Page 13 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

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“ Y ou know what I’ve been wondering?” Poppy asks, shifting on the mattress beside me.

I catch a whiff of whatever scent she’s wearing and inhale it, imprinting it in my brain.

“Hmm? What have you been wondering?”

“If your last name is Hutton—why do they call you Skaggs? That makes no sense whatsoever.”

I grin, letting my knee bump against hers.

“The reason is not all that exciting.” I laugh.

“My rookie year on the Baddies, I showed up to my very first practice wearing an old jersey I’d had since high school.

Got it at some garage sale for like, five bucks.

” I chuckle at the memory. “It wasn’t my name on the back—it said Skaggs.

No idea who that dude was, but I liked the colors and it fit.

And anytime I wore it to practice, we would win the next game. ”

It's my good luck charm and I still have it.

Wore it under my pads the whole season in high school, too.

“That’s adorable.”

“My teammates started calling me Skaggs from day one. Said it fit me better than Hutton—and once you get a nickname on a hockey team?” I shrug. “Might as well get it tattooed on your ass.”

Poppy tips her head, grinning. “You have it tattooed on your ass?”

I smirk. “Maybe. You want to find out?”

She shivers, letting out a nervous little giggle, ducking her head.

“No thanks,” she says. “I’ll take your word for it.”

I chuckle. “Coward.” I nudge her knee again, a not-so-subtle invitation to keep playing along. “What about you? You got any tattoos?”

She shakes her head. “None. I almost got one once during spring break in college but the one shop that was open near our hotel looked... sketchy. I was afraid I might wake up with tetanus,” she deadpans.

“Good instincts.” I nod approvingly. “You’d make a terrible impulsive drunk.”

“You said you had several tattoos—what’s the other one?” She taps her chin dramatically. “Let me guess, the other one is your college logo? Your mom’s name? Wait—wait—is it a drawing of the little LEGO man, or something Harry Potter related?

Very good guesses. “Wrong, wrong, and no way in hell.”

She raises both brows. “So? What is it?”

I smirk, dragging out the suspense to watch her squirm. “It’s a star.”

She blinks. “A star?”

I nod, leaning back against the headboard. “Tiny one. Right here.” I lift up the hem of my T-shirt enough to show the ink low on my rib cage—small, clean.

Barely visible.

Her eyes stare at my flesh. “What’s the story? That looks feminine.”

Because it is.

My shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “It’s for my little sister.”

Her whole face seems to fall. “ Oh .”

“She used to say I was her ‘north star,’ back when we were kids and she was scared of everything. Thunderstorms. First days of school. Dad’s scary-ass driving.” I chuckle under my breath. “So when I turned eighteen, I got it. Just something small. Just for her.”

There’s a beat of silence, the air between us shifting—thicker now. Softer.

“That’s…” Poppy presses her lips together like she’s physically restraining the swoon. “Did your sister…”

Her voice trails off as if she’s afraid to say the words.

“My sister is in college. Alive and well and a giant pain in my ass.”

“Oh!” Poppy exhales a soft laugh, the tension melting away. “That’s good.” She smiles—and holy hell, it knocks the breath out of me.

I bump her knee with mine again, this time a little harder.

Playful.

I give her more information about my family. “I have two sisters—Georgia is younger and in college. Stella is thirty and single with two kids. She’s dating too, and as a matter of fact, I helped write her bio. Crazy, eh? She’s having better luck than I am.”

Poppy’s eyes light up. “You helped write your sister’s dating bio?”

“Damn right I did.” I lean back on my hands, smirking. “It’s a masterpiece. She’s the hottest mom on Bumble.”

“That’s so sweet. Maybe I should let you see mine,” she says shyly, fiddling with the corner of my pillow. “I need all the help I can get.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”

She nods, cheeks pink.

“Don’t judge me—and don’t start swiping on people. I’m handing you my phone strictly so you can give me any pointers.”

Noted.

I take it carefully, like she’s handed me something breakable. Because it is breakable—her trust, her pride—and the last thing I want to do is crush it.

I scroll through her profile.

Immediately—and I mean immediately —I feel my nostrils flare.

Because holy hell.

If she thinks she needs help, she’s out of her damn mind!

Poppy, 26. Tech.

Part-time monster, full-time nerd.

Will absolutely steal your hoodie and your last French fry. Okay at Spanish but fluent in making bad decisions look adorable. Swipe right if you can tolerate competitive board games and unsolicited photos of my breakfast.

Then I shift my focus to the photos; the first is her. Smiling. No make-up. Hair messy. Standing on a dock in a giant, white sweatshirt and cut-offs jean shorts, looking effortless and so beautiful it physically has my heart fluttering.

