Page 20 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

“ I tried calling you like, four times.”

I shrug. “Sorry, I just…”

Couldn’t sleep.

Snuck out of my roommate’s bed because I could not handle spooning him without having sex with him.

He smelled too good. Felt too good.

“Slept late,” I finish, cheeks burning as I pace the length of my bedroom, fingers twisting in the hem of my oversized sweatshirt—the same one I threw on after I returned to my room in the middle of the night.

Nova makes a skeptical noise. “You? Sleeping in? On a Saturday? Yeah, right.”

“You know me so well.” I laugh, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. The last thing I want to see is my hair.

“What’s with that tone?”

“I don’t have a tone,” I say quickly, clearing my throat. “So, uh… why were you calling me four times? Everything okay?”

“Oh! Right,” Nova says, her tone shifting from suspicious to frustrated. “Luca and I went to that brunch place I told you about—the one with the mimosa flight and the fancy omelets? You will never guess who I ran into.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear, and flop back onto my bed. “Who?”

“Wesley, that loser.”

The name drops like a bomb, and I cringe.

Wesley. One of Nova’s exes.

He ghosted her after six months of stringing her along and mind-fucking her, keeping her dangling like a fish on a hook while he “figured himself out.” Spoiler alert: what he was actually figuring out was how to juggle her and three other girls simultaneously without any of them finding out.

What a prick.

“Oh ew,” I say. “How bad was it?”

Nova huffs out a breath. “Pretty bad. He was there with his girlfriend. Who, by the way, looks exactly like me and I’m not saying that’s bad. Except she’s blonde and obviously I’m not.”

I laugh.

“When he saw me, he pretended not to. Like, you’re not invisible, dude. You’re an asshole wearing a beanie.”

I could not stand that guy and was glad when their relationship came to an end.

I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “What did you do?”

“Luca and I sat there and made fun of him. I ordered bottomless mimosas—they were amazing, by the way—chugged three of them and called you but you didn’t answer.”

Obviously.

“Right.” I smile. “Sorry about that.”

I was busy last night and could barely drag myself out of bed…

Nova lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Whatever. I’m over it.”

I yawn.

“Yeah.” She yawns. “So that was my morning. How about yours?”

I open my mouth, the words right there on the tip of my tongue, and they’re so heavy I almost choke on them.

The phone is pressed to my ear while my other hand grips the hem of my sweatshirt, pulling it down over my knees as I move to sit cross-legged on the bed, staring at the wall like it might give me a sign.

Nova’s voice crackles through the line, tinny and impatient. “Poppy? You still there?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice too high, too tight.

“You’re being weird,” she says, suspicion bleeding through every word. “Like, more than your usual weird.”

I let out a shaky laugh, the sound forced and hollow. “Am I?”

“Uh, yeah. Did something happen?”

My fingers tighten around the cord, twisting and untwisting it, the plastic biting into my skin. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you sound flustered,” Nova says. “And you’re being cagey. And you never sleep in on Saturdays, and?—”

“I didn’t sleep in,” I say, the words tumbling out too fast. “I… didn’t sleep.”

Nova sucks in a breath, and I can practically hear her eyes going wide through the phone. “Wait, what? You almost did it? Like… clothes came off? Tongues were involved? There was heavy petting?”

“Oh my god, stop,” I mutter, pulling the sweatshirt tighter around me. “Nothing happened.”

But DAMN DID I WANT IT TO.

It would have been so easy, wouldn’t it? Pressing my ass into his junk until he couldn’t stand it? Maybe move his hand so it was on my boobs…

How lovely is that thought?

I swallow, staring at my ceiling, last night’s fantasies flashing through my mind in a dizzying loop. Turner’s hands on my hips, cuddling me.

“Okay, I’m going to need details,” Nova says, voice sharper now. “You’re being too vague and it’s driving me nuts.”

Sorry. “There are no details. Not real ones anyway.”

“What does that mean?” Nova asks, confused.

“It means I’m living with a guy I can’t stop thinking about naked, okay?” I groan, pressing my palms to my face. “I keep imagining him… touching me. Or me touching him. It’s like my brain is short-circuiting and I can’t even look at him without picturing?—”

“His dick,” Nova supplies, way too chipper.

I want to die. “Jesus Christ, Nova.”

“Listen,” she says, voice conspiratorial. “Does he know?”

“No!” I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, trying to smother myself. “God, no. And that’s the problem. I’m living in this house, pretending to be normal while my brain is stuck in a permanent loop of ‘what-if’ scenarios that involve me and Turner and very few clothes.”

“Oof.” Nova whistles. “That is rough, babe.”

