Page 93 of Power Play
So, when Murphy texted to say he was taking me out for dinner, I nearly wept with relief.
Murphy: Fancy food and me in a shirt? Say yes.
Me: Are you wearing the shirt with buttons or the one with ketchup stains?
Murphy: Bold of you to assume it’s not both.
He rings the buzzer at exactly seven, and I open the door to find him grinning, hair manicured to perfection, wearing jeans, boots, and a button-down that’s miraculously wrinkle-free. It’s even tucked in.
I blink. “Who are you and what have you done with the goblin man I’ve been dating?”
He smirks. “He’s in the boot of my car. Thought I’d try being respectable for once.”
“Terrifying. But I support your bravery.”
The restaurant he’s picked is classic Murphy; not fancy, not flashy, just cool and a little quirky. Fairy lights dangle over the garden terrace, the air smells of garlic and warm dough, and the menus are shaped like vinyl records. Our table’s out back under a heater, tuckedin the corner where we can people-watch without being watched ourselves.
He orders for us with casual confidence, garlic prawns to start, then a spiced lamb thing that smells so good I nearly tear into the bread basket like a feral raccoon.
“Didn’t you have lunch?” he asks, pushing the butter toward me.
“I did,” I say, buttering a slice with something close to reverence. “Linda gave a talk about financial consistency. It was emotionally draining.”
He laughs. “Poor thing. Want me to punch Linda?”
“I’ll get you a T-shirt that saysSophie’s Emotional Support Athlete.”
“Sexy.” He winks and tops up my wine glass.
We eat, we flirt, we argue gently about the best Marvel movie; he’s wrong, it’s notIron Man 3, and by the time dessert rolls around, I’m relaxed. Warm. A little tipsy. Happy. He leans back in his chair, eyes soft, that smile he saves just for me hovering on his lips.
And then he drops it.
“So,” he says, casually as anything. “What would you say if I asked you to move in with me?”
I blink, mid-mouthful of chocolate mousse. “I’d say, ‘Dude, warn a girl before you try to kill her with a surprise cohabitation bomb.’”
He grins. “That wasn’t a no.”
“It wasn’t a yes either. You’re asking me to give up my sacred bath rituals, the ones that involve ten candles and a podcast about murder.”
“I have a bathtub.”
“You have a bathtub that’s seen more ice packs than soap. And don’t get me started on your fridge.”
“I cleaned it.”
I arch a brow. “What’s in there now?”
He counts on his fingers. “Half a lime. A bottle of barbecue sauce. And the souls of a thousand takeaway containers.”
“Romantic.”
“Hey,” he says, leaning forward, his foot nudging mine under the table. “I’m not asking because it’s convenient. I’m asking because I want to wake up next to you every morning, and I want to fall asleep knowing your weird little face is two feet from mine, breathing audibly like a pug in a hoodie.”
I snort. “You make domesticity sound deeply unsexy.”
“You love it.”
