Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SOPHIE
The first thing I do when I get to work is burn my tongue on the coffee I picked up on the way in. Because of course I do.
The second thing I do is try not to think about last night.
Spoiler alert; I fail.
I’ve rewritten it a dozen different ways in my head already.
In one version, I kick Murphy out immediately after sex and reclaim my boundaries like a sane, self-respecting adult.
In another, I resist the temptation to jump him altogether and instead have a sensible, mature conversation about keeping things professional and platonic.
But unfortunately, in the version that actually happened, I peeled my clothes off as if I was allergic to them and then let him sleep in my bed. All night. Like it meant something.
Which it didn’t.
Obviously.
I take another sip of coffee, it’s still too hot, and burn my tongue again. That feels right, like the punishment I need.
At my desk, I open my laptop and dive into my day’s to-do list. I even volunteer to handle the new trainee because apparently, I’m in that kind of self-flagellating mood.
Three hours in, I’m deep in a spreadsheet when my phone buzzes next to the keyboard.
It’s Murphy. Of course it is. My heart does a stupid little somersault I pretend not to notice, and I wait a full minute before I look.
Murphy: You should see Ollie’s face when we told him I stayed over. Kid looked like I just admitted I murdered Santa. Mike’s got us doing a hospital visit tomorrow. PR thing. But this one feels different. Some kid knows all our stats. Anyway, hope your toaster survived the trauma. Miss your coffee.
I stare at the screen.
Then I read it again. And again. As if on the fourth or fifth round, the words might rearrange themselves into something less sincere.
“Miss your coffee.”
Not “your legs” or “your bed” or “your extremely questionable cooking skills.”
Just coffee.
Which sounds casual, but coming from Murphy it feels oddly loaded. Because it’s not really about the coffee. It’s about waking up together. Sharing space, cups and the silence.
I lock my phone and toss it face down on the desk.
This is fine. Totally fine. We agreed, didn’t we? This whole fake-dating thing was supposed to be harmless. A way to secure his sponsors and his image. Mutual benefit. No strings. Certainly no sleepovers or heartfelt messages about caffeine and overcooked toast.
The trouble is, Murphy is annoyingly good at making people like him. Not just at a surface-level, charming-devil-may-care way, though he’s got that in spades, but in a way that seeps into your ribs when you’re not paying attention.
Like how he remembered I prefer oat milk, even though I only mentioned it once in passing. Or the way he didn’t make a big deal when I panicked a bit post-sex and tried to play it off as though it was a one-time thing.
He didn’t press. Just smiled that crooked smile and made a joke about the toaster.
And now he’s texting me about Ollie, the PR event, and my burnt kitchen appliance like it’s a casual check-in instead of a goddamn relationship landmine.
I should ignore it, but instead, I unlock my phone and stare at the message again. My fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Sophie: Hope you survived Jacko’s inappropriate jokes. Don’t traumatise the children.
Then delete it and type,
Sophie: You miss my coffee because it’s the only decent thing I’ve ever made for you.
Delete.
Finally, I type,
Sophie: You’re not allowed to be thoughtful. That wasn’t part of the deal.
I stare at it. Then delete it too. My head drops into my hands.
I’m a grown woman. I have a full-time job, rent to pay, a degree I actually use, and a mother who still thinks I “just haven’t met the right man yet,” as if I’m one blind date away from enlightenment.
I do not have time for emotional confusion caused by a six-foot hockey player who flirts like its oxygen, and kisses like it’s a promise.
A knock on the frame of my open office door makes me jolt. Claire, one of the paediatrics nurses, pokes her head in. “Got a second?”
I straighten, trying not to look like I was mid-crisis. “Sure. What’s up?”
“We’re down a volunteer for tomorrow’s PR visit with the hockey lot.
Any chance you’d fancy wrangling them?” Oh.
You have got to be kidding me, I work in finance not PR.
Claire grins like she knows exactly how inconvenient this is.
“You are dating one of them, right? The marketing team thought you’d be ideal for the job. ”
“Nope.”
She folds her arms. “So you’re saying you don’t want to see Murphy charming a bunch of sick children while holding a teddy bear?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“So, you do want to.”
“Claire.”
She backs away with a smirk. “I’ll put you down for the morning shift.”
I don’t reply to Murphy’s message all day. It sits there like a trap, blinking quietly, waiting for me to step on it.
By the time I’m back home, I’ve read it so many times I’ve practically memorised the punctuation. I tell myself I’m not obsessing.
I heat up some soup, avoid eye contact with the toaster, and deliberately do not think about the way Murphy’s hand slid up my thigh last night like he already knew I was going to let him in. Like my body was already betraying me long before I admitted anything.
I scroll through TikTok. I rewatch half an episode of some terrible dating show. I consider calling Mia, then remember she’s probably at the rink, being semi-professional and definitely not talking about my questionable life choices.
Then, finally, I pick up my phone.
And I text him.
Sophie: The toaster’s fine. Still a lethal bastard. Good luck tomorrow. Don’t make any kids cry. And Murphy? No more staying over. We’re back to fake only.
I hit send.
And then immediately put my phone on airplane mode and throw it across the room. Because if I see those three dots appear, if he replies too fast or too sweet or too goddamn honest, I’ll cave.
And I can’t.
Because this thing between us? Whatever it is? It only works if we both pretend it doesn’t matter.
Even if it already does.