Page 80 of Power Play
He winks. “You’re collecting enemies faster than I collect penalty minutes.”
As we pass a bidding sheet for a skydiving experience, he stops short.
“Tempted?” I ask.
“I like my feet on the ground. Preferably between yours.”
I roll my eyes, failing to suppress a laugh. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m luckier than that,” he says, and it’s not a joke this time.
His hand finds mine, warm and steady, and I feel the moment shift. Not in a grand, cinematic way, just a small, electric hum in my chest.
“You know this is technically our first official public outing,” I say, glancing at our intertwined fingers.
Murphy grins. “I thought the kebab shop counted.”
“It does. But I don’t think the kebab guy put our picture on Instagram.”
“His loss.”
We’re interrupted by a waiter offering more champagne, which Murphy declines in favour of a beer. “I need to be at full strength for the dancing portion,” he says. “Don’t want to drop you mid-spin.”
“I’d sue.”
“You’d sue, then still dance with me next week.”
“True.”
Dinner winds down. People start migrating toward the dance floor. Mia and Dylan go first; no surprise. He moves like a guy who’s been waiting all night to get her that close.
Murphy watches them for a moment, then turns to me, offering his hand. “Ready to show them how it’s done?”
“You better not be all talk.”
“You wound me.”
He leads me out, slipping a hand to the small of my back again instinctively, like we’ve been doing this for years. The music is slow but not too slow, and there’s a natural rhythm to the way we move together.
“You’re actually good at this,” I say, genuinely surprised.
“I told you. I have hidden depths.”
“Name one.”
“I watch theGreat British Bake Offreligiously.”
“That’s not a depth. That’s taste.”
“Fine. I also cried at Paddington 2.”
I blink. “Okay, you win.”
He twirls me, then pulls me close again, smirking. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I’ve been known to dabble.”
We sway, spinning lazily beneath the soft golden light, our bodies close enough to steal breath. His eyes don’t leave mine. It’s that look again, the one that turns my stomach to a nervous, hopeful mess.
