Page 38 of Power Play
He didn’t press. Just smiled that crooked smile and made a joke about the toaster.
And now he’s texting me about Ollie, the PR event,andmy burnt kitchen appliance like it’s a casual check-in instead of a goddamn relationship landmine.
I should ignore it, but instead, I unlock my phone and stare at the message again. My fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Sophie: Hope you survived Jacko’s inappropriate jokes. Don’t traumatise the children.
Then deleteit and type,
Sophie: You miss my coffee because it’s the only decent thing I’ve ever made for you.
Delete.
Finally, I type,
Sophie: You’re not allowed to be thoughtful. That wasn’t part of the deal.
I stare at it. Then delete it too. My head drops into my hands.
I’m a grown woman. I have a full-time job, rent to pay, a degree I actually use, and a mother who still thinks I “just haven’t met the right man yet,” as if I’m one blind date away from enlightenment.
I donothave time for emotional confusion caused by a six-foot hockey player who flirts like its oxygen, and kisses like it’s a promise.
A knock on the frame of my open office door makes me jolt. Claire, one of the paediatrics nurses, pokes her head in. “Got a second?”
I straighten, trying not to look like I was mid-crisis. “Sure. What’s up?”
“We’re down a volunteer for tomorrow’s PR visit with the hockey lot. Any chance you’d fancy wrangling them?” Oh. You have got to be kidding me, I work in finance not PR. Claire grins like she knowsexactlyhow inconvenient this is. “Youaredating one of them, right? The marketing team thought you’d be ideal for the job.”
“Nope.”
She folds her arms. “So you’re saying youdon’twant to see Murphy charming a bunch of sick children while holding a teddy bear?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“So, youdowant to.”
“Claire.”
She backs away with a smirk. “I’ll put you down for the morning shift.”
I don’t reply to Murphy’s message all day. It sits there like a trap, blinking quietly, waiting for me to step on it.
By the time I’m back home, I’ve read it so many times I’ve practically memorised the punctuation. I tell myself I’m not obsessing.
I heat up some soup, avoid eye contact with the toaster, and deliberately do not think about the way Murphy’s hand slid up my thigh last night like he already knew I was going to let him in. Like my body was already betraying me long before I admitted anything.
I scroll through TikTok. I rewatch half an episode of some terrible dating show. I consider calling Mia, then remember she’s probably at the rink, being semi-professional and definitely not talking about my questionable life choices.
Then, finally, I pick up my phone.
And I text him.
Sophie: The toaster’s fine. Still a lethal bastard. Good luck tomorrow. Don’t make any kids cry. And Murphy? No more staying over. We’re back to fake only.
I hit send.
And then immediately put my phone on airplane mode and throw it across the room. Because if I see those three dots appear, if he replies too fast or too sweet or too goddamnhonest, I’ll cave.
