Page 82 of Power Play
“Okay?”
“Let’s keep doing this.”
He kisses me again under the twinkle lights, and it feels magical and wildly, wonderfully us.
CHAPTER FORTY
MURPHY
There’s a moment, right before Sophie kisses me under the fairy lights, where time does that weird, stretchy thing. Like the universe hits pause just long enough for me to realise that yeah, I’m properly in it. Head over heels. No turning back.
And I don’t even mind.
She’s grinning like she knows it too, arms looped around my neck, her perfume all warm citrus and trouble. The world around us is still humming with laughter, clinking glasses, someone shouting about a lost coat. But all I hear is her breath, close to mine.
“Okay then,” she says, eyes bright. “Let’s keep doing this.”
And I’m a goner.
We leave the venue hand in hand, and I don’t let go even when we hit the pavement outside. She tries to pull her hand away to adjust her heel strap, but I hold firm.
“Nope,” I say, grinning. “You’re mine now. No backsies.”
Sophie laughs, rolling her eyes. “God, you’re such an idiot.”
“True,” I reply, watching the way her dress swishes around her legs as we walk. “But you like it.”
“Debatable.”
“Liar.”
She doesn’t argue.
When we reach the car park, I open the passenger door for her. It’s not something I usually do, but tonight feels different. She slides in, giving me a look that’s half amused, half something else, something softer.
“You’re weirdly charming when you want to be,” she says.
“Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the brand.”
Back at her place, we don’t even pretend to keep it casual.
We’re kissing before the door shuts. Her heels are kicked off somewhere between the hallway and the sofa. I tell her she looks like trouble and she tells me I have the emotional depth of a spoon, but neither of us sounds convincing.
The night ends with her head on my chest and her fingers tracing the line of my collarbone.
“Murphy,” she murmurs, voice half-asleep. “You’re not going to mess this up, are you?”
I kiss the top of her head.
“Not a chance.”
Morning light filters in through her blinds, and for once, I wake up without the usual rush of panic about practice or the gnawing question of whether I’m screwing everything up.
Sophie’s still asleep, hair a wild halo against the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek. She looks peaceful. And yeah, I know I’m in trouble. The real kind. The kind where your stomach does cartwheels just looking at someone.
I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, and wander into the kitchen. It takes me three wrong cupboards to find the mugs. I make coffee, steal a biscuit from a tin labelled “DO NOT TOUCH”, and scroll through my phone while I wait for the kettle.
Dylan’s messaged the group chat.
