Page 2 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

T here’s something mind-numbing about moving days that I will never get used to, no matter how times I’ve moved.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the stress. Or the way I inevitably forget how heavy books are until I’ve packed two hundred of them into boxes labeled “Poppy’s brain fuel.”

This move is different because I’m not just hauling boxes halfway across the country—I’m hauling my entire life into a house I’ll be sharing with two men.

That’s right.

Little old me, living with two dudes.

In all my twenty-six years, I’ve never lived with a man before—platonically or otherwise. Not unless you count the summer I was a camp counselor and had to cohabitate in the same woods with a dozen other junior counselors, half of whom were male and all of whom smelled like Axe body spray.

One of them tried to impress me by eating a live cricket.

So no. I wouldn’t say I’m exactly prepared for this.

I mean, I’ve read enough romance novels to know that moving in with hot guys usually ends with someone catching feelings, or one roommate walking in on another wearing nothing but a bath towel.

Which would be fine if this weren’t my actual life, and not a romance novel, and I didn’t have a chronic case of foot-in-mouth syndrome and a lifelong fear of accidentally walking in on someone peeing.

Which, statistically, feels imminent.

Sigh.

My things arrived yesterday, via moving van, according to the tracker app and the drivers. Everything should be safely inside in my new bedroom or garage. Eek!

I pull up to the gate in my rental car, punch the code into the black keypad and give the attendant a little wave before pulling through. This community is nice. Beautiful, actually.

Winding roads.

Manicured lawns. Mature trees.

And then there it is. My new home.

The House.

Two stories of brick and siding, with a wraparound porch that looks like it belongs on the cover of Southern Living . There are massive planters bursting with flowers. Basketball hoop in the driveway. Rocking chairs, where two people might sit outside and relax. Watch the sunset...

It’s large.

Imposing.

And entirely too grown-up for people our age.

It looks like a house owned by someone who files their taxes early and knows how to make pasta from scratch on a Sunday, simply because they have a giant blender with the proper attachments.

My stomach does a full flip as I park the car.

This is it! I’m about to walk into a house with two men I barely know and pretend like I totally belong there.

“I can do this,” I whisper, gripping the steering wheel like it personally wronged me. “I can live in a house with strangers. I am adaptable. I am a grown woman.”

I’m halfway through giving myself a pep talk when the side door slams open and out barrels Nova, my best friend. Confidant. Ride-or-die.

My former college roommate and the woman I tell everything.

“ POPPY! ”

She sprints across the lawn with the energy of a retriever chasing a squirrel, arms flailing and grin wide enough to make me forget—for a half second—that I’m melting in the Texas heat.

“Oh my god,” she says, throwing her arms around me in a tackle-hug. “You’re here. You’re actually here. You didn’t change your mind and flee back to Florida.”

Plot Twist: Nova’s fiancé is my new landlord. Yep. The man who drew up the lease is the man who proposed to my best friend with a ring hidden in between cans of beans at a grocery store ( long story ).

“Nope.” I hug her back, burying my face in her shoulder. She smells like sunscreen. “Didn’t change my mind.”

Tired and bedraggled, but still eager to begin unpacking.

She pulls back, eyes sparkling with excitement and the exact amount of danger that has at times, led us to some poor decisions.

“Wait ‘til you see the kitchen. You’re going to lose your shit. There’s a wine fridge. A whole-ass wine fridge.”

Wine fridge?

Why had no one mentioned this sooner?!

If that had been in her original description, I would've signed the lease blindfolded, upside-down, and with my non-dominant hand. I let her tug me across the lawn, a mix of nerves and anticipation fluttering in my stomach.

Nova pulls me onto the porch.

Shoves open the door and pushes me through.

Inside, it’s just as beautiful. Spacious, clean, and surprisingly well-decorated for a place inhabited by men under thirty. There’s a navy-blue sectional couch in the living room, a massive TV mounted on the wall, and throw pillows that don't look like they were stolen from someone's grandma.

“Seriously,” I say as she shuts the door behind us. “Are we sure men live here?”

