Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
SOPHIE
I’ve never felt more like a decorative lampshade in my life.
The dress is very red. Mia called it ‘powerful.’ I call it ‘alarmingly tight.’ It was hanging in my wardrobe, tags still on, when she ambushed me with it and a bottle of prosecco last night.
And now I’m here, standing on a hotel rooftop that’s the epitome of money and expensive roses, drinking overpriced wine, and avoiding eye contact with every hockey player in the building.
Especially one.
Mia’s somewhere near the stage, schmoozing sponsors with Dylan. They look disgustingly happy, like a rom-com finale in motion. She’s glowing. He’s besotted. It’s enough to make me gag and grin all at once.
Me? I’m trying to blend into the wallpaper and not spill wine down myself.
“Sophie Hart,” a voice says behind me, all low amusement and far too familiar.
My heart does a stupid little kick.
“Samuel Murphy,” I reply without turning. “Still alive then?”
“Physically. Emotionally? Jury’s out.”
I roll my eyes but smile anyway. He’s standing beside me now, in a tux sharp enough to wound. And those stupid blue eyes? They’re so unfair.
He leans on the bar, shoulder brushing mine. “You’re stunning.”
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to when you’re actively setting the carpet on fire.”
I laugh, despite myself. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”
“Only for you.”
He’s teasing, but it lands too real. My throat tightens, and I distract myself by swirling the wine in my glass.
“Enjoying the attention?” I nod toward a small group of women near the silent auction table. One’s openly checking him out. Another is pretending not to.
Murphy shrugs, grinning. “They’re sweet. But none of them threatened to throw a Yorkshire pudding at me for mocking their playlist choices.”
“High standards, I see.”
That look in his eyes undoes me a little, and I have to look away.
Before I can form a reply, a voice booms through the speakers, calling everyone’s attention to the stage.
The host, a silver-haired man with a radio voice and a lot of teeth, smiles brightly.
“And now, the part of the evening you’ve all been waiting for; the community awards.
Honouring those who go above and beyond both on and off the ice. ”
A polite cheer goes up. I glance around, ready to fade into the crowd again, but Mia appears beside me out of nowhere.
“There you are,” she says, handing me a folded card. “You’re presenting with Murphy.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dylan and I are doing the final one. You and golden boy are up for Best Youth Outreach Initiative. Don’t panic. It’s just a name and a handshake.”
She’s already gone before I can protest. Murphy’s grinning like the cat who got the cream. “Guess we’re a double act now.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
He holds out his elbow. “You’ll survive. Besides, we’ll look good up there.”
I hesitate for a beat too long before slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.
As we walk toward the stage, he murmurs, “Try not to push me off it.”
“No promises.”
The lights are bright and the room falls quiet. Murphy steps up to the mic first, his smile is easy and charming. My stomach does a stupid flip.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Samuel Murphy, but you probably know me as Murphy. This is Sophie Hart, the real talent here tonight,”
“Who was blackmailed into this role,” I add, earning a ripple of laughter.
Murphy grins sideways at me, proud. “We’re here to present the award for Best Youth Outreach Initiative, which recognises someone who’s given their time and heart to support kids in our community.”
He gestures for me to read the winner’s name. I open the card, trying not to fumble it.
“And the winner is… Ella Jensen, for her volunteer work running free hockey sessions at Southside Community Rink!”
The crowd claps and a teenager in a sparkly dress, beams as she walks on stage. We shake her hand. There are photos. Flashbulbs. Warm applause.
It’s textbook gala perfection.
Until it isn’t.
As we leave the stage, Murphy’s hand brushes the small of my back. It lingers a little too long and I feel it in every nerve ending. There’s something there, a real sparking, a moment suspended between beats of music.
And then I hear her voice. “Oh my God, Murph! There you are!”
She glides in from the edge of the room as though she’s floating on stilettos. Blonde, glossy and legs that go on for days. She’s dressed like she’s auditioning for Love Island: Charity Edition. And she’s draped all over him before I can process it.
“Been looking for you all night,” she purrs, fingers curled into his lapel.
Murphy stiffens beside me. “Chloe. Didn’t know you were invited.”
“I came with Finn’s lot.” She giggles and leans closer. “We still need that catch-up drink, remember?”
I step back instinctively. She feels like cold water running down my spine. My brain plays catch-up a few seconds behind my stomach.
She’s not just a tabloid girl. She’s that tabloid girl. The one Murphy was linked with last year. The one who said they were “casually seeing where things went” in an interview with Heat magazine.
Murphy untangles himself gently. “Not really the time, Chloe.”
She pouts, glancing at me. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realise you were… busy.”
She says it like it’s a joke. Like I’m a joke.
I laugh softly, but it’s brittle. “Don’t worry. I was just leaving.”
“Sophie,” Murphy starts, but I’m already halfway to the back of the room.
I don’t stop until I reach the terrace and cold air slaps at my skin. I grip the railing, forcing in a breath. The sound of clinking glasses and polite laughter floats out behind me.
Of course she showed up. Of course he has a type. Glossy. Easy. Non-threatening. What the hell was I thinking?
The door opens behind me a minute later. I don’t turn. “I didn’t know she’d be here,” Murphy says quietly.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
I press my lips together. “She’s your business.”
He steps closer. I can feel the heat of him behind me, the tension crackling off him in waves. “You think I want her?” he asks. “That I’d be out here chasing after you if I had even the faintest interest in anyone else?”
I flinch at the word chasing. “I think you’re charming, Murphy. That’s your thing. I’m not built for flings.”
He exhales sharply. “Neither am I.” I turn to look at him. His jaw’s tight, and his hands are fists at his sides. He looks furious at himself. “I ruined it,” he mutters. “I always do.”
Something twists in my chest. “It was just one night,” I say, even though it wasn’t.
He looks at me as though I’ve hit him. “No. It wasn’t.”
I open my mouth and then close it again. Because if I let myself believe that, believe him, I don’t know how I’ll come back from it.
The door swings open again. A couple walks out laughing, their hands entwined and obviously on a promise.
Murphy glances toward them, his jaw clenching. I swear to God, he’s trying to will them away with some kind of superpower.
“I should go,” I whisper, not trusting my voice.
“Sophie,”
“Goodnight, Murph.”
I walk away before he can answer.