Chapter 25
MURPHY
When the car rolled up the long drive, Murphy leaned forward to stare out the window.
Calling it a house didn’t feel right. This was an estate. Stately, sprawling, the kind of place you saw in glossy magazines or period dramas, not real life.
He’d grown up in a middle-class neighborhood in Boston. Brick houses crammed close together, chain-link fences, playing street hockey with the neighbors. This? This was a different planet.
Nerves buzzed in his chest, threatening to knock him sideways. But with Conner and Cash walking in beside him, he straightened his spine. He wanted to stand like they stood. They were confident, steady. Men who looked like the kind of men someone like Hillary could lean on.
Inside, the entryway gleamed like a museum. High ceilings, heavy chandeliers, walls hung with oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. His gaze darted everywhere, caught between awe and disbelief.
A man in a dark suit appeared, taking his coat before he could even shrug it fully off, then offered a tray of drinks. Murphy blinked down at the crystal glasses, every part of him shouting he was not prepared for this.
He flexed his hands at his sides, trying to ground himself.
No matter how out of place he felt here, he knew why he’d come. For Hillary.
He was still trying to wrap his head around the grandeur of the place when Hillary appeared.
She moved toward them with that polished grace he’d only ever seen in glimpses. Her black dress was simple, elegant, and her hair was pinned just so. Her expression was composed, her posture impeccable. Every inch of her looked like she belonged here, like she was carved from the same marble.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice smooth and formal, as though they weren’t friends but business associates. She hugged Sasha, nodded at Conner and Cash, then turned to him. For half a beat, her eyes softened, but then the mask slipped back into place.
Murphy forced a smile, though his chest ached.
Because standing here, he could see it clearly.
His family’s funerals had been messy, warm affairs with tears, laughter, shared stories over heaping plates of mac and cheese and other casseroles dropped off by neighbors, kids running underfoot, and everyone left feeling closer, stitched together by grief and love.
This was . . . not that. This was cool nods and air kisses, trays of crudité, conversations about golf scores and stock prices instead of memories of the woman they were supposed to be honoring.
And in the middle of it all was Hillary. Perfect. Composed. Carrying it all alone.
He saw her differently now—not just the sharp PR manager who always had the answers, not just the woman who’d undone him with a smile—but as someone who had been forged in this coldness. Someone who’d had to learn early how to keep her armor polished.
Murphy’s jaw tightened.
No wonder she didn’t know how to lean on anyone.
Murphy didn’t try to insert himself. He knew this wasn’t his place, not really. But he couldn’t stop watching her.
Hillary moved from one group of mourners to the next, her smile professional, her tone smooth. She carried it all. The conversations, the thank-yous, the coordination with the staff, all of it, as if she had a clipboard in her hand instead of grief on her shoulders.
So he made himself useful in the small ways.
When he noticed her hands were empty, he brought her a glass of water. She took it with a quiet “thank you,” her lips twitching in the smallest smile before she turned back to the couple she’d been speaking with.
When a guest handed her a coat, Murphy stepped in smoothly, taking it and finding the rack himself. Hillary caught his eye across the room, the faintest curve tugging at her mouth.
When her father called for her, voice sharp and impatient, Murphy intercepted a server carrying another tray and passed it off to him first, buying her the time she needed to finish the conversation she was already in.
Each time she accepted the help—sometimes with a nod, sometimes with a look that lingered a second too long.
And each time, something inside him settled.
God, it felt good. To take even a fraction of the weight off her plate. To ease her load without her having to ask.
Murphy realized, as the night stretched on, that he could live his whole damn life like this, finding ways to make hers lighter.
The night finally began to wind down. Guests trickled out, the hum of conversation softening as coats were fetched and cars pulled up the long drive.
Cash was rolling his neck. “We should get back. We have to check out early to get back on time for practice tomorrow.”
Conner chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
"I think I'm going to stay a bit longer," Murphy said.
Sasha looped her arm through Conner’s. “You sure, Murph?”
Murphy glanced across the room. Hillary was still at her post near the door, thanking people, her smile as polished as it had been all night. Something in him clenched at the sight.
“I’ll get a ride back later,” he said. "I just want to help."
Cash gave him a look but didn’t press. “Don’t stay too late.”
When the three of them left, the house felt suddenly quieter, though the last few guests lingered. Hillary eventually saw them out and closed the door, leaning against it for just a second before she caught sight of him.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she said, her voice softer now that the performance was over.
“I wanted to.”
She let out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Of course you did.”
He crossed the room slowly, giving her space but making sure she knew he was there. “You’ve been carrying this whole thing by yourself. Let someone help for once.”
Her eyes flicked up to his, and for the first time all day, the mask slipped. Just a little. Enough for him to see the exhaustion, the grief, the loneliness she’d been hiding.
“Murphy . . . ” She shook her head, like she didn’t know what else to say.
He didn’t push. He just reached out and took her hand, squeezing it once, steady and sure.
For a beat, she let him.
And that one beat was enough to make his chest ache with something bigger than he knew how to hold.
"What needs to be done?" he asked. "Put me to work."
"There's not much. I just need to pay the caterers."
Murphy nodded and followed her into the kitchen.
"What's next?"
"That's it," she said with a small shrug.
He held out his hand to her, and she did him one better and walked into his embrace.
And then—just as he was about to let go—Hillary stepped closer.
She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.
Murphy held still, letting her decide how long it lasted. His heart pounded, but he kept his arm loose around her, steady and quiet. No questions. No pressure. Just him, holding her up while she finally let herself rest.
When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy but calmer, her mask softer.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.
And for the first time in a long time, Murphy believed she might actually let him in.