Page 84 of Power Play
One night, a week after the fundraiser, I’m walking her back to her place when she stops outside the door.
“Hey,” she says, fidgeting with her keys. “Don’t make this weird but I told my mum about you.”
My brows shoot up. “Really?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Does he know how lucky he is?’”
“Smart woman.”
“Also asked if you were taller than my ex.”
“I hope you said yes.”
“I said you were broader. She said that counts.”
I laugh, leaning down to kiss her. “Tell her I’ll win her over. I’m great with mums.”
“She’s very protective.”
“So am I.”
Sophie tilts her head. “Of me?”
I nod. “Always.”
She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses me like it means something. And I feel like I mean something too.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SOPHIE
When I said, “let’s keep doing this,” I didn’t expect Murphy to act like we’d signed a contract with fine print and a commitment clause, but I’m hardly mad about it.
He’s become a permanent fixture in my phone and my flat. Texts me every morning like clockwork. Today was a selfie with bed hair and the caption“Still fit tho, right?”, and usually caps off the night with a meme, a voice note, or a completely unprovoked ranking of biscuits by dunkability.
He raids my snack cupboard as if he pays rent. Drops by with takeaway and claims he’s “just keeping me company” while I work, only to distract me so badly I end up rewriting the same three lines for an hour.
And then there’s the kissing.
The man kisses like it’s a bloody art form. Like every time is a new draft and he’s determined to make it a masterpiece. And I, little old professional, composed, self-contained me, turns into a puddle on contact.
Today is the same as any other weekday, really. I’m juggling client calls and trying to ignore the siren song of the biscuits he didn’t finish last night.
Murphy’s at the rink. He sent me a video earlier of Ollie tripping over a cone during drills, captioned “proud dad watching his toddler walk.”
I send back a gif of a clapping seal and carry on pretending I’m being productive on my work from home day. By late afternoon, he rings me without warning.
“Did you know,” he starts, “that your boyfriend is a localcelebrity now?”
I snort. “Don’t think you qualify just because someone recognised you at Greggs.”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, I’ll have you know the woman behind the till called me ‘luv’ and asked if I was that guy from the game on Friday.”
I grin. “And did you say yes?”
“Course I did. She gave me a free sausage roll.”
“Wow. Fame has really changed you.”
