Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
Mia’s not impressed. She’s got that eyebrow raise thing going on, one that could stop a runaway Zamboni in its tracks, as she straps the ice pack tighter around my ankle. I wince dramatically.
“Big baby,” she mutters.
“Says the woman trying to amputate my foot with a frozen pack of doom.”
“You’re lucky it’s just a sprain,” she says, then jabs a finger at me. “And you’re on rest this week. No training, no gym, no skating. Got it?”
I groan. Loudly. As though I’ve just been told my dog died and my favourite takeaway closed down in the same breath.
“Mia…” I drag her name out like a kid begging for more TV. “I’m already bored, I can feel it creeping up my spine.”
“Nope. Don’t even start. Rest.”
She packs up her supplies and walks off as if she’s got a vendetta against fun. I sit there sulking, my ankle propped on the treatment table, strapped up tighter than a Christmas present you’re desperate to get into, like it personally betrayed me.
What the hell am I supposed to do with a week off? Rest? Reflect?
Or...
Sophie.
She’s probably at work right now, tapping away at her keyboard with her quirky little concentration face and chewing the lid of a biro. I grin. Yeah, that’s where I’m going.
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling up outside the hospital in my very clean, very shiny car, with a suspiciously fancy picnic basket in the passenger seat. I may or may not have bribed a local deli. What can I say? They love me in there.
Sophie meets me in the staff garden, her eyes narrowing immediately. “Is that brie?”
I nod, smug. “Sure is. Triple cream. Imported. Practically sinful.”
Her face lights up like I’ve just proposed. “God, I love cheese more than I love most of my relatives.”
We settle on a bench under one of the trees, it’s the kind of day that makes you believe the universe isn’t totally messed up. She kicks off her shoes and curls her legs beneath her, stealing olives from my side of the blanket without shame.
“So,” she says around a mouthful of cracker, “do I get to ask why you’re loitering in a hospital garden like a charming stalker?”
I pat my ankle with mock solemnity. “Banned from the rink. Apparently, skating on a balloon-foot is frowned upon according to our lovely Mia.”
She frowns. “Wait, you’re actually following medical advice? Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
“Laugh it up, Hart. I’m a changed man.”
She snorts. “You’re a bored man. With snacks.”
I grin. “Correct. And a proposition.”
She arches a brow, chewing slowly. “If it’s sexual and involves stilton, I’m out.”
“Rude. But no, I’m talking about this.” She watches as I pull a folded flyer from my hoodie pocket and hand it to her.
Her eyes skim it, then widen. “You want to come to the dinner dance?”
“You invited me.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d say yes so fast. It’s formal; suits and speeches and handsy consultants who think a low-cut dress is an invitation to corner you at the dessert table.”
My jaw tightens. “Do I need to fight someone at this dance?”
She laughs. “Hopefully not. It’s a charity thing. Same hospital fundraiser as the one you did with the kids last month. This one just comes with a lot more awkward mingling and bad canapés.”
I lean back on my elbows. “Sounds dreadful. When do we leave?”
“You’re serious?”
“As a sprained ankle. Plus, I get to wear a suit and impress your colleagues with my dashing limp.”
She pretends to swoon. “Murphy, the crippled peacock. How ever will I resist?”
I toss a grape at her. She catches it with her mouth, triumphant. “God, I love you,” I say without thinking.
She freezes. Then smiles. “That’s the second time you’ve said it, by the way.”
I blink. “Wait, really?”
“First time was a post-sex sofa confession. You were very flustered.”
“Sounds fake. I’m extremely composed during all sofa-based declarations.”
She leans over, and pecks me on the cheek. “Well, now you’ve said it twice, I guess it’s official.”
I slide my arm around her waist, tugging her into my side. “Third time’s the charm, Hart. I love you. Even if you eat all my olives.”
She grins, then nuzzles into me. “I love you too. Even if you bring a picnic to emotionally manipulate me.”
We sit like that until her phone buzzes with a message, she takes it out to glance at it and she groans, sitting up. “Back to the trenches.”
I get to my feet carefully pulling her up with me. “You know,” I say, “I’m really good at dancing with a limp.”
“I bet you are.”
“Think they’ll have a slow song?”
She smirks. “If they don’t, I’ll make them.”
We part ways reluctantly, but my heart’s doing cartwheels the whole way back to the car.
Dinner dance with Sophie Hart.
An excuse to wear a tux. And maybe I’ll tell her again, on the dance floor this time, just how completely gone I am for her.