Page 15 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

I wake up in a bed that's not mine.

Turner’s bed.

Turner’s room.

I roll onto my back, blinking against the pale morning light leaking in through his blinds, half-expecting to find his stupidly handsome face tucked into the pillow beside me.

But his side is empty.

The sheets are cold.

The weight of him—gone.

I sit up slowly, adjusting my tank top over my stomach, breathing in the smell of him lingering in the air. Cologne. Body wash. Whatever it is, it's disorienting how comforting it is. How much I miss the warm feel of his solid body lying next to me.

God. Last night.

It was?—

It felt…

So nice.

So easy.

The kind of easy you don’t realize you’re starving for until you finally get a taste of it and then all you can think about is how badly you want more.

Just me, my thundering heart, and the desperate need to scream into my pillow like a teenage girl!

Gah!

I shift on the mattress, pulling the covers up to my waist, palms pressed against the cool fabric where Turner slept.

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I breathe him in one last time (because apparently my soul is in full feral mode this morning) then force myself to get up out of the bed.

I tiptoe to the door and peek out, peering down the hallway like a criminal even though technically, I live here.

Technically.

For now.

The coast is clear.

No Turner .

I scurry into my own bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me before grabbing my phone off the nightstand.

Unlock.

Open texts.

Me: I slept in Turner’s BED!!!!

I send it before I can chicken out, dropping the phone onto the mattress like it’s a live grenade.

It buzzes back within seconds.

Of course it does. This is my bestie, and she knows an emergency when she sees one.

NOVA: EXCUSE ME??????????????????

Me: It wasn’t like THAT. We just… talked. A lot. About everything. Then fell asleep.

Another buzz.

NOVA: You FELL ASLEEP next to a hot hockey player in PAJAMAS and you want me to believe it was innocent???

Okay, when she says it like that, it sounds less innocent and a lot more reckless.

I type back, biting my lip:

Me: It WAS innocent. But also I wanted to kiss him so bad I thought I might die. I swear, my vagina was begging for it.

There’s a long pause as if Nova doesn’t know how to properly react to that.

Then—

NOVA: First of all, R.I.P. to your self-control. 2nd, this is not normal roommate behavior. 3rd, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO??????

Me: I don’t know. Probably start looking for apartments. Or a condo. Or…

I don’t know.

I don’t know what I’m going to do.

I don’t know how I’ll pretend I don’t want to curl into him every night. Strip him naked. Let him touch me.

Have him fuck me…

Me: No fucking idea.

I roll onto my back, holding my phone above me, thumbs poised to type out something self-deprecating and dramatic?—

When there’s a soft knock at my door.

I squeak, nearly flinging my phone across the room like it’s a piece of radioactive evidence.

The door cracks open. Turner leans against the frame, one arm braced above his head. His voice rumbles low, sleep-rough, like gravel and honey.

“Poppy?”

Sweet Jesus.

“Y-yeah?” I croak, scrambling to sit up, shoving my phone under the blanket, smoothing my hair like that’ll somehow erase the chaos of five seconds ago.

“Cash is home, if you, uh, want to…” He clears his throat, glancing back down the hall before meeting my gaze again. “I made eggs if you want to come meet him. And the dog.”

I hear the clickety-click of nails scratching across the hardwood floors in the other room.

Nugget.

“Sure. Let me put on some actual clothes.”

My roommate’s gaze skims down the front of my top. The short, white sleep shorts. Heat flickers behind his eyes—so quick and so potent it almost knocks the breath out of me.

He catches himself, dragging a hand through his messy hair, muttering, “No rush.”

Then he backs away from the door like it’s physically dangerous to stay a second longer.

Smart man.

I want to bang him so freaking bad.

I swing the door closed with a quiet thud, pressing my back against it, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free from my chest.

Holy shit.

The more I see him the worse it is.

Get it together, Poppy .

I hurry into some real clothes—athletic shorts. A loose sweatshirt.

French braid my hair into two braids running down each side of my head. By the time I twist the second braid tight and secure it with an elastic, my nerves are thrumming so loud I almost can’t hear anything else.

You’re fine. They’re your roommates, and Turner is not thinking about your stupid hair or your stupid sweatshirt or the way your shorts barely cover your ass.

But it sure would be great if he was.

Me: Cash is back—finally get to meet him. Wish me luck.

Nova: You don’t need luck. He’s a chill dude and his dog is a retriever. Nugget loves literally everyone.

