Page 79 of Power Play
“I’m asking your physiotherapist, and she says you have the flexibility of a dining chair.”
He grins down at me. “Don’t worry, Hart. If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
I raise a brow. “Romantic.”
The room is buzzing. There are fairy lights strung up across the ceiling, waiters gliding by with champagne flutes, a jazz quartet playing something smooth in the corner. Everyone looks polished and posh, but Murphy and I? We’re trouble wrapped in satin and tailored navy.
“You clean up alright,” I say, giving him a sideways look as we find our table.
“Just alright?”
“Well, your tie’s slightly crooked. But it adds charm. Like you got distracted thinking about your own reflection.”
He fakes offense. “I’ll have you know this is my best tie.”
“It’s also youronly tie.”
“Touche.”
We slip into our seats, exchanging greetings with the rest of the table; mostly players and a few staff. Dylan and Mia are across the way, already deep in some smouldering eye conversation that makes me wonder if anyone else notices the way he leans just a little too close, or the way she fiddles with her bracelet whenever he looks at her like that.
“I give them an hour before he’s dragging her home for sex,” Murphy murmurs, following my gaze. “Two if Mia’s stubborn streak wins.”
“I give them one bottle of wine and a slow song.”
He taps his glass against mine. “To romantic tension.”
“To poor impulse control.”
The dinner service begins, but I’m too distracted by the auction boards lining the back wall. Silent auction time. My arena. My battlefield.
“You coming?” I ask, rising from my seat with a glint in my eye.
“Lead the way, General.”
We weave through the crowd toward the tables of prizes. There’s everything from weekend spa getaways to a private hot air balloon ride, signed sports memorabilia, and wine hampers that look like they belong in the home of a Bond villain.
“Oooh.” I stop in front of a couple’s cooking class. “You keen to see how well we argue over garlic ratios?”
Murphy peers at the listing. “Are we talking Italian or full-scale ‘Sophie throws a ladle at me’ levels?”
“That depends. Will you mansplain how to chop onions?”
“I would never. I’d simplyofferguidance.”
I snatch the pen and write our names down. “We’re doing it. Just don’t wear a mesh apron.”
His eyes flash. “Too late.”
We move on. Murphy bids on a year’s supply of artisan coffee as if he’s avenging a personal vendetta. I start a bidding war over a luxury massage voucher with a woman in sequins and pearls who’s giving me murder-eyes.
“She looks like she drinks gin at breakfast,” I whisper as I raise the bid again.
“Respect,” Murphy says. “But also, she’s not beating you.”
The woman glares at me as though she’s planning to trip me on the dancefloor later.
“Add her to the list,” I tell Murphy.
