Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SOPHIE
Sunday evening, and I’m already twenty minutes late choosing what to wear. My wardrobe looks like a war zone, half the contents strewn across my bed, the other half clinging to hangers in that judgmental way only clothes can manage.
Murphy told me to dress nice. “Proper posh,” he said on the phone, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll be the one lowering the tone.”
My nerves have been doing cartwheels all afternoon. Not because of Murphy, he’s the easiest part of this whole thing. It’s this new... whatever this is. Real, public, serious. There’s something terrifyingly thrilling about that.
I finally settle on a silky black slip dress that clings in the right places and a pair of heels that scream confidence even if my insides are jelly. I tweak my curls into submission, swipe on lipstick, and try not to overthink the fact that I feel like I’m dressing up for something important.
When the knock comes, it’s softer than I expect. Murphy stands on the other side in a suit. Dark navy, tailored within an inch of its life, his usually unruly hair tamed (barely), and that grin.
“Jesus, Soph,” he says, eyes raking over me with a slowness that makes me feel half-naked and entirely adored. “You trying to kill me before we even get to dessert?”
“That depends,” I say, sliding past him with a smirk. “Are you planning on behaving tonight?”
“Absolutely not,” he says, offering me his arm. “I’m a troublemaker in formalwear.”
The restaurant is the kind of place that doesn’t even list prices on the menu.
All candlelight and sleek marble tables and waiters who glide instead of walk.
I feel slightly out of place until Murphy leans in across the table and whispers, “You’re the hottest person in here. Everyone else just looks like money.”
The food is divine. We share everything, because of course Murphy insists on it, and every time he feeds me a bite of something, he watches me as if it’s the best thing he’s seen all night.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, his hand finds my thigh beneath the table. Warm, slow strokes. Innocent at first. Then not.
“Behave,” I hiss, but I’m breathless.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Make me.”
God help me, I almost do.
Dessert is forgotten. He pays the bill, and leaves an obnoxiously generous tip, then guides me out with a hand on my back. The night air is cooler than I expect, but Murphy pulls me close.
Then the flashbulbs start.
I blink, disoriented. Voices shout our names, his name, camera shutters rapid-firing like a drumbeat. I freeze.
“Murphy! Over here! Is this your girlfriend?”
“How long have you been seeing each other?”
I can’t move. I’m frozen in the centre of the chaos, heart thundering, mouth dry.
Murphy steps in front of me immediately. “Back off, yeah? She’s not part of the circus.”
His hand finds mine, gripping tight. He keeps himself between me and the photographers, shielding me with his body. “Eyes on me, Soph. Just me.”
I focus on the back of his neck, on the feel of his fingers squeezing mine, grounding me. He walks us fast but steady to the car, shielding my face from the flashes.
Once inside, he slams the door and rounds to the driver’s side, his jaw tight.
“You okay?” he asks as soon as he’s in.
I nod, but my hands are shaking.
“They came out of nowhere,” I whisper. “I didn’t think there’d be cameras.”
“I should’ve guessed,” he mutters. “Stupid, really. You looked too good to go unnoticed.”
Despite everything, I laugh a little.
“Sorry,” he says, voice gentler now. “I should’ve warned you. I’m used to them. Doesn’t mean you have to be.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was just intense.”
He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “You were brilliant. Even scared shitless.”
I look at him then. Really look.
He’s not just cocky charm and swagger. He’s safety. Steadiness. He’s the one who pulled me through a storm of flashes like it was nothing.
We drive in silence for a while, his thumb stroking circles on my hand. My heart rate starts to return to normal. The city blurs past outside, but I’m only focused on him.
When we pull up outside my flat, I expect him to walk me to the door, maybe kiss me goodnight.
He kills the engine and turns to me. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes,” I say, before I can even think.
The moment the door closes behind us, his hands are on my waist, lips on mine, and all the adrenaline from earlier explodes into something else entirely.
He lifts me with ease, carrying me toward the bedroom, not breaking the kiss.
“Soph,” he murmurs between kisses. “Tell me if you want to slow down.”
“I want you,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair. “Now.”
The rest of the night is soft and slow and hungry all at once. His touch is reverent, as though he’s memorising me. And I let him.
Because this man? This man just walked me through a storm, hands steady, heart wide open. And I’m falling for him so fast I’m not even scared of the fall anymore.
Later, when we’re tangled in sheets and he’s tracing circles on my bare back, he says, “If it ever gets too much, the cameras, the press, any of it, just say. I’ll handle it. I’ll always put you first.”
I look at him, overwhelmed by how easy it is to believe him.
“Murph?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“I think I’m in real trouble.”
He grins, then presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Me too. But it’s the best kind of trouble.”
And I believe that, too.