The second picture is worse— or better —depending on how you look at it.

Poppy in a neon pink bikini riding a wake board, behind a boat. Wet hair. Tan skin.

I swipe again.

Ugh. Her in plaid pajamas with a cocker spaniel puppy on her lap. I LOVE PLAID PAJAMAS AND PUPPIES ON LAPS! I wonder whose dog it is, but don’t want to ask on the off chance she says it belongs to some dude.

A picture of her holding a giant cinnamon roll the size of her face, eyes lit up with mischief like it’s the greatest discovery of her life.

God help me.

I’m falling and I haven’t even left this stupid bed.

I hand her phone back without saying a word.

She clutches it to her chest, looking at me warily. “That bad?”

“That good,” I say quietly.

Our eyes lock, the air stretching tight between us, crackling like a live wire.

Suddenly, the fact that we’re sitting here—cross-legged on my bed, both in pajamas, hearts on full display—feels dangerously intimate.

Poppy’s lips part. “Wait—you’re not going to roast me? No notes? No savage critique?”

“Nope.” I shake my head, grinning. “Only note I have is that if I saw this profile, I’d swipe right so hard I’d sprain my damn thumb.”

She lets out a shaky little laugh, cheeks practically glowing.

“Really?”

“You’re the whole package, Poppy. Anyone with half a brain would see it.”

"Are you just saying that because I live in the room next door and you have to see me every day?" she teases, sneaking a glance at me through her lashes.

"Nope." I stretch my long legs out beside hers, our knees brushing, and cross my arms because I no longer know what to do with my limbs. "I’m saying it because it’s true."

The air shifts again—thicker, heavier. Like we’re both too aware of the inches between us.

“You haven’t seen me with PMS yet.” Poppy laughs. "But I will admit, you’re really good for my ego. Maybe I’ll hang around for a while.”

Hang around for a while? “What do you mean?”

“I was going to start searching for apartments. Living in your spare bedroom was only short term.”

Oh.

Guess I had not known that, but it makes sense. Of course a grown ass woman doesn’t want two male morons for roommates—I’ve already caught her almost naked once. I don’t blame her for wanting to get the fuck outa here so she can have actual privacy.

"Right. Yeah," I say, forcing a grin. "Makes sense."

It feels like someone just sucker-punched me right in the ribs—and now I’m sitting here, grinning like a dumbass while my insides curl up and die.

Because I like having her here.

I really like having her here.

"I mean," Poppy adds quickly, like she can sense the slight shift in my mood, "I’m not in a rush or anything. I haven’t met Cash or the dog yet, so there’s still a chance y’all might drive me completely insane.”

“Who me? Never.”

"Want to know something?” she asks softly. “You’re not what I expected."

"Is that so?" I turn toward her, so we’re facing one another.

"Yes. I thought you’d be cocky," she murmurs. "Arrogant. A bit of a big, dumb jock."

Well shit. Was that a compliment?

"Only a bit of a dumb jock?" I tease, even as my pulse thunders. “Thanks.”

Poppy’s head shakes. “I didn’t mean it like that—I meant. You surprised me, in a good way. Not once have I felt uncomfortable.” She hesitates. “Never mind, that’s a lie. I felt uncomfortable when you saw my tits on night one.”

Don’t look down at her chest, don’t look down at her chest, don’t look down ?—

I glance down.

Of course I glance down.

Her boobs are like beacons, drawing me in. Two magnets I can’t fucking not look at, addling my brain into wanting to say the dumbest shit. Into wanting to confess the thoughts swirling in my goddamn brain.

Like: I can’t stop thinking about you.

Like: I dreamt about you last night, and when I woke up this morning, my dick was hard.

Like: I think you’re beautiful and funny and would literally lose my mind if you ever looked at me the way I’m trying not to look at you.

I clear my throat, dragging my gaze back up to her face—because that's where it belongs, and because if I stare any longer, I’m either going to spontaneously combust or get slapped.

Poppy’s still watching me, like she can read every filthy, chaotic thought rattling around in my skull.

She shifts, tucking her legs underneath her again. Clears her throat too, which makes me feel marginally better about the fact that I am moments away from absolutely losing it.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, voice a little smaller now, like she’s not sure if she should.

I nod, settling back against the headboard. “Go for it.”

I am an open book.

Mostly.

She hesitates. Bites her bottom lip. Looks at me from under those long lashes that have been my slow, inevitable downfall since day one.

“Why are you still single?” she finally blurts. “You’re—you know. You.”

I blink, surprised. Laugh a little under my breath. “You mean a big, dumb jock with a star tattoo for his sister, who’s a homebody that would rather not go to the bars?”