Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SOPHIE
I’ve read the same sentence three times and it still makes no sense.
Something about quarterly projections and last year’s revenue streams. Or maybe it’s in Portuguese.
I wouldn’t know. My brain is mush, my coffee’s gone cold, and ever since I walked into work this morning, I’ve been fighting the urge to stare blankly out the window and relive every single second of last night like some deranged teenage diary entry.
Murphy. Arm around my waist. Me, laughing like I actually belonged tucked under his arm. The way he looked at me when I joked about catching feelings, like I’d said something dangerous but true.
I tap my nails against the desk. Nope. We’re not doing this. We’re not rewinding and replaying and assigning meaning to things that were explicitly meaningless.
It was fake. That’s the entire point.
“Stop being weird,” I mutter at my laptop, which responds by crashing. Because of course it does.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
MIA: You on lunch?
MIA: Or still hungover from pretending to like Murphy?
I snort, already dialling.
She picks up on the first ring. “So, how’s my favourite fake girlfriend?”
“I’ve been worse,” I say, spinning slowly in my desk chair. “Once had food poisoning on a hen weekend. Comparable experience.”
Mia laughs. “That bad, huh?”
“It was fine,” I say, and even I can hear the deflection in my voice.
“Fine?”
I sigh. “Fine-fine. Good-fine. Weird-fine.”
There’s a pause.
“Want to run that through the Sophie-to-English translator for me?”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “You were there, you saw it. We played the couple part. It worked. We fooled everyone. Murphy made heart eyes. I threatened to kick him in the shin. Classic romance.”
“Mm.” Mia’s voice is careful now. “And how did you feel?”
“I felt like I wanted another drink,” I say breezily. “Which I had. And then I went home, alone, and absolutely didn’t imagine what it would be like if any of it was real.”
She doesn’t respond straight away. “Ah,” she says finally.
“Oh, don’t you ‘Ah’ me,” I groan. “It’s not a thing. We’re not a thing. We had one-night months ago, and mutually agreed it was a blip.”
“Sure.”
“Mia.”
She clicks her tongue. “You know, when people get that defensive, it’s usually because they care.”
“I care enough to not ruin things,” I snap, then wince. “Sorry. I just…this whole thing is giving me whiplash.”
She softens. “Because you actually like him?”
“No,” I say. Then again, quieter. “No.” There’s a beat of silence. I let out a breath. “Okay, maybe. I don’t know. He’s infuriating. He never shuts up. He thinks he’s God’s gift.”
“And yet…”
“And yet.” I slump back in my chair. “He said something last night. After the photo.” Mia’s quiet. “He said pretending not to care is getting harder,” I admit, and the words sound more dangerous now that they’re out in the open. “I didn’t know what to do with that.”
“What did you say?”
I chew my lip. “Nothing useful.”
“Did it feel real?”
“It felt like a very convincing performance,” I say, but my voice is thin.
Mia sighs. “Sophie, you’re allowed to want things, you know.”
“Not this. Not him.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s Murphy,” I say, exasperated. “Because he sleeps with anything with a pulse. Because he doesn’t do serious. Because I already know what it feels like to wake up next to him and pretend I didn’t want it to mean more.”
Mia is quiet again. But it’s the supportive kind of quiet, which is worse. I stand up, pacing across my office. “I’m not built for this,” I go on. “The games. The maybe-he-meant-its. The waiting for him to get bored and move on.”
“Okay,” she says gently. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep faking it,” I say, settling back in my chair with a definitive huff. “Smile for the cameras, flirt for the sponsors, and absolutely, categorically not fall for Samuel bloody Murphy.”
“Sounds like a watertight plan,” Mia says dryly.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want me to start prepping a playlist for the inevitable breakdown? I’ve got one with a lot of Alanis Morissette on it.”
I chuckle despite myself. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Hey.” Her tone shifts. “I’m here, okay? However this goes.”
“I know.” I pause. “How’s Dylan, by the way?”
She groans.
“Ah,” I say, smug again. “Trouble in broody-paradise?”
“Don’t even start.”
“Too late. You’re emotionally compromised.”
“Says the woman fake-dating a man she definitely wants to real-date.”
I frown. “Alright, point made.”
She laughs again. “Talk later?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, M.”
We hang up and I sit there, phone in hand, staring into space while the weight of last night lingers behind my ribs. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I really didn’t. It was supposed to be fun. Hot night, closed door, no strings.
And now there’s a thread between us I can’t stop tugging on.
I hate that I want to see where it leads.
The rest of the day drags like a Monday in January. I answer emails. I eat half a wrap, and I avoid looking at my phone until I can’t resist.
MURPHY: Pub again tonight? Low key. No posing. Promise.
I stare at it. Then type back.
SOPHIE: Define “low key.”
MURPHY: You don’t have to wear heels.
SOPHIE: I’m still not buying the first round.
MURPHY: We both know you will.
I don’t answer that one. But an hour later I’m in front of my wardrobe, muttering at a pile of tops as though they personally betrayed me.
We meet outside the pub and thankfully it’s quieter than last night. No shouting teammates, no photo ops. Just us.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We walk in together. There’s no touching, no leaning. Just silence that crackles.
He buys the first round and I raise an eyebrow. “Told you I could be classy,” he says.
I snort. “Still waiting on the evidence.”
We sit in a booth. Two drinks in, the tension starts to fade. Three drinks in, we’re back in the rhythm of jokes and teasing, Murphy trying to get a rise out of me and me pretending not to let him.
Four drinks in and I forget we’re not real.
He reaches across the table, brushing a strand of hair from my face, and my breath catches. It’s stupid, but my heart flips. He sees it. Of course he does.
“I meant what I said last night,” he says, voice low.
“Murphy…”
“We don’t have to do anything,” he says quickly. “Just… I needed you to know I wasn’t acting.”
I stare at him, and for once, I have no witty comeback. Just this growing, impossible thing inside me I can’t name.