Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
SOPHIE
Murphy’s message is still sitting on my phone like a bomb I’m too scared to detonate.
“You looked beautiful last night. I’m sorry that moment got ruined.”
I read it again, and again. And then once more for good measure, like some self-inflicted emotional paper cut.
It’s stupid. It’s just a message. Words on a screen from a man who knows exactly how to charm his way out of anything. Samuel Murphy has a smile that could melt glaciers and a habit of dropping emotional hand grenades when you least expect them.
But this time it doesn’t feel like charm.
It feels like regret. Like truth, scraped raw and barely held together with full stops.
Which is why I’m currently pacing my flat in mismatched socks, clutching my phone like it holds the answer to the universe, and stress-eating leftover Bakewell tart straight from the tin.
Because apparently, that’s who I am now. A woman who kisses boys, avoids them for a month, banters her way through a gala, and then falls to pieces over a text message.
My phone buzzes again.
MIA: Coffee. Now. I’m bringing bribes.
SOPHIE: If it’s not pastries I’m blocking your number.
MIA: Pain au chocolat and hot gossip.
SOPHIE: Fine. But I’m judging you the entire time.
We meet at our usual café, a little place tucked between a yoga studio and an independent bookshop that smells heavily of cinnamon.
Mia’s already there, two takeaway cups in hand and a paper bag of buttery bribery waiting on the table.
“I bought emotional support carbs,” she says, sliding the bag across to me.
“You’re forgiven,” I mutter, taking a bite before I’ve even sit down. “Barely.”
She smirks. “So, are we talking about the Murphy message or are you still pretending it didn’t make your soul ache?”
“Depends,” I say around a mouthful of pastry. “Are you going to be supportive or tell me I’m being dramatic?”
“Both. Obviously.”
I groan, dropping into the chair opposite her. “It was just unexpected. I didn’t think he’d say something like that.”
Mia shrugs, stirring her coffee. “He’s always been an idiot, but he’s never been heartless. And that girl? The so-called journalist? Not his doing. She’s been trying to attach herself to anyone with a blue tick and a decent jawline for months.”
“Well, she succeeded.” I scowl at my coffee. “She ruined the moment.”
Mia arches a brow. “The moment? Sophie Hart. Were you about to have an actual moment with Murphy?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“This isn’t America.”
“Still counts.”
She grins. “Well, you might want to get used to being near him again. Because, and don’t throw your coffee at me, I have a proposition.”
I narrow my eyes. “If you say ‘throuple,’ I’m leaving.”
She chokes on her drink, laughing. “Not that. Although Dylan’s been trying to convince Murphy to take up pottery just so he’ll stop brooding at training. It’s haunting.”
“Mia.”
“Right.” She leans forward, dropping her voice as though we’re planning a heist.
“Murphy’s agent had a little chat with him after the gala.”
“About his poor taste in party crashers?”
“Worse. About his image. Apparently, his sponsors are concerned.”
I raise a brow. “About what? His hair being too shiny or his teeth being too sparkly?”
“About him being too single.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“They’re pushing this narrative of Murphy as the lovable rogue turned responsible icon of the sport. Big comeback, heartthrob with a heart of gold, all that jazz. But the tabloid thing? Not exactly wholesome. And if he doesn’t play along, there’s talk of pulling some of his sponsorship.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Mia shrugs. “Welcome to PR hell. Anyway. The agent suggested he be seen with a ‘steady girlfriend.’ A proper, sweet, charming one. Someone the press can’t twist.”
I feel a slow, sinking dread. “Mia.”
She holds up her hands in mock-innocence. “I’m just saying, if someone were to step in and play the part, temporarily, of course, it could buy him some time.”
“No.”
“It’d be fake. Harmless. A few appearances. Maybe some hand-holding.”
“No.”
“And think about it, he already likes you. The chemistry’s off the charts. You banter like you’re in a screwball rom-com. You wore his hoodie like a security blanket. Plus, you don’t care about fame, so you wouldn’t sell the story. You’re perfect.”
“I said no.”
“You didn’t say it very convincingly.”
I glare at her. “I’m not going to be some fake girlfriend-for-hire just to make Murphy look like a golden retriever in a relationship so his bloody sponsors don’t pull his cash.”
She sips her coffee. “You think he’s a golden retriever?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Sophie.”
“No.”
Mia leans back. “Fine. But let me just say one thing, if someone else steps in to do it, someone who doesn’t know him, doesn’t understand his moods or his idiotic ways, someone who’s just using him for exposure… how’s that going to feel?”
I hate how much I already know the answer.
Because the idea of Murphy walking red carpets with some influencer who calls herself ‘spiritual but also savage’ makes my stomach twist. The idea of him laughing with someone else, of his arm slung casually around someone else’s waist, it makes me feel something very inconvenient and very not-fake.
Mia sees it. She always sees it.
“I don’t want to get hurt,” I admit quietly. “And this has disaster written all over it.”
She nods. “I get it. I do. But maybe it’s not about not getting hurt. Maybe it’s about choosing who’s worth hurting for.”
I stare at her, stunned into silence. Then, finally, I groan. “If I say I’ll think about it, will you shut up?”
“Absolutely not. But I’ll buy you another pastry.”
“Fine.”
“Victory,” she beams, waving to the barista.
As she stands to order, I pull out my phone again. Murphy’s message still glows on the screen, hopeful and haunting all at once.
Maybe this is stupid. Maybe this is risky. But maybe it’s the start of something real. Even if it’s wrapped in fake labels and public smiles. Even if it breaks me a little.
I text him back.
“We need to talk. And you’d better be buying the coffee this time.”