Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MURPHY
My phone buzzes just as I open the door.
Sophie: Coming down. Brace yourself.
I grin.
And then I see her.
Green satin, slit high up one leg, neckline low enough to fry my last brain cell. Her curly hair is pinned up high on her head with tendrils loose, framing her face, her lips are red enough to ruin any man, never mind me. I forget how to breathe for a second.
“Wow,” I manage, standing up as she walks over. “I was braced. Still not enough.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s the smallest blush riding her cheeks. “You going to open the door, or just stand there like a speechless idiot?”
“I’m appreciating the art,” I say, and then open the door with a mock bow. “Your carriage, m’lady.”
She snorts and slips inside, legs crossing in that way that short-circuits everything north of my shoulders. I follow her in and shut the door behind us.
Inside, it’s dim and soft and quiet. The kind of car you whisper in. But neither of us whispers.
“You look... Jesus, Sophie. You look unreal.”
She smirks, adjusting the slit in her dress. “Try to keep your tongue in your mouth during dinner.”
I lean in, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”
Her breath hitches, just slightly, and for a moment, all the fake relationship lines blur again. Not that they’ve been particularly sharp lately.
“You nervous?” I ask, my thumb brushing lightly over her knee.
She shrugs, but it’s tight. “A little. You know, just casually being arm candy at a million-pound dinner full of PR vultures and champagne flutes. Totally average Thursday night.”
I reach across and take her hand, lacing our fingers together. “You don’t need to be anything but you tonight. Layla can panic about the image. I just want you there. That dress is a bonus.”
She snorts softly. “You smooth-talking bastard.”
“Only for you.”
A beat passes. Then she shifts closer, hand sliding to my thigh. Her lips brush mine, slow and unhurried, and everything tilts into heat.
The kiss turns deep fast, her mouth soft and demanding, tongue tracing mine with maddening purpose. I grip her hip, pulling her closer, the cool satin of her dress bunching under my fingers.
Her breath is warm on my neck as she whispers, “We shouldn’t be doing this right before we go schmooze with corporate sponsors.”
I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Probably not.”
Her hand brushes higher. “But I like how it makes you look a little flushed. Might distract from the fact that you’re basically a human billboard tonight.”
“Remind me to return the favour later.”
We break apart as the car slows, but her cheeks are pink and her lips are just the right amount of ruined. My suit might be creased, but I regret nothing.
The venue looks like it was pulled from the dreams of someone who thinks gold leaf is a personality. Chandeliers dangle like icicles made of money, every table gleaming with crystal and white linen, and a grand staircase spirals resembling something out of a Bond movie.
Sophie tightens her grip on my arm. “This is... a lot,” she murmurs.
I glance at her. “You okay?”
She gives me a tight smile. “Trying not to trip on my own dignity.”
I lean in, brushing my lips against her temple. “You belong here more than half these posers. You’re real. You’re stunning. And you’re with me.”
“Fake with you,” she mutters.
“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to ignore how that word still stings. “They don’t need to know the details.”
Layla appears from the marble abyss, all lipstick and clipboard and terrifying precision. “Murphy. You look tolerable. Sophie, you look divine. Let’s go make rich people like you.”
We make the rounds. I shake hands. Sophie smiles like she was born for it. There’s flash photography, flutes of something dry and bubbly, and people who say things like, “Oh, you’re the funny one on the team, right?”
Sophie doesn’t leave my side. She laughs at my jokes, brushes her hand along my back when I pause too long. She plays the part flawlessly. Except every time she touches me, it doesn’t feel like a part.
It feels more of a promise.
By the time we sit down to dinner, she’s visibly tense again.
“This napkin costs more than my gas bill,” she whispers, unfolding it as if it’s made of spider silk.
I nudge her knee under the table. “You’re doing great. Better than me. I forgot which fork is for what and just copied you.”
“I’m faking confidence with a side of bread.”
“You’re perfect.”
She blinks, and for once, she doesn’t fire back a quip.
Between courses, she excuses herself to the restroom. I watch her walk away, the crowd parting like water around her. Every single eye follows her. And for once, I don’t mind. Because she’s here with me, and maybe it started as a lie.
But tonight, it sure doesn’t feel like one, not to me anyway.