Page 56 of Power Play
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SOPHIE
Mondays aren’t meant to feel like this.
I’m halfway through typing up the draft for next month’s hospital finance meeting, and I’mgrinninglike a lovesick idiot. My assistant, Marissa, glances at me over her computer screen and narrows her eyes.
“You’re being suspiciously cheerful.”
“I’m just in a good mood.”
Marissa hums like she doesn’t believe me for a second and goes back to sorting through the figures from last week’s event. I try to refocus on the spreadsheet in front of me, but my phone vibrates in my lap again. I glance down, knowing exactly who it is.
Murph: Are you wearing my hoodie under your office blazer again?
Murph: Because that’s very sexy. Power move, Hart.
I bite my lip to hold in a laugh.
Sophie: How do you even know that?
Murph: Because I know you. And I can picture it. Legs crossed, bossing your department, secretly wearing my hoodie like a minx.
Murph: Also, I missyour face.
God help me.
I tuck my phone into the drawer, my cheeks burning, and pretend to care deeply about font sizes for the quarterly report. But it buzzes again a second later.
Murph: PS last night was perfect. PPS so are you. PPPS let’s skip work and run away to Paris. I’ll bring the pancakes.
I snort out loud.
“Sophie?” Marissa says.
I straighten immediately. “Hmm? Sorry. Thought of something funny.”
She gives me a slow blink and goes back to her Excel tabs. She’s seen me through a few boy disasters over the years; men who ghosted, men who lied, men who were emotionally available as a houseplant. But this? Murphy?
This is different.
It’s only been a few days since the match, sincethe kiss, since sleeping over at his place, but it already feels as though we’ve been orbiting each other for ages and finally snapped into place. Everything makes sense in a way it didn’t before.
I smile to myself as I draft a reply under the desk.
Sophie: You’re distracting. Stop texting me or I’ll come over there at lunch and kiss you senseless in the physio room.
The typing bubbles appear instantly.
Murph: Where’s the threat?
By midday, I’ve sent almost finished the report, scheduled a meeting with marketing to set a financial forecast for next quarter, and managed tomostlykeep my heart rate normal, despite Murphy’s barrage of voice notes that are half charming and half utterly filthy.
There’s one where he whispers, “I’m imagining your legs in those tights you wear to work,” while fake groaning into the microphone. I play it once, shriek internally, and then delete it before I accidentally throw my phone across the office.
I grab lunch in the canteen; salad, even though I’m craving chips, and eat it at my desk, scrolling through our texts like I’m sixteen again.
I’d forgotten this feeling. Not just the butterflies, but the slow-blooming joy of someoneseeing you, teasing you,wantingyou without games or confusion.
