Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
SOPHIE
There’s a stain on my ceiling.
It’s faint, vaguely shaped like Australia, and I’ve decided it’s my new emotional support stain. Because every time my brain tries to rerun game night like a highlight reel from hell; Murphy’s smirk, Murphy’s hands, Murphy’s mouth, boom. There’s Australia.
Australia doesn’t flirt back. Australia doesn’t smell of warm laundry and reckless decisions. Australia doesn’t whisper “Why not?” with the kind of sincerity that makes your bones vibrate.
Murphy does.
I groan and yank the duvet over my face.
I need a reset. Like when your phone gets glitchy and you hit the nuclear option.
Factory settings. Sophie version 1.0; unbothered, emotionally bulletproof, mildly terrifying.
The version of me that wears tailored suits to work and a slouchy band tee, mom jeans, and my wild blonde curls pulled into a high pony tail the rest of the time.
And I absolutely do not get flustered by bad boy hockey players with good hair and better timing.
Definitely not the version who blushes at text messages that say:
Murph: Left a slice of pepperoni in the box for you. Figured you’d want something to argue with.
Murph (10 mins later): If you’re ghosting me, at least do it dramatically. For instance, change your name and become a scuba instructor in Bermuda.
I don’t respond.
Instead, I march to work in four-inch heels and my signature winged eyeliner, armed with a to-do list that includes finishing reports, ignoring Murphy, not daydreaming about Murphy, and maybe schedule a therapy session for my clearly deteriorating sense of self-control.
By mid-morning, I’ve already snapped at the intern twice and accused the coffee machine of gaslighting me. I’m obviously off to a great start.
The problem is, I can’t focus. Every spreadsheet blurs. Every client call echoes. It’s as though my brain’s been hijacked by a six-foot distraction in a backwards cap who once said, “Trust me,” and made me consider it.
Which is dangerous.
Trust is a luxury I don’t afford to men who flirt like it’s a sport and kiss like they’re trying to rewrite your DNA.
“Everything okay?” Marissa, my assistant, peers into my office holding a very judgmental latte.
“Yes,” I snap, too quickly. “Fine. Great.”
“Mmmhmm.” She sets the latte down with a clink. “You’re wearing two different earrings.”
Shit. “I’m testing your attention to detail.”
My hands dart to my ears, fingertips investigating the situation. One hoop. One stud.
Fantastic.
“Reset,” I mutter, spinning my chair around to face the window. “This is fine. I’m fine. It’s all perfectly-”
Buzz.
My phone lights up. Not Murphy this time. Mia.
Mia: Gala’s Saturday. Black tie. No excuses. You owe me after I defended your honour when Murphy said you cheat at card games.
Me: I don’t cheat. I just aggressively interpret the rules.
Mia: Bring a date. Or bring chaos. Either way, wear the red dress.
Of course she knows about the red dress. She saw it once and declared it illegal not to wear it in public. It’s clingy and dramatic and has absolutely no chill, which makes it the opposite of how I feel right now.
Still, the idea of skipping isn’t appealing either. That would mean staying home with Australia and my own thoughts.
And Murphy will be there. Which should be a deterrent but it’s not.
My phone buzzes again. This time it is him.
Murphy: Gala, huh? You gonna show up and pretend we’re just “mates” while drinking champagne as if its holy water?
I don’t respond.
Murphy: I’ll be on my best behaviour. Probably. Maybe. 60/40 chance.
I hurl my phone into my drawer as though it’s radioactive. I can’t deal with him right now.
By Friday, I’ve pulled myself together. Mostly. I’ve blitzed my workload, flirted just enough with a barista to remind myself I can, and even deleted the hoodie from the drawer in a symbolic act of emotional exorcism. Fine. I moved it to the laundry hamper. It still counts.
So when Mia calls me mid-afternoon to confirm I’m still attending the gala, I say yes with the breezy confidence of someone who has no idea what they’re walking into.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks. “You’ve been… I don’t know. Weird.”
“I’m always weird,” I say, stuffing protein bars into my tote. “It’s part of my brand.”
“No,” she says slowly. “You’ve been weird in a Murphy way. Kind of distracted and annoyed but also blushy.”
“I don’t blush.”
“You blush. Murphy makes you blush.”
I groan. “Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”
“Because I have better instincts than you and you secretly love it when I’m right.”
She’s not wrong. But I hang up before she can say anything else annoying.
Saturday arrives like a freight train.
I get ready in front of my full-length mirror, trying to remember who I was before Murphy kissed me. Before I got tangled in this ridiculous knot of tension and banter and what-ifs.
The red dress fits like a secret. My lipstick matches and my heels are a threat to public safety. I’ve left my hair loose, it’s hanging in ringlets down my back, and for once, it’s behaving and I quite like it.
I look powerful. Controlled. Exactly how I need to be.
At least on the outside.
The venue is one of those rooftop hotels that embodies money and ambition.
Everyone’s here, all of The Raptors players, sponsors, and a whole load media people.
Mia is radiant in a stunning backless number with her hair swept into a low chignon.
Dylan looks annoyingly dashing. I sweep in with a smile sharp enough to cut glass and zero plans for how to deal with the inevitable Murphy Encounter.
It takes all of ten minutes.
He appears like he always does, casually magnetic, in a tux that shouldn’t work on someone who once argued that ketchup is an acceptable pasta sauce.
“Sophie.” He smiles, hands in his pockets, hair artfully messy. “You clean up okay.”
“You showed up in a suit and still managed to look like trouble,” I shoot back.
He steps closer. “You avoiding me again?”
“I’m right here.”
“But your eyes keep skipping past me as if I’m a maths problem you don’t want to solve.”
“That’s because I’ve already solved you, Murphy. You’re chaos divided by charm, multiplied by poor impulse control.”
He laughs and its low and delightful.
Then he says, “So what’s the verdict? We pretending none of it happened?”
I stare at him. The rooftop buzzes with music and champagne and beautiful people pretending they’re not all deeply insecure. I could say something flippant. I could dodge. But for some reason, I don’t.
I lean in slightly and say, “We’ll see.”
Murphy’s grin turns into something slow and dangerous. It’s like I’ve just handed him a match and dared him to strike it.
And for the first time since that stupid, world-altering kiss, I feel it again; the spark. The one I’ve been trying to smother under logic and sarcasm. It’s still there. Very much alive and inconvenient, and I have a sinking feeling it’s not going anywhere.