Page 81 of Power Play
“I really like you, Hart,” he says quietly, as if it costs him nothing and everything to admit it.
I smile, heart pounding. “That makes two of us.”
“Does it freak you out?”
“A little,” I say honestly. “But not enough to stop.”
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “Good.”
When he kisses me, it’s unhurried. Just a soft press of lips in the middle of a crowded dance floor, as if we’ve found our own pocket of quiet in the chaos. My fingers tangle in the lapel of his jacket. His hand settles at my waist like it belongs there.
“Hey,” he says when we part.
“Hey.”
We grin at each other like idiots.
Then the emcee’s voice booms over the microphone, announcing the winners of the silent auction. We rush back to the table like excited kids at a school raffle.
“Couples cooking class goes to Sophie Hart and Samuel Murphy.”
He fist-pumps. “YES.”
“I hope you like being bossed around in a kitchen.”
“I hope you like making out behind a pantry door.”
We win the coffee. I win the massage. We lose the spa break, and Murphy looks genuinely offended. “Massage Mary outbid us.”
“I hope she trips on her towel.”
“We’ll start our own spa,” he mutters, scribbling an imaginary name. “Murph & Hart’s House of Healing.”
“Sounds illegal.”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
Later, as people gather their coats and guests begin to trickle out, we linger at the entrance, reluctant to break the spell.
“I don’t want tonight to end,” I admit, surprising myself.
Murphy leans against the doorway, watching me with that lopsided grin. “Then let’s not let it.”
“What, stay here? Sleep under the auction table?”
“I mean figuratively. Let’s keep doing this. The flirting. The dancing. The you and me thing.”
My breath catches.
“You’re serious.”
“As a pulled hamstring,” he says, stepping closer. “Sophie Hart, I am mad about you.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed and grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re brilliant. So we’re even.”
I loop my arms around his neck. “Okay then.”
