Page 64 of Power Play
Jacko raises his glass. “To Sophie. The bravest among us.”
We all clink our glasses together, laughing.
And in the back of my head, I’m already thinking about tonight. About seeing her again. I’ve been a lot of things in my life; a loudmouth, a player, a walking disaster on tequila nights. But with her? I want to be better.
And that’s a fucking terrifying, wonderful thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SOPHIE
Sunday evening, and I’m already twenty minutes late choosing what to wear. My wardrobe looks like a war zone, half the contents strewn across my bed, the other half clinging to hangers in that judgmental way only clothes can manage.
Murphy told me to dress nice. “Proper posh,” he said on the phone, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll be the one lowering the tone.”
My nerves have been doing cartwheels all afternoon. Not because of Murphy, he’s the easiest part of this whole thing. It’s this new... whatever this is. Real, public, serious. There’s something terrifyingly thrilling about that.
I finally settle on a silky black slip dress that clings in the right places and a pair of heels that scream confidence even if my insides are jelly. I tweak my curls into submission, swipe on lipstick, and try not to overthink the fact that I feel like I’m dressing up for something important.
When the knock comes, it’s softer than I expect. Murphy stands on the other side in a suit. Dark navy, tailored within an inch of its life, his usually unruly hair tamed (barely), and that grin.
“Jesus, Soph,” he says, eyes raking over me with a slowness that makes me feel half-naked and entirely adored. “You trying to kill me before we even get to dessert?”
“That depends,” I say, sliding past him with a smirk. “Are you planning on behaving tonight?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, offering me his arm. “I’m a troublemaker in formalwear.”
The restaurant is the kind of place that doesn’t even list prices on the menu. All candlelight and sleek marble tables and waiters whoglide instead of walk. I feel slightly out of place until Murphy leans in across the table and whispers, “You’re the hottest person in here. Everyone else just looks like money.”
The food is divine. We share everything, because of course Murphy insists on it, and every time he feeds me a bite of something, he watches me as if it’s the best thing he’s seen all night.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, his hand finds my thigh beneath the table. Warm, slow strokes. Innocent at first. Then not.
“Behave,” I hiss, but I’m breathless.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Make me.”
God help me, I almost do.
Dessert is forgotten. He pays the bill, and leaves an obnoxiously generous tip, then guides me out with a hand on my back. The night air is cooler than I expect, but Murphy pulls me close.
Then the flashbulbs start.
I blink, disoriented. Voices shout our names, his name, camera shutters rapid-firing like a drumbeat. I freeze.
“Murphy! Over here! Is this your girlfriend?”
“How long have you been seeing each other?”
I can’t move. I’m frozen in the centre of the chaos, heart thundering, mouth dry.
Murphy steps in front of me immediately. “Back off, yeah? She’s not part of the circus.”
His hand finds mine, gripping tight. He keeps himself between me and the photographers, shielding me with his body. “Eyes on me, Soph. Just me.”
I focus on the back of his neck, on the feel of his fingers squeezing mine, grounding me. He walks us fast but steady to the car, shielding my face from the flashes.
Once inside, he slams the door and rounds to the driver’s side, his jaw tight.
