Page 14 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

“Stop it, Turner. I did not call you a big dumb jock,” she says, frustrated. “I mean—you’re great. And funny. And… not hard to look at.”

I pretend to preen, fluttering my lashes. “Flatter me some more.”

I study her for a second, feeling the truth rise up in my throat so easily it’s almost scary.

“Guess it’s because…” I say quietly, “I’m not really into half-ass things. If I’m in, I’m all in. No games. No staying on the damn apps, waiting for something better to come along. And I’ve noticed that’s not how dating is these days. Everyone is always looking for the next best thing.”

I’m not willing to settle .

“What about you?” I ask, nudging her foot. “Why are you still single?”

“For a lot of the same reasons,” she says finally, voice low. “I don’t... date just to date. And it has been hard because as I’ve established my career, I’ve moved quite a few times. I don’t really want to waste time when I’m just passing through, you know?”

I get it.

At any given time, I could be traded to another team and have to move. No guarantees.

No permanence.

We’re both living on borrowed time.

“Sure, makes sense,” I say, softer now. “You protect yourself.”

Her mouth twists, like she’s trying to smile but can’t quite get there. “Yeah. Kind of have to.”

I shift on the mattress, turning onto my side to face her more fully. Poppy mirrors the movement, propping her head up with one hand, elbow denting the pillow between us.

Her fingers are so close I could touch them if I wanted. So close it’s stupid.

The TV hums in the background. Some dumb late-night infomercial playing to an audience of two idiots trying not to fall harder.

“Poppy,” I murmur, searching her face.

She smiles, small and shy and heart stopping. “Hmm?”

“What’s the worst heartbreak you’ve ever had?”

Her lashes flutter, surprised. Not the question she expected and not the one I had planned to ask.

“I think...” she says quietly, staring at our hands.

“The worst heartbreak wasn’t from a person.

It was from realizing someone I trusted wasn’t who I thought they were.

” She glances up at me. “People always think heartbreak comes from romance. But sometimes it’s bigger than that.

Family. Friends. The worst kind of heartache is when a friend doesn’t want to be your friend anymore. ”

I stay quiet, letting her take her time.

“What friend?” I ask eventually, my voice low.

She lets out a breath. “A girl Nova and I met in college. Freshman year, dorm room two doors down from mine. We all clicked so fast it was like we were sisters or something. Late-night study sessions, road trips, birthdays, everything.”

Poppy’s mouth twists, and she picks at a loose thread on the pillow between us.

“And then... I don’t know. Things started changing.

She got busier. Started making plans to hang out with Nova, but not with me.

Her excuses were insulting. Always had some reason she couldn’t come or needed to reschedule. ”

“I had the worst complex from it,” she goes on, humorlessly.

“At first, I thought it was me—like maybe I was too boring. Maybe I wasn’t cool enough.

Then I realized she was just done. No big blow-up.

No explanation. Just... done. And I’ve been left to wonder what the hell I did to piss her off, and I’ll never know because Nova stopped speaking to her. ”

“As a united front?”

Poppy nods. “She’s loyal to a fault.”

“That’s a good friend.”

“She is,” Poppy agrees. “I got lucky. She’s one of the good ones.”

I trace slow circles against the blanket with one finger, pretending it’s not because I want her to touch me, all the while stealing glances at her face.

“You’re the farthest thing from boring, Poppy,” I say at last. “You’re electric.”

Her mouth parts, stunned, and then she gives this tiny, wrecked laugh like she doesn’t know what to do with the compliment. Like it’s too big to hold.

I reach out, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear without thinking.

She leans into my touch.

I wonder what would happen if I let my thumb skim along her jaw. If I leaned in closer. If I?—

No, dude.

Boundaries.

You’re roommates.

You’re a fucking idiot .

Eventually, she yawns, flopping onto her back, gazing up at my ceiling, the straps of her white tank top falling down her arms, drawing my eyes to the peaks of nipples flirting with the thin fabric.

“You’re good at this,” Poppy mutters.

“At what?”

“This.” She waves a hand vaguely between us. “Listening. Affirming. Not making things weird.”

Oh, sweetheart— if only you knew all the very weird things that I want to do to you .

I stretch out beside her, one arm slung behind my head, pretending like I’m relaxed when every muscle in my body is wired tight and on high alert.

She’s close enough that if I turned my head, I could breathe her in, memorize the scent of her shampoo, kiss the corner of her mouth before she even had time to gasp.

She’s beautiful like this.

No make-up.

Hair fanning around her like a halo, across my pillow.

Smooth skin.

Smooth legs.

Does she know what she's doing to me? How badly I want to roll over, drag her under me, and find out if her mouth tastes as sweet as it looks?

And when her fingers skim lightly against my forearm, the tiniest accidental touch, it’s a goddamn revelation.

My chest aches with it.

My cock aches with it.