Page 109 of Power Play
“Samuel Murphy,” she purrs, sliding in beside me before I can make a graceful escape. “Looking positively edible.”
“Evening, Chloe,” I say, trying for civil but disinterested.
She doesn’t take the hint. One manicured hand finds my forearm, her nails tracing idle circles on my sleeve. “Still single?”
I ease back a fraction, keeping my tone light. “Taken.”
She gasps dramatically. “No. Don’t tell me some lucky girl has finally managed to tie you down.”
“More like I sprinted into it willingly.”
Chloe laughs like I’ve told a joke, then leans in, breath hot against my ear. “She must be verysecure, letting you loose in a room like this.”
I stiffen. Her perfume hits like a glitter bomb; sweet, cloying, expensive. She’s pressed against my side now, arm draped across mine, red lips practically brushing my cheek. To anyone watching, we look intimate.
I clear my throat. “Chloe,”
“You remember that night in Brighton?” she whispers, fingers now grazing my lapel as if she’s straightening it. “You were drunk, I was bored…”
“I also remember saying it was a mistake the next morning,” I cut in, voice clipped. “And I’m in a relationship now.”
“But your fans wouldn’thatea reunion pic,” she murmurs, pressing her body just a little closer. “You’ve always been good for clicks.”
Across the room, Layla throws me a look, half curious, half disapproving. Great.
“I’m not interested in being anyone’s clickbait,” I mutter, stepping back to reclaim a bit of space. Chloe’s hand lingers on my chest for a beat too long before she finally lets it fall.
“Pity,” she pouts. “We looked good together. Just saying.”
She twirls a strand of hair and offers one last lingering glance before slinking off toward the bar, no doubt to hunt for someone else with a recognisable face and a weak spot for flattery.
I exhale slowly. Jesus.
My phone buzzes.
Sophie: How’s it going? Drowning in canapés and hedge fund bros?
Murphy: One overly enthusiastic “fan” down. Five sponsor convos to go. Wish you were here.
Sophie: I’d be making you behave.
Murphy: That’s why I want you here.
Sophie: That, or you just want me in that dress I tried on last week.
Murphy: Also true.
I grin at my screen, picturing her in it; low back, high slit, the kind of dress that would’ve made every bloke here choke on his pinot noir.
Chloe’s lipstick smudge is still faintly visible on my jacket.
Perfect.
Layla reappears, shepherding me toward a new circle of donors. I charm. I nod. I talk about community outreach and youth programslike I eat, sleep, and breathe grassroots hockey. I give them my best smile, even as my skin still crawls from that little performance.
Samuel Murphy and a mystery girl. That’s what the caption would read tomorrow if Chloe had her phone out.
And Sophie… God.