I crack my bedroom door open; hear voices—Turner’s deep rumble, and an unfamiliar bellow. Louder. More obnoxious laughter—and the clatter of a pan being set on the stove. Nugget’s nails scratch-scratch-scratching the hardwood again like he’s doing laps. Or has the zoomies…

The moment I pad into the kitchen the dog predictably goes bananas, scampering across the floor and jumping up to put his paws on my thighs like he’s been waiting his whole life to greet me.

“Hi, buddy!” I scratch behind his floppy ears, bending to kiss the top of his fuzzy head.

His tail wags so hard his whole body wiggles.

“Jesus, Nugget—off!” Cash’s voice rumbles from the other side of the kitchen island. “That’s no way to say hello to your new friend.”

I glance up—and boom.

There he is.

Cash Hennessy, in all his six-foot-four, tattooed, backward-hat-wearing glory, leaning back against the counter like he owns the damn universe. A cocky grin hooks his mouth, and he tilts his chin in greeting.

“You must be Poppy,” he says. “Roommate numero three. The final Avenger.”

I laugh, nerves slipping into the sound. “Guilty.”

I glance at Turner out of the corner of my eye. He’s busy shoveling eggs onto a plate, jaw tight, avoiding eye contact like it’s his new job.

Interesting .

Cash strolls over, reaching out to me for a handshake. His palm is big and warm, engulfing mine completely, pumping it up and down. “Welcome to the asylum. You’ve met Turner, the responsible one.”

Turner snorts under his breath.

“And I’m the fun one,” Cash finishes, winking at me.

If this his attempt at being charming—or flirting—he’s got the wrong girl.

“Oh, awesome,” I say dryly. “So we’ve got ‘Responsible Dad’ and ‘Fun Uncle.’”

“Exactly!” Cash whoops, slapping the counter and beginning to build himself a plate of eggs and bacon. “She gets it!”

I do the same before sliding onto a barstool, my plate clinking against the stone countertop, trying to suppress a grin; clearly these two are like fire and ice. Polar opposites. Responsible and…

Well.

A complete tool.

Nugget flops down dramatically at my feet with a huff—like he’s exhausted from our introduction.

“So,” Cash says, dragging his stool out with his foot and plops down beside me. “I just got back from the most epic snowboarding trip of my life.”

I glance up from my eggs, biting back a smile. “Oh yeah?”

It feels good being included in this post-trip tea.

“Totally.” Cash leans forward, elbows on the counter, talking with his mouth full. “Picture this: Colorado. Bluebird skies. Knee-deep powder. I shredded the gnar so hard Red Bull is thinking about erecting a monument in my honor.”

Turner mutters something suspiciously close to “ Jesus Christ ” into his coffee mug.

I stifle a laugh. “That so?”

Cash winks again. “Totally. Not to brag—except I’m definitely bragging—but I only biffed it once. One time, bruh—do you know how often that happens? Almost never. And that one fall wasn’t even my fault. Some fucker’s skis almost sideswiped me at full speed. Took me out like a goddamn bowling pin.”

Turner snorts again, louder this time.

Cash ignores him, grinning. “Twelve stitches in my hip, baby.”

“Oh wow,” I say, nodding solemnly. “So brave.”

Turner coughs to cover his laugh—and fails.

Cash grins. Chews. “Thank you. I am brave.”

I shovel a bite of eggs into my mouth, glancing over at Turner. He’s watching me again. Watching Cash and me as if he’s studying the interaction, like he’s trying not to interfere.

Cash reaches for another piece of bacon and bites into it.

“Anyway, we’re going out tonight. You should come.”

Turner stiffens. “Who is we?”

“Me, Clark, Stashes, and Will.”

Stashes?

I’m too afraid to ask how Stashes got his nickname.

Instead I raise a brow as if I know the men he’s speaking about. “Go out? Where?”

“Bar down the street,” Cash says, still gnawing on his bacon. “Chill place. Good drinks. Pool tables. Dartboards. Hot single people.”

Hot single people …

As if there weren’t enough of them in this house?!

“Thank you for the invite, but I still have to set up the office in my bedroom.”

I’m in no rush to bond with this guy. He’s too Bro for me. Cash probably thinks “emotional intelligence” is a brand of deodorant.

“You’d rather put together your office than go have drinks with your new roommates?” Cash clutches his chest like I physically wounded him. "Brutal. Shot to the heart."

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He grins anyway, unbothered. "Maybe next time, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

Ugh.

Gross.

I shove a piece of bacon into my mouth to hide my irritation.

Cash carries on like he hasn’t just made my skin crawl. He continues rambling about his trip—how his sponsor picked up a new talent, some ‘chick from Canada’ that they expect him to travel with.

