Sophie squeals so loudly I have to yank the phone away from my ear. “Knew it,” she says smugly. “I knew you were a goner.”
“I am not,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t even lie. Youare. You’re toast, Clarke. Absolutely toasted.” I laugh helplessly. Because she’s right, I am toast. Charred, smitten, head over heels toast.
“And you know what?” Sophie says, voice softening. “You deserve it. After everything with your dad, you deserve some good, Mia.”
I swallow hard. The mention of Dad tugs at the happy bubble I’d been floating in.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice quieter. “I just I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” Sophie says firmly. “Because you’re smart. And because he sounds like he’s completely and totally in love with you.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Heis,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Uh huh.” Sophie lets the silence hang for a second, then pounces. “Speaking of being smart,” she says, shifting gears. “Carly got back to me about your contract.”
My stomach knots. “And?”
She clears her throat theatrically. “So, theno fraternisationpolicy is definitely there,” she says. “Very clear. Blah blah professionalism, maintain integrity of team dynamics, yada yada.”
“Yada yada?” I echo dryly.
“Legal term,” she says solemnly. “Anyway, here’s the thing; it specifies direct supervisory roles. As in, you can’t date someone you directly manage or who directly manages you.”
I frown. “But I’m the team physio.”
“Exactly,” Sophie says. “You’re notmanagingDylan. You’re providing medical support. It’s a service, not a supervisory position.”
I blink.
“Which means,” she continues, “that the rule technically doesn’t apply, unless someone can prove that your relationship is compromising your professional judgment.”
I sit back, heart pounding. “So there’s a loophole.”
“A tiny one,” she says. “But it’s there. You’d have to beverycareful. No public displays. No behaviour at work that anyone could claim affected your work or Dylan’s play.”
I chew my bottom lip. “Murphy saw us,” I admit.
Sophie whistles low. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
I rub a hand over my face. Yesterday’s high feels fragile now. Like a soap bubble about to pop.
“But he warned Dylan,” I add. “He’s not going to rat us out. They’re friends.”
“For now,” Sophie says cautiously. “But you’re playing with fire, babe.”
“I know.”
“You still want to do this?”
I close my eyes, picturing Dylan’s smile, the way he brushed my hair back from my face on the beach, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing he wanted in the world.
