Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
SOPHIE
Murphy’s hoodie is still hanging on the back of my kitchen chair.
This is a problem for three very specific reasons.
I don’t remember agreeing to let him into my flat.
It still smells like him. Mint gum, aftershave, and too much confidence.
I’ve already put it on. More than once. And one of those times was during an emotional rerun of Bake Off.
Disgraceful.
I pick it up now, half-folded, as though that’ll make it less obvious that I’ve sniffed it. Twice. I slam it into a drawer and close it, then re-open it to smooth out the sleeve where I wrinkled it. God forbid Samuel Murphy’s hoodie be disrespected.
God forbid I admit that I miss him.
It’s been a while since I kissed him. Well.
Since he kissed me, and I kissed him back, which is probably the real crime here.
Because now I don’t know where we stand.
We’ve danced around it, skirted the topic as if it’s radioactive, and instead of confronting it like a normal adult woman, I’ve avoided every group gathering where he might show up.
Until now.
My phone buzzes.
Mia: Game night at ours. Dylan says Murphy’s bringing pizza and something called “Cards Against Humanity.” Come or I’ll send him to yours.
I respond with all the grace I can muster.
Me: Tell Dylan if that man steps one foot near my flat I’ll kneecap him with a rolling pin. Fine. I’m coming. But I’m judging everyone.
Dylan and Mia’s house smells like pepperoni and too much testosterone when I arrive. I can hear laughter from the kitchen, specifically Murphy’s laugh. Loud, warm, and all too familiar.
I pause at the door to listen.
“…and I told her, you can’t use coconut flour in Yorkshire puddings unless you hate joy.” Mia snorts. Dylan groans. I roll my eyes. Then I hear Murphy’s tone drop slightly, “She’s here.”
Of course he knows. He always knows.
I march in like a storm dressed in skinny jeans and sarcasm. “If anyone’s been talking about my Yorkshire puddings, I have legal representation.”
Murphy turns his attention away from the pizza boxes, grinning. “If they’re anything like you, they’re volatile and need constant attention.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And if your personality’s anything like your pizza choice, it’s disappointingly basic.”
“Ouch.” He holds a slice of pizza up as if it’s a shield. “It’s pepperoni. That’s classic, not basic.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Mia glances between us. Dylan sighs and mutters something about going to get another drink. For the first time in their own house, they look like guests.
I swipe a slice and drop onto the sofa, stretching my legs out and deliberately nudging Murphy’s with my toes. “So, what’s the game tonight? Monopoly? Risk? Something you’re guaranteed to cry over when I win?”
Murphy flops down beside me, matching my energy beat for beat. “Cards Against Humanity. Because if I’m going to be emotionally humiliated, I want it to be inappropriate.”
“I’ve trained for this,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “You’re going down, Murph.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you said that to me,” he replies smoothly, a wicked glint in his eye. I choke on my pizza and Mia kicks him under the coffee table.
We play three rounds. I win two. Murphy wins one because he played a card about passive-aggressive Post-it notes that had Dylan laughing so hard he nearly cried.
The whole time, the tension crackles between us, it’s too pointed, too present. Every card is a dig. Every joke is layered with subtext.
By the end of the third round, Mia clears her throat and says, “You two want the living room to yourselves or…?”
Dylan mutters, “It’s like watching foreplay with snacks.”
I go bright red.
Murphy doesn’t blink. “Let them watch.”
“MURPHY.” Mia groans, flinging a cushion at his face. He grins, all white teeth and extremely maddening.
And I’m laughing. Dammit. I’m actually laughing.
After we’ve exhausted the games and moved on to arguing about which Bake Off judge we’d most like to marry (Murphy picked Paul for the handshake opportunity; I picked Prue because obviously), it’s just the two of us on the sofa.
Mia and Dylan have disappeared into the kitchen to “do something with the dishes,” which I’m pretty sure is code for leave the emotionally stunted ones alone.
Murphy turns to me. “You’ve been dodging me.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been prioritising mental peace.”
He nods slowly. “Right. Peace that involves sniffing my hoodie when I’m not around?”
My jaw drops. “You absolute…”
He shrugs. “Dylan told me you kept it.”
“I accidentally kept it.”
“You accidentally wore it during Bake Off, according to Mia.” Betrayal. Pure and total betrayal.
I cross my arms. “Fine. Maybe I missed you. Doesn’t mean I want to do it again.”
“What? Miss me?”
“No. Kiss you.”
Murphy’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Why not?”
“Because… because it’s a bad idea.” I huff in an overly exaggerated manor.
He leans in, expression serious now, and his voice quieter. “It didn’t feel like a bad idea.”
And that’s the problem.