Turner listens, leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee, looking so effortlessly calm it makes me want to throw a piece of toast at his stupid perfect face.

Especially because every once in a while, his eyes flick to me.

I roll my eyes when Cash isn’t looking.

He sticks out his tongue.

Cash wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Anyway, we're pregaming at the bar before hitting TopSpin if you're feeling spontaneous later." He points at me with his fork. "We need more hot girls on the roster. It's a numbers game."

I lift a brow. "Thanks for the flattering invite. I'll cherish it forever."

He looks at me blankly, confused by my sarcasm.

“Well gentlemen. I’m going to shower and use this day to be productive.

Time to start getting into a work routine.

” I scrape my chair back, mutter more words about needing to finish unpacking, and make a beeline for my bedroom before Cash can invite me to anything else that involves “hot girls” and “numbers games.”

The second the door clicks shut behind me, I let out a groan and flop face-first onto my bed.

Reach for my phone.

Text Nova with violent thumbs.

Me: Update: I survived breakfast—but barely. Cash is like... if a Monster energy drink had a baby and learned how to snowboard.

Nova: LOLOLOLOL STOP IT

Me: I’m being dead serious. He invited me to “pregame” at the bar tonight. Actual quote: "We need more hot girls on the roster."

Nova: I’m SCREAMING. Did he actually???

Me: Girl I wish I was lying. I feel so bad for Turner—these guys are so opposite.

Nova: That’s probably why it works.

Me: How the hell did Luca live with that dude? Yes, he’s chill, but he’s also a mega douche. Thanks for WARNING ME.

I glance around my own room. Three unopened boxes. One half-assembled lamp. One random strand of twinkle lights I found in the bottom of a tote bag.

Nova: It’s not my fault. He was never anything but nice to me. Granted, he was never around. So that’s a silver lining, I suppose.

Me: Fair enough…

Me: Have I mentioned that this house smells like Axe body spray and nacho cheese?

Nova: OMG stop it. IT DOES NOT. lol. So you’re NOT going out with him tonight? You might have fun. He’s a good time.

Me: Oh, no doubt about that. He’s a total Bro. With a capital B. Way too cool for me, I’m afraid… I didn’t agree to this life.

Nova: You did the second you signed that lease.

Me: Can I be traded?

Nova: Nope.

I flop back onto my bed and sigh loud enough for the gods to hear. Cash is still home and out in the living room yelling at a video game. From the sound of it, he's losing…

Me: Switching gears. What are you and Luca doing tonight?

Nova: He’s making dinner and we’re going to watch a movie. He’s obsessed with the skyline so his new thing is staying home…

Me: Awww. Love that for you.

And I do.

I genuinely, one-hundred percent, whole-heartedly love that for her. Mostly because it means one of us is thriving. And because I like knowing that Luca—Luca freaking Babineaux—has a new favorite hobby and that hobby is cooking and cuddling.

And, of course—having sex.

They have tons of it and if I’m being honest, I’m the teeny, tiniest, little bit jealous.

And by a little bit I mean: A TON. But make no mistake: this jealousy isn’t toxic or sharp—it’s wistful.

Like watching someone else get the exact life you didn’t know you wanted until it was too late to sign up for it.

Nova: Yeah—it has been nice. He’s adorable.

Of course he is. Big, broody, hockey-playing Luca is a secret mush ball. I should’ve known. All that angst had to be covering ooey gooey layers.

I lay, staring at my ceiling fan, finally realizing how nice it would be to have someone who cooks for you just because . Someone who kisses your forehead instead of your neck sometimes. Someone who puts the leftovers in cute little containers and labels them to make lunch easier.

Me: I used to think I loved the chaos. Loud music, guys who were emotionally unavailable, with leather furniture in their shithole apartments who never did laundry.

Nova: Remember that guy you dated with the pet snake named Linda?

How dare she remind me?

Me: Now I want a guy who has a Costco membership and knows what kind of hummus I like. Do you think I’m growing up or just tired?

Nova: Both LOL

I smile, pulling my knees to my chest and letting her words settle in. Why not both?

Me: Anyway. I’m gonna get back to unpacking, I guess. There are some boxes in the garage still and the last thing I want is for either of these guys to get irritated that my shit is everywhere.

Nova: I highly doubt either of them would notice unless your boxes were literally blocking the fridge or the TV. Lmk if you need help organizing tomorrow. I’ll bring coffee!

I toss my phone beside me and breathe in deep. It still smells like cardboard and someone else’s air freshener in here. Like a space I’m borrowing instead of living in.

But for now, it’s mine.

Mine to unpack.

Mine to survive.

Mine to thrive in.