“Yeah.” I flop back against my pillows, the tension coiling in my gut. “And now I have to go out there and pretend like nothing is wrong. Like I don’t want to throw him against a wall and climb him like a tree.”

Nova laughs. “Good luck with that.”

“You are not helpful! We live together. I can’t avoid him. I stare straight at his door when I walk out of mine. What if these… thoughts ruin everything?”

Nova snorts. “You’re overthinking it, Poppy. You haven’t done anything.”

“Exactly,” I mutter, throwing an arm over my eyes. “But in my head? Oh, I’ve done everything. I mean, I’m talking rated R, triple X, somebody-call-the-exorcist filthy.”

“What kind of filthy?” Nova demands, her tone turning conspiratorial. “Like… straddle-him-on-the-couch filthy? Or tie-him-to-the-bed-and-make-him-beg filthy?”

I press my palms to my cheeks, feeling them burn.

“All of it. Every possible filthy scenario. I mean, I’m picturing him grabbing my hair and making me look up at him while he tells me what to do, and it’s like…

I can’t even make eye contact with him anymore without picturing his face when he comes. ”

Nova gasps dramatically. “You dirty little slut.”

“I know!” I groan. “And he’s just so… ugh. His hands, Nova. His hands are like… the size of dinner plates. And I just keep imagining them on my ass. Or pinning my wrists above my head. Or sliding down my?—”

“Okay, I need you to stop before I combust. You’re giving me secondhand horniness,” Nova says. “And you haven’t done anything? Not even a little ass grab?”

“Nope,” I say miserably. “And it’s getting weird. I’m acting like a total perv, just sitting here marinating in my own filthy thoughts while he’s probably out there, like, eating cereal and being oblivious.”

“Oh, honey.” Nova sighs. “You’re not a perv. You’re a girl with a big, fat crush and a dirty mind. Welcome to the human race.”

“It’s more than a crush,” I say, biting my lip. “It’s… it’s like I look at him and my ovaries do a tap dance. And then my brain just goes straight to ‘how fast can I get my panties off and my legs around his head?’”

Nova barks out a laugh. “Oh my god, Poppy. You are unhinged. I love it.”

“I hate it,” I mutter, rolling onto my side. “I mean, what if I slip up and say something inappropriate? What if he catches me staring at his hands and just knows I’ve been thinking about them cupping my boobs while he whispers filthy things in my ear?”

“Uh, maybe he’ll think it’s hot?” Nova says. “Like, men are usually not that subtle. He’s either clueless or he’s picturing you naked too.”

“Great,” I mutter. “So now I get to go out there and pretend like I haven’t mentally ridden his face ten different ways.”

“You could always just ride it for real,” Nova says casually. “Put yourself out of your misery.”

I groan, shoving my face into the pillow. “Why am I like this?”

“Because you’re horny and he’s hot,” Nova says cheerfully. “Now go forth and be awkward. Maybe flash a tit. Maybe don’t. The choice is yours.”

I disconnect the call, tossing the phone to the bed. My room feels both too small and too big at the same time.

Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders back and push off the bed.

I give my body a shake, bouncing on the balls of my feet like I’m about to run a marathon or step into a boxing ring.

Cool. Casual. Breezy. Definitely not about to accidentally moan his name or climb him like a jungle gym.

“Yes!” I pump myself up. “You got this.”

I take one last deep breath, blow it out slowly, and swing open the door.

The hallway feels longer than usual, like it’s stretched out to mess with me. My feet drag against the hardwood as I make my way to the kitchen, every step echoing in my ears.

I hear them before I see them—Cash’s loud, obnoxious laugh and Turner’s lower, quieter chuckle. The sound sends a bolt of nerves straight to my stomach.

Just a girl walking into her own kitchen, yup that’s me!

No big deal.

Definitely not internally combusting because I spent all night fantasizing about Turner pinning me against a wall and doing things to me that would make a porn star blush.

Not me!

Ha!

Their deep voices drift toward me—low, lazy laughter, the clinking of a spoon against a bowl.

Both of them together because god hates me …

I force myself to keep walking, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to turn around and hide under the covers forever. But then I step into the kitchen, and there they are.

Both of them eating cereal.

Cash is leaning back in a chair, legs sprawled out, spoon hanging out of his mouth—no manners with that one.

Turner’s across from him, slouched in his seat, a bowl of cereal in hand, hair a tousled mess, jaw shadowed with morning scruff that really shouldn’t look as good as it does. He glances up, and our eyes meet for one horrible, searing second.

“Morning,” he says, his voice infuriatingly casual, like he didn’t just star in my filthy fantasies, my pulse spiking as I force a smile, moving to the fridge.

“Morning.”