Page 37 of Power Play
Later, as I’m throwing my kit bag into the back of my car, I check my phone. There’s still no message from Sophie. I debate texting her. Something casual. Flirty. Or honest, which is worse. Instead, I flick open Notes and start typing.
You should’ve seen Ollie’s face when we told him I stayed over. Kid looked like I just admitted I murdered Santa.
Mike’s got us doing a hospital visit tomorrow. PR thing. But this one feels different. Some kid knows all our stats.
Anyway, hope your toaster survived the trauma. Miss your coffee.
I don’t send it. Not yet. I just stare at her contact for a long time, my thumb hovering. Because no matter what Sophie says about this being fake, nothing about last night felt pretend.
And that’s the most dangerous part.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SOPHIE
The first thing I do when I get to work is burn my tongue on the coffee I picked up on the way in. Because of course I do.
The second thing I do is try not to think about last night.
Spoiler alert; I fail.
I’ve rewritten it a dozen different ways in my head already. In one version, I kick Murphy out immediately after sex and reclaim my boundaries like a sane, self-respecting adult. In another, I resist the temptation to jump him altogether and instead have a sensible, mature conversation about keeping things professional and platonic.
But unfortunately, in the version that actually happened, I peeled my clothes off as if I was allergic to them and then let him sleep in my bed. All night. Like it meant something.
Which it didn’t.
Obviously.
I take another sip of coffee, it’s still too hot, and burn my tongue again. That feels right, like the punishment I need.
At my desk, I open my laptop and dive into my day’s to-do list. I even volunteer to handle the new trainee because apparently, I’m in that kind of self-flagellating mood.
Three hours in, I’m deep in a spreadsheet when my phone buzzes next to the keyboard.
It’s Murphy. Of course it is. My heart does a stupid little somersault I pretend not to notice, and I wait a full minute before I look.
Murphy: You should see Ollie’s face when we told him I stayed over. Kid looked like I just admitted I murdered Santa. Mike’s got us doing a hospital visit tomorrow. PR thing. But this one feels different. Some kid knows all our stats. Anyway, hope your toaster survived the trauma. Miss your coffee.
I stare at the screen.
Then I read it again. And again. As if on the fourth or fifth round, the words might rearrange themselves into something less sincere.
“Miss your coffee.”
Not “your legs” or “your bed” or “your extremely questionable cooking skills.”
Just coffee.
Which sounds casual, but coming from Murphy it feels oddly loaded. Because it’s not really about the coffee. It’s about waking up together. Sharing space, cups and the silence.
I lock my phone and toss it face down on the desk.
This is fine. Totally fine. We agreed, didn’t we? This whole fake-dating thing was supposed to be harmless. A way to secure his sponsors and his image. Mutual benefit. No strings. Certainly no sleepovers or heartfelt messages about caffeine and overcooked toast.
The trouble is, Murphy is annoyingly good at making people like him. Not just at a surface-level, charming-devil-may-care way, though he’s got that in spades, but in a way that seeps into your ribs when you’re not paying attention.
Like how he remembered I prefer oat milk, even though I only mentioned it once in passing. Or the way he didn’t make a big deal when I panicked a bit post-sex and tried to play it off as though it was a one-time thing.
