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epilogue ii

Poppy

W elp, y’all.

I got the job.

Employed. Benefits. Vacation days. A security clearance keycard badge that I fully intend to bedazzle.

I GOT THE FREAKING JOB.

Better yet? The gig is in Houston, aka: home of Nova and Luca and Gio and Austin. Built in community. Built in support system. Built in fun. Also home of highways, cattle, and cowboys.

This isn’t the first time I’ve packed up and started over somewhere new—but it’s the first time it feels…different. Less like an escape, more like a decision. I chose this. The job is good—better than good.

I’ll be leading the cybersecurity team at a rising tech firm, and they’re already throwing around words like promotion track and stock options .

Yay, me!

I take a peek at my phone for the third time in ten seconds, as if staring at it was going to make it ring. Ring, dammit!

When it finally does, I’m standing in the center of my living room—well, soon-to-be-former living room—surrounded by a crime scene of empty boxes, bubble wrap, and one half-eaten sleeve of Oreos I’ve been using for morale.

I answer so fast I nearly dislocate a thumb.

“Are you wearing it right now?” I blurt out, needing to see her hand.

Again.

Nova laughs, breathless and happy as she holds up her hand on FaceTime. “Obviously. I haven’t stopped staring at it. I almost ran into a display of light bulbs at Home Depot yesterday.”

We squeal at the same time, which makes me laugh and wipe a tear I didn’t expect. Because it’s not just about the ring. Or the proposal. Or the fact that she got the bean aisle moment of a lifetime.

It’s the fact that my best friend is in love.

So damn in love.

And it’s happening. And I’m going to be there. In the same city. Starting over but definitely not alone.

“Please, please, please help me find an apartment,” I say. “Preferably one with a view. And a pool. And a rooftop garden.”

Nova rolls her eyes at my demands.

“I can do you one better.” She props her phone against the tile backsplash in her kitchen and goes about her business wiping down her counter. “Are you ready for this?”

I stop taping a box of knick-knacks I’m donating to the Salvation Army. “Hit me.”

Nova stops wiping and grins at the camera.

“Luca’s house--the one he owns not too far from here has a spare bedroom.”

My ears perk up. “Spare bedroom?”

She resumes cleaning. “Unless the guys haven’t moved into the primary bedroom, yeah—there’s a room that’s available and I’m one hundred percent positive they wouldn’t care if you moved in.”

My spine straightens like I’ve just been told I won a luxury yacht and free skincare for life .

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

‘Cause I’m interested!

Nova holds up her hands. “I’m saying if you’re willing to live in the suburbs with two semi-domesticated male athletes and their ill-mannered lab retriever, the room is yours.”

Semi-domesticated? “Are they clean?”

She hesitates.

“Nova.”

Her shoulders lift up and down. “They try their best?”

Not exactly comforting.

I worry my bottom lip and ask the only question that has relevancy: “Do I get my own bathroom?”

Nova laughs. “Yes, Your Highness. The house has four and a half bathrooms.”

Whoa.

“Okay, okay, back to the important part—tell me about the guys.” I wiggle my eyebrows like a creep. “And I mean tell me about the guys.

“Well,” she says, rinsing her rag way too slowly. “You’ve got Skaggs—rookie defenseman. Loves to read. Overall he’s pretty quiet and shy. Great guy. Terrible at putting away dishes. I’ve literally seen him eat an entire Costco rotisserie chicken with his bare hands.”

“Ew.”

“Then there’s Cash,” she continues. “Pro-snowboarder who only lives in Texas during the summer—I think his parents live here? Barely around. Has a dog, who travels with him during snow season. Cash is also a very nice guy…picture a surfer, though. Super chill. Uses words like gnarly and huzz .”

“Let me guess—he wears beanies?”

“Yes. And he has the most symmetrical face I’ve ever seen.”

“So…they’re both single?”

Nova pauses. “Painfully single.”

“And attractive? ”

“Disgustingly.” She pauses. “So good-looking that on occasion, I can’t look them in the eye.”

I can’t decide if she’s fucking with me or not.

Nova doesn’t even crack a smile as she leans in to the camera, whisper talking. “Poppy, I’m serious. Sometimes when I’m at the house, I have to pretend I have bad eyesight. It’s the only way to survive.”

“ Instagram-model hot? Or real life and in person hot?”

She lifts one shoulder in a helpless shrug. “Yes.”

Oh God.

“Do they wear shirts around the house?”

Say yes. Please say yes…

“Occasionally.”

“One more question: why would you do this to me ?”

Nova doesn’t blink. “Because I love you. And because I believe you deserve to suffer in the most delicious way possible. Hot roommates. Built-in dog. Proximity to your best friend.”

“You left out the part where I combust from sexual frustration.”

Nova grins. “That’s on you, not the lease agreement.” Sighs. “Listen, think about it, that’s all I ask. It helps you out—it helps Luca out. The room will be available for a while—they’re all too lazy to go out and find someone to live there.”

I nod. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

“Skaggs and Cash are low risk. Low drama. High abs.” My best friend levels me with a frustrated look. “Look. They’re good guys. It’s temporary. And you’ve lived with worse. Remember your roommate in Seattle who lost all her money online gambling?”

Yes, and Nova is a bitch to mention it.

The second our call ends and I’m alone, I open a web browser and type: Skaggs/Baddie/Hockey into the search bar with every intention of doing a deep dive.

I hit ENTER.

Immediately want to face palm .

Because… oh no.

Hell no.

The image search results are a thirst trap grenade!

There are game shots—helmet on, mouth guard out, all jawline and determination. Sweat. Then there are the off-ice pics. A black-and-white training photo with his shirt riding up to reveal actual, honest-to-God six-pack abs.

Washboard.

A fundraising event pic with a baby on his hip and a shy, closed-mouth smile cute enough to make one’s ovaries explode.

I sit back in stunned silence.

“Low risk?” I whisper to myself. “Nova, you sneaky little liar.”

Skaggs—whose real name is Turner Hutton III—has dark blonde, mussy hair, and dark eyes. He looks self-conscious in nearly every photograph.

Nova called him shy.

This man looks like he’s been carved out of the finest Scandinavian marble, bare chest sprinkled with fine hair. Admittedly, he doesn’t look all that comfortable without his shirt on, the photo taken for a charity calendar.

Still. His bashful smile is awkward enough to be lethal.

And Nova has the gall to suggest I live with him ?!

IS SHE INSANE?

I scroll. And scroll some more.

One picture has him holding a dog— a pug named Zippy, according to the caption —but now I’m imagining our wedding. There’s a slideshow involved.

I slap my laptop closed.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I cannot live with this man.