Page 94 of Power Play
God help me, I do.
We leave the restaurant hand in hand, the night crisp and full of possibility. There’s no pressure, not really. Just this warm, slow thing building between us. The kind of thing that makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, home isn’t a flat full of candles and murder podcasts. Maybe it’s a loud, messy hockey player who makes me laugh until I can’t breathe.
Back at his place, we’re halfway through unbuttoning each other when I pause and murmur against his jaw, “You really want this? Me, permanently invading your space, leaving hair grips in your bathroom and demanding you recycle properly?”
He kisses my temple. “I want all of it. Even the part where you yell at me for using the good tea towels on spilled ketchup.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “Okay. Maybe. I’ll think about it. But just so you know, I would be keeping my flat for now. A girl needs options.”
His grin is immediate, crooked and smug. “So, you’re saying there’s a chance.”
I roll my eyes and push him back onto the sofa. “You better make room in your wardrobe, hockey boy. Just in case.”
He laughs, breathless as I crawl over him. “I’ll build you a whole new one. Gold handles and everything.”
“Gold?”
“You deserve the best.”
“You know what’s mad?” I say, pacing across Murphy’s living room later, wine glass in hand and a frown tugging at my forehead. “I’m mentally redecorating your flat, trying to imagine where my bookshelf would go and if I can convince you to throw out that godawful beanbag. And then I’m wondering, why amIthe one moving?”
Murphy, sprawled on the sofa with one leg flung over the armrest, blinks up at me. “Because you like my beanbag?”
“Murph.”
He winces. “Okay, maybe not the best argument.”
I point at him with my glass. “Exactly. Why do I have to give up my flat? It’s a good flat. Spacious. Decent water pressure. Walking distance to my office. It’s got character!”
“You mean the creaky floorboards and the cupboard that opens by itself when it rains?”
“Yes. It’s charming. Haunted, maybe. But charming.”
He sits up a bit straighter. “Babe, I’m not kicking you out of yours. I just figured mine makes more sense? I’ve got the driveway.The bigger telly. The spare room we could turn into an office-slash-yoga-studio-slash-storage-for-whatever-weird-thing-you’re-into-that-week.”
“I am not giving up an entire lease and my independence just for a yoga-slash-weird-stuff room.”
His brows lift. “So you’re saying I should move into yours instead?”
I stare at him, arms folded now. “Why not?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Scratches the back of his neck. “Because my place has the vibe. The history. The guys know it. It’s got my jersey framed in the hallway, for God’s sake.”
I snort. “Exactly. It’s your shrine. You’re basically living in a hockey-themed bachelor museum.”
“Which I was hoping to convert into a couples’ exhibit?”
“Then why is it me packing up my life and relocating to the shrine? Why not a fresh start for both of us?”
Murphy drags a hand through his hair and exhales like I’ve just suggested burning his skates. “I dunno. I guess I always thought if we did this, it’d be you coming to mine. That was the picture in my head.”
I soften, just a little. “Well, in my head, I keep my flat. At least for now. You’re great, but I like knowing I’ve got space that’s just mine. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you. It just means I want to feel like I’m choosing this because it fits, not because it’s the only option.”
He nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fair. Completely fair.”
I sit beside him, nudging his knee with mine. “It’s not a no. It’s a let’s figure it out.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “So long as you’re still bringing your murder podcast voice into my home now and then, I can be patient.”
