Page 19 of Power Play
Murphy: You still in for the thing? Or have you come to your senses yet?
It takes her two minutes to reply.
Sophie: Already picked my outfit. Don’t flake. Also, you owe me a drink if I have to endure your fake boyfriend hands all over me.
I stare at the screen, grinning like an idiot. This is going to be chaos. Absolute chaos.
I can’t wait.
The pub’s buzzing when I walk in. The usual Friday crowd, half the team, a few local fans, and the jukebox stuck in early-2000s indie rock mode. Mia’s over by the bar talking to Jacko, who’s gesturing wildly with a pint in one hand and a bowl of chips in the other.
I spot Sophie almost instantly.
She’s leaning against a high table, leather jacket over a black top, and jeans that look painted on. Her hair’s tied back in that messy thing she does when she’s trying not to look like she tried. It’s working.
I walk up and slide in beside her, close but not touching.
She raises a brow. “This close enough for your wholesome image?”
“I’d say it’s borderline chaste,” I murmur. “Might need to up the affection. Really sell the fantasy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Touch me without warning and I’ll elbow you in the ribs.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I order drinks and we settle into our fake-but-not-fake date. It’s weird how easy it is. We already flirt without trying and banter as though it’s built into our lungs. The only difference is now it’s on purpose.
We mingle and laugh. She throws an olive at my face when I make a dumb joke. I toss a chip back and it lands in her drink. Murphy-Sophie standard protocol.
Then someone pulls out a phone.
“Oi! Couple photo!” Ollie shouts, holding up his camera.
Sophie freezes for half a second. I catch it but no one else does. Then she recovers, smooth as silk, and leans into me like we’ve done this a hundred times. Her hand lands on my chest. My arm slides round her waist automatically.
Flash.
Snap.
Ollie whistles. “Look at that. Bloodyadorable.”
I look down at her. She looks up at me. It’s just pretend. It’s just pretend. So why the hell does my heart feel like it’s trying to beat its way out of my throat?
Later, we duck outside for air. The cold hits hard, sharp enough to sober anyone up. Sophie draws on her vape, even though she swears she’s quitting.
“You alright?” I ask, leaning beside her against the wall.
“Peachy,” she says, echoing my tone from earlier.
I chuckle. “You were good in there. Very convincing. Might have to nominate you for a BAFTA.”
“I’ve been pretending not to hate you for months,” she says. “The role came naturally.”
“Oof,” I say, wincing. “Right in the self-esteem.”
“Please. Your ego’s fireproof.”
We lapse into silence. It’s not awkward. It never is with her. But it’s… aware. As though we’re both hyperconscious of the space between us. Of how easy it would be to close it. I look over at her. “You meant it though, right? That this is just for show?”
