Page 90 of Power Play
Me: I never kiss and tell.
Murphy: I should be jealous of that croissant.
Me: You should be. It just asked me to move in.
He sends back a string of flame emojis, followed by a selfie of him holding a protein shake and looking personally offended.
Murphy: I’ll show you flaky. Wait ‘til I get my hands on you later.
Me: Promises, promises.
I finish the croissant with a self-satisfied sigh, then march back into the office with a fresh cup of coffee and the energy of someone who knows she’s killing it today.
Afternoon meetings come and go. I talk strategy, solve a scheduling mess, and walk a junior through her first client call. She’s nervous, fumbling with her notes, but I give her a thumbs-up from across the desk and she steadies.
God, I love being good at this. I love the rush of it, the quiet power of knowing people look to me when everything goes to hell.
At five, I wrap up and lean back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head. My phone buzzes again.
Murphy: Be outside in ten. Wear something slutty. Like... jeans.
I snort.
Me: I’m in a skirt, you animal.
Murphy: I’m only human.
Ten minutes later, true to his word, he’s waiting outside in his car, windows down and music playing low. He’s got sunglasses on and that cocky grin that makes me want to kiss him and punch him simultaneously.
“You kidnap all your girlfriends straight from work?” I ask as I slide into the passenger seat.
“Only the fit ones.”
He hands me a bubble tea and a paper bag that smells suspiciously like fresh chips.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” I murmur, biting into one.
“You put up with me. That deserves at least fried potatoes.”
We drive aimlessly for a while, through winding roads and sleepy suburbs. The sun’s starting to dip, turning the sky that soft orange-pink that makes everything feel like a rom-com.
I glance over at him. He’s humming to the radio, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, one hand lazily resting on my thigh.
“You know,” I say, “you’re dangerously close to making me a little gooey.”
He grins. “Just a little?”
“Tiny bit. Like marshmallow on the inside, full goblin on the outside.”
“That’s my favourite combo.”
Eventually, we pull into a quiet park. It’s mostly empty, just a few joggers and a guy with a suspiciously well-trained dog. Murphy grabs the picnic basket from the back seat and lays out a blanket under a tree.
“Youreallyplanned this, huh?” I ask.
“What can I say? You bring out the domestic god in me.”
The food is surprisingly good. Simple sandwiches, fruit, and those tiny pastries I mentioned offhandedly once, weeks ago.
