Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
MURPHY
The call comes just as I’m mid-way through stuffing a protein bar in my mouth and yelling at Ollie for trying to squat with the rack still locked.
“Murph,” Layla’s voice rings in my ear, no-nonsense as always. “You’re needed.”
I groan into the Bluetooth. “Please tell me that means at a beer commercial shoot and not a charity calendar in my jockstrap.”
She doesn’t laugh. Not even a little. “No. This is big. Vantage Energy is hosting a sponsorship dinner Thursday night. Full press. Top brass. TV cameras. Your face needs to be on the front page for the right reasons.”
I rub the back of my neck, already dreading the penguin suit. “What do you need from me? Besides not spilling gravy down my tie?”
“You need to bring someone,” she says, clicking through something on her end. “They want their key players showing stability, charm, and marketability. And after that adorably candid paparazzi photo of you and Sophie at the hospital…”
“We were standing,” I interrupt. “In a line. With sick children.”
“Right. And yet you managed to stand an inch away from her like you were about to throw her over your shoulder and ravish her in the linen cupboard. PR loved it. They want her there.”
I blink. “You want me to take Sophie to a suit-and-tie media zoo full of old men and champagne flutes?”
“Exactly,” Layla confirms. “Bring your girlfriend, charm the board, smile for the cameras, and for God’s sake wear the suit I sent you. Do not show up in joggers or sneakers. And make sure she knows it’ll be a very public event. Lots of eyes. Flashbulbs. She’ll be photographed.”
I exhale hard, dragging a hand down my face. “Alright. I’ll ask her.”
“You won’t ask, you’ll convince. This is a seven-figure deal, Murphy.”
The line goes dead.
I FaceTime Sophie the second I get home, flopping onto my bed with my hair still damp from the shower and my phone balanced against my knee.
She picks up after the third ring, already in her comfies, tied-up hair and reading glasses perched on her nose like she’s trying to look unsexy and failing spectacularly.
“Fancy seeing your face,” she says, voice dry. “Let me guess. You need something.”
“You know me so well.” I flash her a grin. “Got a favour to ask, darling.”
She narrows her eyes. “If this involves body paint or pretending to be your human shield in another bar fight, the answer’s no.”
“It’s classier than that. Ish.” I sit up and lean closer to the screen.
“There’s a sponsorship dinner tomorrow night.
Big one. Media, suits, very boring wine.
Layla says I need to take someone respectable looking.
Unfortunately, all my usual options are either in Vegas or banned from hotel ballrooms.”
Her lips twitch. “And I’m the next best thing?”
“You’re the best thing,” I say without missing a beat. “You’re smart, gorgeous, and terrifying in heels. And we’re already pretending to date, remember?”
She makes a show of sighing. “So, I just show up and smile?”
“Well, no. It’s not just dinner. There’ll be paparazzi. Flashbulbs. You’ll be all over the socials by midnight. Your face next to mine in some headline like ‘Bad Boy Murphy Goes Public with Stunning Girlfriend’.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, a little too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting my Thursday night to include a red carpet and my face in the daily papers the next day. But I said I’d play the part, didn’t I?”
“Yeah,” I say, softer now. “But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’ll tell Layla to stuff it and take Jacko in a wig.”
She rolls her eyes. “I made a deal. And I don’t back out.”
There’s something in her tone that makes my chest ache. Fierce loyalty and stubborn pride. That small, dangerous part of me that’s always looking for more with her stirs again. “Alright,” I say quietly. “We’ll go. You’ll look a million bucks. I’ll wear the stupid suit.”
“I’ll bring a taser if you try to touch my bum in front of shareholders.”
“No promises.” I grin.
There’s a pause. Her expression softens, and her gaze lingers on the screen.
“You clean up well, Murphy,” she murmurs.
“You’ve barely seen me clean up.”
“Doesn’t take much imagination.” Her voice dips.
Something shifts in the air between us. The usual teasing fades into something heavier. Hotter and more loaded.
I stretch out on the bed, keeping the phone steady so she gets the full view; shirtless, towel around my waist, all golden skin and temptation. Her breath catches.
“You like this?” I ask, my voice low now.
“Moderately,” she says, but her eyes say otherwise.
“Thinking about last time?” I murmur. “How you sounded when I had you against my wall? Or maybe how good you tasted on my fingers before I even got you to the bedroom?”
Her hand lifts slightly, brushing her collarbone like she’s not even aware of it.
“Murph…”
“Say yes,” I whisper. “Say you’re thinking about it.”
She bites her bottom lip. “I’m thinking about it.”
I exhale a laugh, its low and rough, guttural even. “I knew it. You’re such a little liar. Pretending to be unaffected.”
“And you’re such a cocky bastard.”
“Your cocky bastard.” I shift, letting the towel slip just slightly, flashing enough of the V to tease. Her eyes follow the movement like a hawk.
“Jesus,” she breathes.
“Touch yourself, Soph,” I murmur. “Go on. Just a little. Pretend I’m there.”
She makes a sound that could knock me clean out if I weren’t already flat on my back. Her hand disappears beneath the hem of her sleep shorts and I groan, palming myself under the towel, eyes locked on her flushed face.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” I say.
“You,” she breathes. “Your mouth. Your hands. That thing you did with your… God… your hips,”
“Yeah?” I stroke myself slowly, just enough to feel it build. “You want it again?”
She nods, moaning softly. “Yes. Please.”
I groan. “I’ll give it to you. After that dinner. After everyone’s watched us fake it all night. I’ll come home with you and show you exactly what it looks like when I stop pretending.”
She whimpers, her body jerking as she finds her rhythm. I’m seconds behind her, both of us panting, eyes locked across the phone screen like we’re in the same room.
After we come down, the silence is thick but warm. Her eyes flutter open. “That was unprofessional,” she mutters, flushed.
I grin lazily. “You’ll recover. Eventually.”
She snorts. “You better hope I do. Because if I walk into that dinner, and your PR team realises I can’t make eye contact with you without reliving this moment…”
“I’ll make sure they don’t notice,” I promise, already picturing her in heels, clinging to my arm.
Sophie Hart on my arm in front of cameras, flashing her sharp tongue and that devastating smile?
Yeah.
We’re in deep, and I don’t want out.