Team sponsors, posh food, red carpet nonsense. Layla says I have to go.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. “And let me guess, you needsomeone to help you tie your tie and remind you not to say anything inappropriate to donors?”
He nudges my knee with his. “Was hoping you’d be my plus one, yeah. You’d class the whole thing up. Make me look respectable.”
I wince. Not because I don’t want to go, I actually love any excuse to wear something glittery and drink champagne while pretending I understand small talk. But...
“I can’t. I’ve got the finance meeting with that corporate wellness account on Friday morning, remember? The one I’ve been pulling twelve-hour days for. The director’s flying in from Dublin, it’s kind of a big deal.”
His face falls.
Not dramatically. Not in a storm-off, sulk-to-the-corner kind of way. More like someone let the air out of his happy balloon.
“So you’re saying I have to face the wolves alone. In a tux. With photographers. And tiny canapés.”
“Pretty much” I say, gently. “But you’ll be fine. Flash that devastating smile. Pretend to care about wine pairings. Don’t say the word ‘bollocks’ in front of anyone holding a cheque.”
He drops his head back against the wall with a groan. “What’s even the point of being in a committed relationship if I have to suffer through fancy rich people events alone?”
“Free laundry service and a designated box-packer?”
He grunts. “Not the same.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
He peeks one eye open. “Let me sulk in peace. It’s part of my charm.”
I roll my eyes, crawling across the floor to where he’s lounging. I straddle him easily, knees on either side of his thighs, arms looping around his neck. His hands find my waist like its muscle memory, and his thumbs draw slow, lazy circles that make heat pool low in my belly.
“You’ll be fine,” I murmur, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’ll make it up to you.”
