Page 11 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

H is bedroom door is open and I hesitate, afraid to approach.

Hovering in the hallway like a total creeper, I stare at the golden slice of light spilling from his cracked door—the soft glow of accent lamps casting shadows across the hardwood floor. I can hear the low hum of music drifting through the air.

My palm flattens against the doorframe.

“Breathe. You’ve seen this man’s O-face. You can handle walking into his room.”

I knock lightly—more of a courtesy tap, honestly—because the door is ajar, and if we’re going by roommate code, that’s basically a Welcome Mat . I do not want a repeat performance of last night.

I whisper to myself, “Please don’t be naked. Please don’t be naked,” as I push the door open a tad bit wider.

Turner is very much not naked, thank god.

He’s lounging across his bed, one knee bent, back propped against a pillow, scrolling on his phone with a faint crease between his brows.

His thumb pauses when he hears me.

“Hey, roomie,” I say, trying to like I hadn’t stood and watched this man’s soul leave his body pre-orgasm less than twenty-four hours ago.

His gaze lifts, and his whole face softens. “Hey you.”

No awkwardness. So far, so good…

Just the quiet steadiness he always seems to carry. It’s nice. I’ve noticed Turner isn’t a chaotic person. He’s not all big emotions and drama and loud bellowing like some dudes.

He’s the guy who offers to help carry groceries before you even open the trunk. He’s quiet, but not cold. Chill, but not passive.

A walking exhale.

“You busy?”

“Naw. Not really.” He sets his phone down on the mattress. “I’m just…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, lips pressing together.

“Want to watch a movie?” I blurt out, since that’s the reason I came looking for him. The house is quiet, and I find that I don’t necessarily want to spend the evening alone, even in the living room.

Probably because this saturation is so new. And normally I would FaceTime Nova but now we’re in the same city, and now she has a roommate, too.

They’re probably screwing, that lucky bitch.

Turner glances around at his bed covers. “In here?”

I stare at his massive bed; at him. At the television.

Back at him.

Shrug. “Sure?” What could possibly go wrong?

All the horrible things have already happened, haven’t they? The near nudity, the jerking off. Not a ton left that would scandalize the other at this point.

So yeah. I kick off my slippers and go to the other side of the bed, climbing up onto the tall mattress because this is totally normal, platonic roommate behavior.

Big dude.

Bigger bed.

His room is large too and has a sitting area tucked in by the window, complete with a leather armchair and a floor lamp. A few books are stacked haphazardly on the side table. One of them has a bookmark wedged in the middle. I make a mental note: he reads.

Figures.

He probably journals too . And volunteers at shelters. And returns his grocery cart like a good citizen. Blah.

The massive, man-sized TV hangs on the wall in front of the bed like a cinematic monument. It’s playing something with car chases and testosterone, which tracks. So masculine.

“Fun fact,” I begin. “I’ve never had a TV in my room before.” I pull a blanket over my legs and lean against the nearest pillow.

Turner glances at me, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” I nod. “Growing up, my parents never allowed it. Then when I moved out I kind of had the ideology that bedrooms were for two things—sleeping and sex.”

The two words hang in the air.

Sleeping. Sex.

Sex.

I clear my throat, attention flickering to his arm, stretched casually across the back of the pillows, and then, god help me, to his thigh, the way his sweatpants cling just right when he shifts.

This is a mistake.

A huge mistake .

“Do you mind?” I gesture vaguely to the screen. “Maybe I should go…”

He looks at me fully now, face unreadable for a second before he nods once. “Nah. You’re already under the blanket. That’s basically a nonverbal contract.”

Right.

Of course.

“Well I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything—we now know I have horrible timing.” Ha ha.

“Nope. I was, you know, swiping on the dating apps,” Turner drops the bomb, adding it to the stillness in the air.

Of course he’d be on dating apps. The man is single, good-looking, and kind. Crazy successful.

A catch.

Still, I feel awkward knowing this information when I’m single, too and have seen his junk. “How is the single scene around here? If I’m going to live here, this is need-to-know information.”

I squirm.

He shrugs. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I haven’t…” He clears his throat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve dated and now the guys are riding my ass about it, so I figured I might as well check it out.”

He picks up his phone from the nightstand and taps it a few times, then turns the screen toward me.

“Behold,” he says, deadpan. “The worst dating app bio in the history of mankind.”

