Page 46 of Power Play
I sigh and sit back in my chair. “It was supposed to be fun. Harmless with mutual benefits. But he keeps saying things and I keep catching myself looking at his smile as if it’s some sort of goddamn promise.”
“Because you like him,” Mia says softly. “Not just the sex. Not just the banter.Him.”
I look down at the rim of my cup, whispering, “It’s not supposed to be real.”
“But what if it is?” she asks.
I close my eyes. It’s thewhat ifthat gets me. What if the lines are blurred because theywantto be? What if we’re not just faking this and it’s already real? And I’m the one too scared to admit it?
Mia touches my hand gently. “You don’t have to rush. But don’t run from it, either. Not if it matters.”
I nod, blinking back the swell of something suspiciously close to vulnerability. “I just don’t want to be the idiot who falls while he’s still pretending.”
Mia smiles. “You’re not an idiot. You’re brave. And I think Murphy stopped pretending a long time ago, if he even ever was.”
My throat tightens. I take another sip of coffee to buy time.
Mia, bless her, changes the subject, moving on to game night highlights and Dylan’s inability to say no to a seven-layer dip. But the truth sits heavy in my chest.
I’m in deep and I don’t want out. Not anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MURPHY
The car’s already idling outside her building when I pull up the message thread on my phone for the hundredth time, like rereading our texts will make time move faster. I don’t even care that Layla went full MI5 over this ride; sleek black Benz, driver in a suit, the works. Apparently, when a brand as big as Vantage Energy is footing the bill, image is everything.
My phone buzzes just as I open the door.
Sophie: Coming down. Brace yourself.
I grin.
And then I see her.
Green satin, slit high up one leg, neckline low enough to fry my last brain cell. Her curly hair is pinned up high on her head with tendrils loose, framing her face, her lips are red enough to ruin any man, never mind me. I forget how to breathe for a second.
“Wow,” I manage, standing up as she walks over. “I was braced. Still not enough.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s the smallest blush riding her cheeks. “You going to open the door, or just stand there like a speechless idiot?”
“I’m appreciating the art,” I say, and then open the door with a mock bow. “Your carriage, m’lady.”
She snorts and slips inside, legs crossing in that way that short-circuits everything north of my shoulders. I follow her in and shut the door behind us.
Inside, it’s dim and soft and quiet. The kind of car you whisper in. But neither of us whispers.
“You look... Jesus, Sophie. You look unreal.”
She smirks, adjusting the slit in her dress. “Try to keep your tongue in your mouth during dinner.”
I lean in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
Her breath hitches, just slightly, and for a moment, all the fake relationship lines blur again. Not that they’ve been particularly sharp lately.
“You nervous?” I ask, my thumb brushing lightly over her knee.
She shrugs, but it’s tight. “A little. You know, just casually being arm candy at a million-pound dinner full of PR vultures and champagne flutes. Totally average Thursday night.”
