Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SOPHIE
By the time we walk into the ballroom, Murphy’s already talking like we’re royalty. “Hope they warmed up the dancefloor for us,” he mutters, hand hovering low on my back like it’s second nature. “Wouldn’t want to injure anyone with these moves.”
“You mean like your dodgy ankle?” I shoot back, giving him a look as I adjust the slit of my dress. “Might need to get physio clearance before you attempt a spin.”
Murphy lets out a bark of laughter. “Oi. I’m limber as hell. Ask anyone.”
“I’m asking your physiotherapist, and she says you have the flexibility of a dining chair.”
He grins down at me. “Don’t worry, Hart. If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
I raise a brow. “Romantic.”
The room is buzzing. There are fairy lights strung up across the ceiling, waiters gliding by with champagne flutes, a jazz quartet playing something smooth in the corner. Everyone looks polished and posh, but Murphy and I? We’re trouble wrapped in satin and tailored navy.
“You clean up alright,” I say, giving him a sideways look as we find our table.
“Just alright?”
“Well, your tie’s slightly crooked. But it adds charm. Like you got distracted thinking about your own reflection.”
He fakes offense. “I’ll have you know this is my best tie.”
“It’s also your only tie.”
“Touche.”
We slip into our seats, exchanging greetings with the rest of the table; mostly players and a few staff.
Dylan and Mia are across the way, already deep in some smouldering eye conversation that makes me wonder if anyone else notices the way he leans just a little too close, or the way she fiddles with her bracelet whenever he looks at her like that.
“I give them an hour before he’s dragging her home for sex,” Murphy murmurs, following my gaze. “Two if Mia’s stubborn streak wins.”
“I give them one bottle of wine and a slow song.”
He taps his glass against mine. “To romantic tension.”
“To poor impulse control.”
The dinner service begins, but I’m too distracted by the auction boards lining the back wall. Silent auction time. My arena. My battlefield.
“You coming?” I ask, rising from my seat with a glint in my eye.
“Lead the way, General.”
We weave through the crowd toward the tables of prizes. There’s everything from weekend spa getaways to a private hot air balloon ride, signed sports memorabilia, and wine hampers that look like they belong in the home of a Bond villain.
“Oooh.” I stop in front of a couple’s cooking class. “You keen to see how well we argue over garlic ratios?”
Murphy peers at the listing. “Are we talking Italian or full-scale ‘Sophie throws a ladle at me’ levels?”
“That depends. Will you mansplain how to chop onions?”
“I would never. I’d simply offer guidance.”
I snatch the pen and write our names down. “We’re doing it. Just don’t wear a mesh apron.”
His eyes flash. “Too late.”
We move on. Murphy bids on a year’s supply of artisan coffee as if he’s avenging a personal vendetta. I start a bidding war over a luxury massage voucher with a woman in sequins and pearls who’s giving me murder-eyes.
“She looks like she drinks gin at breakfast,” I whisper as I raise the bid again.
“Respect,” Murphy says. “But also, she’s not beating you.”
The woman glares at me as though she’s planning to trip me on the dancefloor later.
“Add her to the list,” I tell Murphy.
He winks. “You’re collecting enemies faster than I collect penalty minutes.”
As we pass a bidding sheet for a skydiving experience, he stops short.
“Tempted?” I ask.
“I like my feet on the ground. Preferably between yours.”
I roll my eyes, failing to suppress a laugh. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m luckier than that,” he says, and it’s not a joke this time.
His hand finds mine, warm and steady, and I feel the moment shift. Not in a grand, cinematic way, just a small, electric hum in my chest.
“You know this is technically our first official public outing,” I say, glancing at our intertwined fingers.
Murphy grins. “I thought the kebab shop counted.”
“It does. But I don’t think the kebab guy put our picture on Instagram.”
“His loss.”
We’re interrupted by a waiter offering more champagne, which Murphy declines in favour of a beer. “I need to be at full strength for the dancing portion,” he says. “Don’t want to drop you mid-spin.”
“I’d sue.”
“You’d sue, then still dance with me next week.”
“True.”
Dinner winds down. People start migrating toward the dance floor. Mia and Dylan go first; no surprise. He moves like a guy who’s been waiting all night to get her that close.
Murphy watches them for a moment, then turns to me, offering his hand. “Ready to show them how it’s done?”
“You better not be all talk.”
“You wound me.”
He leads me out, slipping a hand to the small of my back again instinctively, like we’ve been doing this for years. The music is slow but not too slow, and there’s a natural rhythm to the way we move together.
“You’re actually good at this,” I say, genuinely surprised.
“I told you. I have hidden depths.”
“Name one.”
“I watch the Great British Bake Off religiously.”
“That’s not a depth. That’s taste.”
“Fine. I also cried at Paddington 2.”
I blink. “Okay, you win.”
He twirls me, then pulls me close again, smirking. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I’ve been known to dabble.”
We sway, spinning lazily beneath the soft golden light, our bodies close enough to steal breath. His eyes don’t leave mine. It’s that look again, the one that turns my stomach to a nervous, hopeful mess.
“I really like you, Hart,” he says quietly, as if it costs him nothing and everything to admit it.
I smile, heart pounding. “That makes two of us.”
“Does it freak you out?”
“A little,” I say honestly. “But not enough to stop.”
He leans in, brushing his nose against mine. “Good.”
When he kisses me, it’s unhurried. Just a soft press of lips in the middle of a crowded dance floor, as if we’ve found our own pocket of quiet in the chaos. My fingers tangle in the lapel of his jacket. His hand settles at my waist like it belongs there.
“Hey,” he says when we part.
“Hey.”
We grin at each other like idiots.
Then the emcee’s voice booms over the microphone, announcing the winners of the silent auction. We rush back to the table like excited kids at a school raffle.
“Couples cooking class goes to Sophie Hart and Samuel Murphy.”
He fist-pumps. “YES.”
“I hope you like being bossed around in a kitchen.”
“I hope you like making out behind a pantry door.”
We win the coffee. I win the massage. We lose the spa break, and Murphy looks genuinely offended. “Massage Mary outbid us.”
“I hope she trips on her towel.”
“We’ll start our own spa,” he mutters, scribbling an imaginary name. “Murph & Hart’s House of Healing.”
“Sounds illegal.”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
Later, as people gather their coats and guests begin to trickle out, we linger at the entrance, reluctant to break the spell.
“I don’t want tonight to end,” I admit, surprising myself.
Murphy leans against the doorway, watching me with that lopsided grin. “Then let’s not let it.”
“What, stay here? Sleep under the auction table?”
“I mean figuratively. Let’s keep doing this. The flirting. The dancing. The you and me thing.”
My breath catches.
“You’re serious.”
“As a pulled hamstring,” he says, stepping closer. “Sophie Hart, I am mad about you.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed and grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re brilliant. So we’re even.”
I loop my arms around his neck. “Okay then.”
“Okay?”
“Let’s keep doing this.”
He kisses me again under the twinkle lights, and it feels magical and wildly, wonderfully us.