Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SOPHIE
Idon’t know what’s more exhausting, coordinating a six-person campaign with two clients who barely know how to use Google Docs, or resisting the urge to throttle said clients before noon.
“I’m going to start charging by the stupid,” I mutter, slamming my laptop shut and ignoring the horrified look on my colleague’s face.
It’s just past eleven, and I’ve already had three coffees, two arguments, and one existential crisis over a PowerPoint template. Pocket rocket doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m more of a caffeine-fuelled missile aimed directly at inefficiency.
My phone pings on cue.
Murphy: Survived training. Dylan nearly fell trying to spin-stop. Looked like a confused giraffe. Missed you x
Me: Please tell me there’s video.
Murphy: Already uploading to the cloud.
I smirk and tuck the phone away, feeling that tiny little flip in my chest that always comes with his name. Even in the middle of a Monday morning warzone, he manages to sneak in under my skin and make himself at home.
Still, I’ve got a job to do, and right now that means prepping the weekly reports while pretending my manager’s story about her cat’s dental hygiene is riveting.
“Right, Sophie, thoughts on this paragraph here?” she asks, pointing to her screen.
I lean in, scan it, and lift an eyebrow. “You’ve got ‘exciting’ in here four times. Either thesaurus it or admit you peaked at paragraph two.”
She barks a laugh and nods. “You’re brutal.”
“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.”
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m feeling dangerously close to hangry, so I duck out to the bakery on the corner and buy myself a croissant the size of my face. It’s not elegant, but it’s flaky and warm and fills the Murphy-shaped void for now.
Murphy: Got any lunch plans or are you seducing baked goods again?
Me: I never kiss and tell.
Murphy: I should be jealous of that croissant.
Me: You should be. It just asked me to move in.
He sends back a string of flame emojis, followed by a selfie of him holding a protein shake and looking personally offended.
Murphy: I’ll show you flaky. Wait ‘til I get my hands on you later.
Me: Promises, promises.
I finish the croissant with a self-satisfied sigh, then march back into the office with a fresh cup of coffee and the energy of someone who knows she’s killing it today.
Afternoon meetings come and go. I talk strategy, solve a scheduling mess, and walk a junior through her first client call. She’s nervous, fumbling with her notes, but I give her a thumbs-up from across the desk and she steadies.
God, I love being good at this. I love the rush of it, the quiet power of knowing people look to me when everything goes to hell.
At five, I wrap up and lean back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head. My phone buzzes again.
Murphy: Be outside in ten. Wear something slutty. Like... jeans.
I snort.
Me: I’m in a skirt, you animal.
Murphy: I’m only human.
Ten minutes later, true to his word, he’s waiting outside in his car, windows down and music playing low. He’s got sunglasses on and that cocky grin that makes me want to kiss him and punch him simultaneously.
“You kidnap all your girlfriends straight from work?” I ask as I slide into the passenger seat.
“Only the fit ones.”
He hands me a bubble tea and a paper bag that smells suspiciously like fresh chips.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” I murmur, biting into one.
“You put up with me. That deserves at least fried potatoes.”
We drive aimlessly for a while, through winding roads and sleepy suburbs. The sun’s starting to dip, turning the sky that soft orange-pink that makes everything feel like a rom-com.
I glance over at him. He’s humming to the radio, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, one hand lazily resting on my thigh.
“You know,” I say, “you’re dangerously close to making me a little gooey.”
He grins. “Just a little?”
“Tiny bit. Like marshmallow on the inside, full goblin on the outside.”
“That’s my favourite combo.”
Eventually, we pull into a quiet park. It’s mostly empty, just a few joggers and a guy with a suspiciously well-trained dog. Murphy grabs the picnic basket from the back seat and lays out a blanket under a tree.
“You really planned this, huh?” I ask.
“What can I say? You bring out the domestic god in me.”
The food is surprisingly good. Simple sandwiches, fruit, and those tiny pastries I mentioned offhandedly once, weeks ago.
“You remembered,” I say around a mouthful of lemon tart.
“Of course I did. I’m mad about you, Hart.”
And just like that, the world quiets. It’s not the words, he’s said them before, it’s the way he says them now. Casual, certain, like breathing.
“I’m mad about you too,” I whisper.
We don’t need to say more. We just eat, lounge, make out a little in the dying light like two teenagers pretending the world doesn’t exist.
When he drops me back at mine, he walks me to the door, fingers brushing mine.
“You staying?” I ask.
“I was hoping to. But only if there’s another croissant in the morning.”
“No promises,” I tease, pulling him inside.
When we’re curled together on my sofa, legs tangled and his hand under the hem of my shirt, he murmurs, “This makes me happy, y’know?”
“What does?”
“You. Us.”
I kiss him slow. Deep.
“Good,” I say against his mouth. “Because I’ve already drafted our couple’s Halloween costume plan.”
He groans. “If you make me wear matching onesies, I’m calling Dylan for backup.”
“Too late,” I grin. “He’s already approved the spreadsheet.”
And we dissolve into laughter and kisses and something that feels an awful lot like forever.