Page 22 of Power Play
“No,” I say. Then again, quieter. “No.” There’s a beat of silence. I let out a breath. “Okay, maybe. I don’t know. He’s infuriating. He never shuts up. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”
“And yet…”
“And yet.” I slump back in my chair. “He said something last night. After the photo.” Mia’s quiet. “He said pretending not to care is getting harder,” I admit, and the words sound more dangerous now that they’re out in the open. “I didn’t know what to do with that.”
“What did you say?”
I chew my lip. “Nothing useful.”
“Did it feel real?”
“It felt like a very convincing performance,” I say, but my voice is thin.
Mia sighs. “Sophie, you’re allowed to want things, you know.”
“Not this. Not him.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s Murphy,” I say, exasperated. “Because he sleeps with anything with a pulse. Because he doesn’t do serious. Because I already know what it feels like to wake up next to him and pretend I didn’t want it to mean more.”
Mia is quiet again. But it’s thesupportivekind of quiet, which is worse. I stand up, pacing across my office. “I’m not built for this,” I go on. “The games. The maybe-he-meant-its. The waiting for him to get bored and move on.”
“Okay,” she says gently. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep faking it,” I say, settling back in my chair with a definitive huff. “Smile for the cameras, flirt for the sponsors, and absolutely, categorically not fall for Samuel bloody Murphy.”
“Sounds like a watertight plan,” Mia says dryly.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want me to start prepping a playlist for the inevitable breakdown? I’ve got one with a lot of Alanis Morissette on it.”
I chuckle despite myself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Hey.” Her tone shifts. “I’m here, okay? However this goes.”
“I know.” I pause. “How’s Dylan, by the way?”
She groans.
“Ah,” I say, smug again. “Trouble in broody-paradise?”
“Don’t even start.”
“Too late. You’re emotionally compromised.”
“Says the woman fake-dating a man she definitely wants to real-date.”
I frown. “Alright, point made.”
She laughs again. “Talk later?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, M.”
We hang up and I sit there, phone in hand, staring into space while the weight of last night lingers behind my ribs. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I really didn’t. It was supposed to be fun. Hot night, closed door, no strings.
And now there’s a thread between us I can’t stop tugging on.
