Page 49 of Power Play
“Well, you nailed it. Even got a laugh with that joke about your mum still thinking you’re a plumber.”
He smiles faintly. “It’s not a joke. She tells people that at the bingo.”
I huff out something resembling a laugh, but the tension is still there, simmering just under my skin.
“I don’t like feeling as though I’m being paraded around,” I whisper. “I mean, Iagreedto it, so I can’t be mad, right? But the photographers, the stares, the questions; it felt like I was being measured.”
Murphy’s hand is still wrapped around mine, thumb stroking the back of it as if it’s the only anchor he has. His voice is low when he says, “You’re not a prop, Sophie.”
I look at him, and his eyes are so goddamn earnest I want to scream. “You treat me like I’m not,” I admit. “But that doesn’t change the fact that tonight I felt like one.”
There’s a long pause. Then, he says, “You were the only real thing in that room.”
I blink. “What?”
“I’m serious.” His gaze locks with mine. “Everyone else was playing some part. Agents, sponsors, PR. But you? You were the only one who didn’t pretend to care about any of it. You were yourself.”
“Which version is that? The one nervously inhaling a breadstick or the one clinging to your arm as though I was about to pass out?”
He leans in, close enough for me to smell his cologne, it’s dark, clean, and obviously expensive. “The version who kept me sane all night. Who whispered that filthy thing in my ear right before the group photo.”
I smirk despite myself. “You mean the thing about the wine bottle and the conference room table?”
“That’s the one.”
There’s a beat between us and then we’re laughing, and the crack in the dam has finally broken. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I just… tonight made me feel things I didn’t want to feel.”
“Like what?”
I swallow. “Like maybe this isn’t so fake anymore.”
It’s out before I can stop it.
Murphy goes very still. His eyes are darker now, searching my face like he’s trying to read what I haven’t said.
And for once, I let him.
“Maybe I care more than I should,” I add, my voice sounds raw and almost unrecognisable. “Maybe it stings when people treat me like just another PR stunt. Maybe I liked being on your arm a littletoomuch.”
His thumb brushes my cheek. I hadn’t realised I was crying until he caught the tear.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t do that. Don’t cry, Soph.”
I laugh wetly. “It’s your fault. You made me wear five inches of mascara on top of these bloody fake lashes.”
Murphy shifts closer but he doesn’t kiss me. He just rests his forehead against mine, as if that’s all he can do without breaking the moment.
“This was never just fake to me,” he says in a low voice, it’s almost a whisper. “Not once.”
I close my eyes. “Then what is it?”
He exhales shakily. “Something I don’t want to lose.”
The car slows outside my flat and the world feels weirdly quiet. We don’t move for a moment. Finally, I whisper, “Come up?”
His smile is slow, and devastating. “I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
