Page 17 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

T he house has been eerily quiet for hours to the point I regret staying in when I could have been socializing, even if that meant bonding with my new roommate while he double-fists Fireball and downs jalapeno poppers. At least, that’s how I imagine it…

The goal was to meet friends, yeah?

To put myself out there.

To live a little.

Instead, I spent the night stress-organizing my closet and watching four episodes of a baking competition while eating pizza out of the box. In pajamas.

Lame, I know but it had to get done.

I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling fan, willing it to hypnotize me into unconsciousness.

It doesn’t work. Obviously. My brain is too full—of thoughts I’m not supposed to be having.

About Turner. About his stupid forearms and his stupid sexy voice and the way his laugh sends quivers to my vagina.

Ugh.

I roll onto my side. Then my other side. Then flat again. My sheets are twisted. My pillow feels like a rock.

Reaching for my phone, I check the time, dismayed by how late it is: 2:15 AM.

I toss my phone back on the nightstand, frustrated. I should have taken melatonin. Or magnesium. Or both.

Instead, I’m lying here wide-awake, thinking about all the things I should not be thinking about: sex. Sex with my roommate. My roommate. I am a woman on the brink of losing her damn mind!

And now, thanks to the silence and the darkness and the fact that I am very much not asleep, my brain has decided to stage a highlight reel of every questionable moment we’ve had since I moved in!

Him walking in on me in the kitchen, nearly naked.

Me walking in on him jerking off.

Us in bed, sitting close, re-writing his dating app bio.

Oddly enough my brain goes to Cash, too.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Tan.

Hair that probably costs more to maintain than my shampoo budget for the year. Flashy, in a laid-back way—if that makes any kind of sense. Pretty in that devil-on-your-shoulder sort of way.

That roommate is trouble.

He’s exactly the kind of guy I used to fall for in college—right before they’d text me something like “u up?” at 2 a.m. after ghosting me for four straight days.

So yeah. Been there. Done that. Have the emotional damage.

No, thank you.

I sneak another peek at my phone: 2:23

Shit.

I do the sleep math, mentally calculating the hours I can rest if I fall asleep now. Four hours and some change. Four and a half if I can shut off my brain. Just enough to wake up feeling like I was gently hit by a truck…

Ha!

I sigh, flipping to my stomach and yanking the pillow over my head, only to hear?—

Thud.

I freeze.

“What was that?” I whisper to no one.

I lift the pillow just enough to hear better.

Scrape. Tap .

The house is supposed to be silent.

And yet…

I sit up now, straining to listen. Another sound. Like a sigh—or maybe a quiet laugh? Could be Nugget. Could be one of the guys getting up to pee. Could be a ghost, but let’s not go there because I really don’t have the emotional bandwidth to be haunted on top of everything else.

My pulse kicks up, which certainly won’t help me sleep.

I strain to listen, sheets pooling around my waist. Waiting for the next sound.

Tiptoeing…

A predator? Home-invader?

That was a murder-y sound…

“This is it. This is how I die.” Hair in braids. No bra. Wearing the ugliest pair of underwear I own.

I scramble out of bed like a gremlin, nearly trip over my own feet, and fumble with the door handle. My heart is tap dancing in my throat as I bolt into the hallway.

Do I grab a weapon? Chair? Hairbrush?

Hockey stick!

Yes!

That’s what I need and there’s only one place I can think to grab one.

I sprint for Turner’s room like a woman possessed, thanking god along the way that I barely have ten feet to go.

I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate.

I launch myself through his door like it’s the finish line of a horror movie chase scene—dramatic, breathless, absolutely convinced that death is on my heels. The door bangs against the wall as I scramble in, eyes wide, heart pounding, limbs flailing like I’m made of pool noodles.

It’s dark inside. Peaceful. Serene.

Turner is asleep, because of course he is.

He’s a man.

This is what men do.

Snoring softly, arm flung over his face, the sheets twisted low on his hips, chest rising and falling like this is a freaking sleep number commercial.

He doesn’t even stir as I barrel toward him.

I trip over one of his shoes, stub my toe on what might be a dumbbell, and curse so loudly I shock myself—but I don’t stop. I leap, Olympic long-jump style, and belly flop into the mattress beside him with a dramatic oof, limbs akimbo, braids airborne.

The bed rocks like a boat in a hurricane.

“Jesus Christ!” he shouts. “What the fuck!”

Oh good! He’s awake!

I roll toward him, eyes wide, heart thumping. “There’s someone in the house,” I whisper.

He blinks at me like I’m speaking underwater. “Huh?”

“There’s a noise. Scraping.” I breathe on him, face so close to his I can feel his breath on me. “Tapping. Um. Someone is creeping slowly through the kitchen.”

“What time is it?” He tries to reach for his phone, but I won’t let him.

“Where is your sense of urgency?!” Even to my own ears, I sound panicked.

“Poppy.” His voice is a sleepy rumble. “If someone was creeping through the kitchen, Nugget would’ve gone full Cujo by now.”

That is such a lie.

“He probably made friends with the intruder,” I whisper. “He’s not an attack dog.”

At all.

Not even a little.

Turner rubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Fine. Stay here. I’ll go check?—”

I make a strangled noise and launch myself into his side. “Hell no! Don’t leave me alone!”

