Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOPHIE
If hell had a scent, it would be stale air con, cheap perfume, and overpriced fabric that somehow manages to itch through your skin and into your soul.
Otherwise known as the city centre shopping outlet on a Wednesday evening.
“Remind me why I agreed to this?” I ask, yanking a sequinned monstrosity off the rack and holding it up with a look of disgust. “This looks like something Barbie would wear to court.”
“You agreed,” Mia says, annoyingly chipper as she flicks through a rack of more refined options, “because you have a very public dinner to attend tomorrow with your very handsome fake boyfriend, and his agent said ‘glamorous but demure.’ Which, I know, is not your natural habitat.”
I groan. “Demure? That’s just code for beige. I don’t know why I can’t wear my jeans, boots and a nice top.”
“It’s code for classy,” Mia says, holding up a navy satin slip dress that looks one wardrobe malfunction away from indecent exposure. “And I think this would make Murphy’s brain short-circuit.”
I snort. “That man short-circuits if I wear lip gloss.”
We’ve hit four shops so far. Mia’s tried to keep us focused, but I’ve also managed to talk her into buying a ridiculously expensive moisturiser, we accidentally matched sunglasses at one point, and I may or may not have gotten side-tracked by a novelty mug that said World’s Okayest Fake Girlfriend.
Accurate.
We step into another boutique, this one quiet and airy, like the sales assistants whisper affirmations to the hangers, and I immediately feel a if I’m being judged by the rugs.
Still, Mia spots a forest green number that makes me reconsider my aversion to satin, and I promise to try it on in a minute.
Right after I finish muttering about the injustice of it all.
“I’m just saying,” I complain as we walk past a wall of glitter and tulle, “if men can show up to these things in a black suit they wear to every wedding, why do I need Spanx, a facial, and two-inch lashes?”
“Because you’re going with Murphy,” Mia says, laughing. “And he’s going to look like a bloody cologne ad straight out of the pages of GQ magazine.”
“I’ve seen him in a suit,” I mutter, recalling the video call from last night. “It should be illegal to look that good in tailoring.”
Mia arches an eyebrow. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You so are.”
I groan. “I hate you.”
“No, you love me. And you love him.”
“Shut your perfect face.” She just smirks and throws another dress into the ‘try or die’ pile I’m apparently building.
Eventually, after three outfits that scream Miss Universe but sad, and one that nearly dislocates my shoulder trying to zip it, I step out in the green satin one. Mia lets out a low whistle.
“Holy hell, Hart. You’re not going to make it out of the foyer before he’s mentally undressing you.”
I give myself a once-over in the mirror. It’s elegant. Fitted. Dangerous in all the right places. I look like the kind of woman who makes grown men rethink their life choices.
“Alright,” I admit. “This might not be completely offensive.”
“That’s glowing praise,” Mia deadpans.
We make the purchase and flee before I bankrupt myself in the shoe section. Fifteen minutes later, we’re seated in a corner of a quiet coffee shop, drinks in hand and shopping bags piled at our feet like war trophies.
Mia sips her chai latte. I glare into the depths of my cappuccino pretending it holds the secrets to the universe, or at least how to fake date without actually catching feelings.
“So,” she says, casually stirring her drink. “Tell me how you’re really feeling about all this.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You mean the sponsorship dinner? Mild dread. Moderate boob tape. General confusion about the existence of quinoa canapés.”
“No,” she says, smiling gently. “I mean Murphy.”
And just like that, my heart does that annoying thing where it flails a little too loudly in my chest.
I stall. “What about him?”
Mia gives me The Look. The one that says Don’t even try to bullshit me, I know when you’re emotionally constipated.
“You’ve been sleeping with him,” she says, not unkindly. “You let him see past your armour. And I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
“Like I’m a human buffet item?” I quip, but my voice falters. She doesn’t laugh this time.
I sigh and sit back in my chair. “It was supposed to be fun. Harmless with mutual benefits. But he keeps saying things and I keep catching myself looking at his smile as if it’s some sort of goddamn promise.”
“Because you like him,” Mia says softly. “Not just the sex. Not just the banter. Him.”
I look down at the rim of my cup, whispering, “It’s not supposed to be real.”
“But what if it is?” she asks.
I close my eyes. It’s the what if that gets me. What if the lines are blurred because they want to be? What if we’re not just faking this and it’s already real? And I’m the one too scared to admit it?
Mia touches my hand gently. “You don’t have to rush. But don’t run from it, either. Not if it matters.”
I nod, blinking back the swell of something suspiciously close to vulnerability. “I just don’t want to be the idiot who falls while he’s still pretending.”
Mia smiles. “You’re not an idiot. You’re brave. And I think Murphy stopped pretending a long time ago, if he even ever was.”
My throat tightens. I take another sip of coffee to buy time.
Mia, bless her, changes the subject, moving on to game night highlights and Dylan’s inability to say no to a seven-layer dip. But the truth sits heavy in my chest.
I’m in deep and I don’t want out. Not anymore.