Nova snorts. “Don’t give them too much credit. There are two cleaning people that come in twice a week.”

Ah.

We move into the kitchen, and holy shit , it’s glorious.

Stainless steel appliances. A granite island. Barstools. And yes, nestled discreetly under the counter is a gleaming, built-in wine fridge, filled gloriously from top to bottom.

Not that I’m a complete wine-O, but every so often I enjoy a glass of red and love the idea of having a cute fridge handy.

So fancy.

“This is obscene,” I whisper reverently. “I feel like I need to curtsy to get the door open.”

Nova grins. “I told you. And guess what? You’re going to have the whole place to yourself for the next twenty-four hours.”

I blink. “Say again?”

“Skaggs has an away game, and Cash is traveling for work,” she explains, hopping up on the counter like she owns the place. “He took the dog too, which means you get to settle in with zero interruptions or accidentally unpacking your vibrator box in front of strangers.”

I’m a baby bit disappointed.

I had psyched myself up to meet two new people today, but my shoulders relax at the idea of peace and quiet.

“I love that for myself. Okay,” I say, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. “Show me my room.”

She hops off the counter and leads me upstairs, chatting nonstop about the neighbors, the gym, and how Cash once tried to make oatmeal in a rice cooker and nearly set off the smoke alarms.

My room is at the end of the hallway. It’s bigger than I expected, giving me primary bedroom vibes with its hardwood floors, en suite bathroom, and large window overlooking the backyard. Best of all, the ceiling fan doesn’t rattle ominously when I flip it on like the one in my last apartment.

My boxes are piled in neat stacks.

“Home sweet home,” Nova announces, waving her arms like she’s presenting me to my own personal game show prize.

I flop onto the bed, which someone—likely her—has already made up with fresh sheets and a comforter.

“I could cry,” I mumble.

“You’re allowed,” she says, settling next to me and nudging my shoulder with hers.

We sit there in silence for a moment, the good kind. The kind that only exists between two people who have seen each other through bad haircuts, emotional meltdowns, and karaoke nights gone horribly wrong.

“Do you want to have lunch or something?” Nova finally asks, perched on the edge of the bed like she’s trying not to bounce. “Or should we start unpacking?”

I roll onto my back, arms splayed wide across the mattress like a starfish that just gave up.

“No, no—you go ahead and go home. I think I actually want to take a nap. Explore the house later, maybe?”

“You sure?” she asks, though she’s already halfway to standing, one foot practically out the door. “I can stay. I didn’t have anything else planned today except your arrival.”

I snort. “Tempting. But I’ll be okay. You go live your freshly engaged life. Go stare at your ring in different lighting or whatever it is giddy fiancées do.”

Nova smiles, all dimples and quiet worry, and I feel a little guilty for kicking her out.

She studies me, head tilted. “Alright. But you text me if you need anything. I mean it.”

“I’m good,” I say, waving her off with a lazy flap of my hand. “Promise.”

She gives me one last squeeze, the kind that lingers even after she’s let go, and then turns toward the hallway. She pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by soft afternoon light, fingers brushing the frame like she’s leaving a blessing behind.

“This place is going to be good for you,” she says, voice low. “I can feel it.”

I can feel it, too.

But the second the door clicks shut behind her, the silence wraps around me like a weighted blanket—dense and oddly comforting.

No city noise. No footsteps overhead or the sound of someone else’s TV bleeding through the wall.

Only the faint hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional creak of a house settling into its bones.

My new beginning smells like fresh paint, sun-warmed wood, and leftover cardboard from moving boxes. It smells like clean slates. Like possibility.

“Ahhh.” The suburbs…

I press a palm to the wall next to the bed, warm from the sun. “Be kind to me,” I whisper.

Here’s to new beginnings.

My lids are heavy; it’s been a long day and all I did was drive.

Eight hours of caffeine-fueled highway miles, snack wrappers, and nervously singing to myself just to keep the anxiety from swallowing me whole.

Now, finally horizontal, in a room that smells vaguely like lemon cleaner and hope, I let my limbs go slack.

I close my eyes. “Just for a few minutes.”