His chuckle is a low rumble deep in his chest. “I can’t go out there and stay in here at the same time, silly goose.”

Silly goose.

Now why in the world would that phrase make my stomach flutter at a time like this?

Before I can unpack that emotional crisis, a loud thud echoes down the hallway—followed by a clumsy, off-key whistle.

We both freeze. My eyes go wide.

Turner lifts a brow. “Definitely not a murderer.”

Another thud. A door creaks.

And then?—

“ Shhhhhh, Nugget, stop looking at me like that ,” a familiar voice slurs. “ I’m not throwing the ball. Go back to bed .”

A second voice—higher-pitched and giggly—adds, “I’m hungry. You said you were gonna make me grilled cheese!”

Then—

“Oops. Wrong room.”

I scramble backward just as Cash—shirtless, with a ball cap on backwards and a young woman hanging onto his arm like she’s afraid of gravity—or can’t stand in heels—leans against the doorframe of Turner’s room.

They’re both clearly intoxicated…

My shoulders relax as Cash squints at us. “Dudes. Am I hallucinating or are you two in bed together?”

Turner leans against his headboard. “It’s two-thirty in the morning.”

Cash tries to focus on us through bleary eyes. “Is she crying?”

“No I am not crying, you asshole!” I chuck a decorative pillow toward him. It misses. “You scared the shit out of us!”

“She thought you were a murderer,” Turner deadpans.

The girl on his arm giggles, still clinging like she’s worried about falling into another dimension. “He said he was making grilled cheese,” she slurs, like that explains everything.

I throw my hands up. “At two in the morning?”

“Is there a bad time for grilled cheese?” Cash counters, like it’s the most profound question he’s ever asked. “We were looking for the kitchen. Took a wrong turn.”

The girl waves sleepily. “Nice to meet you,” she says to no one in particular. “I’m Paige!”

Welp, Paige is adorable.

Drunk and adorable.

They vanish.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

And then—Turner exhales. A long, slow, groggy breath, like the past ninety seconds were a dream he hasn’t fully woken from. His arm—still slung across the mattress—bends at the elbow and hooks around my waist.

Gently.

Casually.

Before I can fully process what’s happening, he’s tugging me toward him, rolling back into the mattress with a groan and taking me with him. My knee brushes his hip. My hand lands on his stomach.

Bare stomach.

Abs.

Warm, taut, sleep-soft.

Oh. Oh…

But Turner doesn’t say a word; doesn’t open his eyes.

His other hand slides beneath the blanket, finds my thigh like it’s done it a hundred times, and drapes across it lazily. He mumbles something that sounds like, “S’just me. Go to sleep,” nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck like we’ve done this a dozen nights before.

We fit.

I just let myself melt into the mattress and him, my cheek pressed against the curve of his chest, eyes wide open in the dark.

Palm skimming over his chest…

Across his rib cage…

Up and over again. Smooth collarbone.

Shoulder.

My fingers explore his curves in the dark until eventually, his large palm finds my wrist. Gently.

He doesn’t push me away.

Says nothing….

Just holds my hand against his chest, thumb brushing softly over my knuckles as if it soothes him.

It’s dangerous, this kind of closeness. This comfort that feels like it was years in the making—even though we barely know each other. Even though I can still count the number of days we’ve lived under the same roof on one hand.

His breathing shifts, just enough to make my own catch.

A slower inhale. A heavier exhale.

The muscles beneath my palm twitch, his chest rising in a new rhythm, less unconscious. Less sleep.

And then his thumb stills.

A pause.

Like he’s realizing where we are. How we’re tangled. The weight of my leg still draped over his.

I stay completely still, barely blinking, barely breathing. My skin burns with awareness. Every place we touch feels hotter than it should, like my nerves are dialing themselves up to full volume.

He doesn’t move his hand from mine.

But I feel it now, his awareness settling in, like he’s cataloguing the curve of my hip against his side. My knee hooked over his thigh. The dip of my waist where his arm could easily slide and hold?—

He shifts slightly. Just barely. Just enough that the sheet slips lower on his hips and my breath stutters.

Then—

“Poppy,” he murmurs. His voice is scratchy and sleep-heavy, brushing the back of my neck like a secret.

My name on his voice does something to me I don’t want to examine.

“Hm?” I try to play it cool. Fail miserably. My voice comes out softer than intended, all breath and nerves.

There’s a beat of silence.

“You feel good.”

His forehead tips to mine—light, easy—so we’re sharing the same small pocket of air. His nose grazes my cheek, a careful nudge.

“You’re warm,” he adds, even softer now. Drowsy honesty. “Smell good, too.”

Welp. It’s official.

I’m done breathing.

I should pretend to be asleep. Pretend I didn’t hear that. Pretend I’m not absolutely melting inside this tank top that is very very is see-through. Why do I do this to myself?

His massive paw rests on my back now, sliding beneath my shirt.

Fingers splay wide, his hand is warm and heavy, settling between my shoulder blades before tracing the curve of my spine in a slow, absent circle.

My whole body goes taut.

Is this an accident? Is he dreaming?

Doesn’t feel like it…

He’s half-asleep. His breathing is even. Muscles loose. But that hand… surely that hand knows exactly what it’s doing.

And then, like gravity has opinions, he tugs me closer.

Pulls my body in so we’re spooning…