I squint at it, reading aloud. “ Hockey player. Middle child. Likes pets. Currently trying to figure out what to do with too many expired HelloFresh meals in his freezer. Open to suggestions .” It’s not the worst biography I’ve read, if we’re being honest. “The good news is, you haven’t said anything about fishing or hunting. ”

“I haven’t added photos yet.”

“Oh god.” I slap a hand dramatically over his forearm. “Please—on behalf of women everywhere—don’t add fish photos.”

“I’m trying to seem approachable.” He gestures at his general mass. “The size thing kind of works against me.”

Is he serious?

Women love big dudes. The taller the better. Did he not get the memo?

“You absolutely do come off as approachable. But you also sound like someone’s divorced uncle who doesn’t grocery shop on a regular basis and only has butter in his fridge.”

No offense.

He winces. “That bad?”

“It’s humble but deeply unsexy. Which—congrats!—is really hard to do.”

He laughs and takes the phone back, shaking his head. “Okay, critic. What would you put?”

“I don’t know…” I cross my arms, pretending to consider. “Something like: Tall, dark, and emotionally available. Has a giant TV and knows how to use a washing machine.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think putting ‘emotionally available’ in my dating bio is a good idea? Won’t that scare women off?”

No!

It won’t scare women off. It will attract them like bees on honey or flies on shit!

“Sure, it will scare the wrong people off,” I say.

“And attract the right ones.” I select all the words in his bio and delete them, talking out loud as I type: Perpetual hockey bro.

Own my own laundry basket. Will buy you coffee and listen to your podcast recommendations without judgment.

Six foot plus something. Can reach the top shelf and carry your emotional baggage. ”

There.

Turner doesn’t look convinced. “That’s what you think women want?”

“It’s what I want,” I blurt out. “And I can confidently say I speak for most women.”

Our eyes meet.

Silence stretches.

I notice he hasn’t shaved in a day or two, stubble beginning to fill in his face. The sexy five o’clock shadow—it’s the kind of rugged scruff that looks like it should be illegal on someone this wholesome.

The jawline is jaw-ing.

I toss the phone onto his stomach. “You’re welcome. You could add something about LEGOs too. Everyone’s into those right now,” I offer, reaching for the water glass I brought with me and pretend I’m not scrutinizing every sharp line of his face.

Turner nods, nibbling on his bottom lip.

He hums like he’s actually considering it. “How about… ‘Can build a replica castle by hand, but can’t figure out how to start a conversation on dating apps.’”

Aww. Poor guy .

“You’re not terrible. Give yourself some credit.”

“That’s what you should lead with,” I say, settling deeper into the pillows. “Hockey player is expected. Tall is implied. But patient enough to find a 1x1 tan tile at two in the morning? That’s swoon-worthy.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “What does your dating bio say?”

I laugh. “You don’t want to know…”

“Oh yes I fuckin’ do. Let me see it,” he prods, wiggling his fingers.

“Absolutely not.”

Turner leans over, reaching for my phone like he’s about to snatch it right out of my hands. I clutch it to my chest and twist away from him, grinning.

“Boundaries!” I protest, squirming.

I do not need him seeing my stupid bio and my dumb photos. No. Absolutely not.

No.

“I’m going to end up seeing it anyways,” he informs me. “Since you’re in the radius of my search.”

True.

Still, I roll my eyes at the same time my stomach flutters deep inside my vagina. “I’ll take my chances.”

“I can’t even imagine what kind of douchebags are on those things.”

So many. Soooo many douchebags.

So many red flags.

“Right?” I grin, tipping my glass toward him. “You want to see for yourself? I’ll let you scroll, but you have to promise not to swipe right on anyone unless I specifically approve it.” I lift my phone and waggle it in front of him. “Just a little peek at the douchebags—for science.”

We scoot a little closer, shoulders brushing now, and I hand it over like I’m surrendering state secrets. His thumb hovers above the screen like it’s a detonator.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” he murmurs.

“Just try not to cry,” I warn. “The bar is set really low. Like—deep depths of the ocean low.”

Turner is going to fly off the market the second his profile goes public.

He shifts closer to me still, arm brushing mine as he stares down at the screen of my phone with pure concentration etched on his face. "Go. Let’s see what horror awaits."

“Buckle up,” I mutter, taking a sip from my glass and watching his thumb swipe through the first few profiles.

“‘I’m an alpha looking for my omega,’” he reads out loud, face twisting. “Nope.”

“Hard no,” I agree.

Another swipe.

“‘Dog dad. Gym rat. Six feet tall.’”