Page 21 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

I yank open the fridge a little too hard and stare blankly inside, pretending to look for something. Except all I see is a half-eaten container of leftover rice and a sad, wilted bag of lettuce.

Behind me, Cash is yapping on and on, voice booming and ignorant considering it’s eleven in the morning.

“… I’m telling you, man, it’s rigged. There is no fuckin way Baltimore purposely took McHenry in the draft.”

Turner makes a noise of agreement, spoon clinking against the bowl. “Yeah. Totally.”

His voice is smooth, casual.

No crack in the facade.

Meanwhile, I’m gripping the refrigerator door handle like it’s the only thing keeping me standing upright.

I feel so…

So…

Self-conscious.

I grab the orange juice and busy myself by pouring a glass. My hand shakes a little as I lift it to my mouth, taking a long, steadying gulp.

Turn toward the guys as Cash is saying, “Fuckin A right?”

He shoves another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “So anyway.” He shifts his attention to me. “’Sup, Poppy? You got any plans today, or are you hanging around?”

I hesitate, my mind scrambling for something—anything—that sounds remotely productive or interesting.

“Uh, no. No plans, not really.” I take another too-long sip of orange juice. “Yup. Hanging out. Maybe taking a nap.”

Using my vibrator.

Having ninety orgasms.

The usual …

“Napping?” Cash wrinkles his nose. “You sound like my grandma.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Maybe I’ll work out or, like, keep organizing my stuff.”

Cash leans back, kicking his legs up on the empty chair next to him, spoon dangling from his fingers. “You’ve been here over a week and you’re still not unpacked?”

Of course I am. Mostly.

Cash nods, his eyes cutting to Turner. “You hear that, Skaggs? She’s staying home all day. You should stick around, too—you look like you could use a nap.”

Turner’s jaw tenses, and I can feel the shift in the room.

“You’re crabby as hell. You know what you need? A good, hard?—”

“Cash,” Turner cuts him off, the word coming out clipped, sharp.

“—Workout,” he finishes, waggling his thick eyebrows. “What’d you think I was gonna say? That you need a good, hard fuck?”

Turner’s jaw clenches so hard I can practically hear his molars grinding together.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him looking perturbed.

“You’re being crude,” he mutters, dropping his spoon into the empty bowl with a loud clatter.

Cash shrugs his wide shoulders, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head with a lazy, shit-eating grin.

“ Crude ? Crude?! Dude—I’m being honest. Y’all look like turd buckets. I’m the one who was up all night boning Paige and I’m fresh as a fucking daisy!”

I glance at Turner again, who is staring straight ahead at the wall as if counting for patience, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the table in a restless, agitated rhythm.

Cash continues, obliviously. “You sure you don’t want to go to the gym, Skaggs? Blow off some steam? You look like you’re about to bite someone’s head off.”

Turner inhales deeply, nostrils flaring. “I said I’m good.”

“Bruh, that’s your problem.” Our roommate leans forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re too good. Too pent-up. I’m only suggesting you take care of that. A guy’s got needs and from the looks of you, I’d say it’s been a while.”

Turner stands, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor, and finally, finally, his eyes meet mine.

“Going to hit the shower,” he mutters, and then he’s gone, disappearing down the hall without another word. “Then I’m running errands.”

Cash makes a hissing sound low in his throat. “What crawled up his ass?”

“Beats me,” I say, even though I know exactly what’s up his ass. Me. Last night.

And the fact that I can’t tell if it was the best thing that’s ever happened to him or the worst.

“Man, what a grump,” he goes on. “I swear, it’s like he’s on his period.”

I roll my eyes. “Must be.”

This guy is beyond.

“Seriously, though.” Cash sets his bowl down with a clatter, leaning back and draping one arm over the back of his chair. “Skaggs is usually the chillest guy in this place. Wonder what his fucking problem is.”

Me.

I’m the problem, it’s me.

I force a laugh. “Maybe he didn’t sleep well. It was rough going after I barged into his room.”

“Or. Maybe he needs to get laid.” He tips his head back, eyeballing me. “Thank god for Paige, man. Woke up this morning with her mouth on me and thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

My stomach twists.

I take another too-big gulp of orange juice to keep from visibly gagging.

Cash opens one eye, peering at me. “You okay, Poppy? You don’t look so great either.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Cash’s grin widens. “Cause if you’re feeling neglected, I can set you up, if you catch my drift.”

I have no idea if he’s talking about sex, or drugs, or both.

“No—but thanks.”

“Or you could, you know—take care of it yourself.”

The air feels too heavy. I push away from the counter, moving to rinse my glass in the sink, the cool water rushing over my fingers.

“I said I’m fine , Cash.”

“Okay, okay.” Cash rolls his eyes, pushing off the counter and stretching his arms over his head, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of skin and a line of dark hair trailing down beneath his waistband. “Jeez. Everyone is so uptight around here.”

He grabs his keys off the counter and makes his way to the door, pausing to shoot me one last grin.

“I’m hitting the gym. Maybe when I get back, you two will have chilled the fuck out.”

Highly.

Doubt.

That.

The door slams behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening. The only sound left is the rush of the water down the hall—the shower still running.

Turner’s in there.

Naked.

Wet.

And all I can think about is how his voice sounded last night when he whispered good night in my ear.

My stomach twists, a knot of anxiety and longing and complete and utter confusion.

What do I do now?

My stomach growls. Food.

I need food. It will distract me from the fact that Turner is currently naked and wet, with steam curling around his body and water dripping down all those muscles I’ve definitely never thought about licking.

I yank open the cabinet and grab the first box I see. Cheerios.

Perfect.

Dry, boring, perfectly unsexy Cheerios .

I dump a handful into a bowl, staring blankly at the little O’s as they bounce around, the sound like teeny, tiny, mocking laughs.

O…O…no.

You’re a horny mess!

I shove a handful into my mouth, chewing aggressively like that’s going to muffle the image of Turner. Nope, stop it. Knock it off.

I pick a dry morsel out of the bowl and study it. “Wow, look at all these O’s. Round. Perfectly symmetrical.”

I toss another handful of O’s into my mouth, chewing like a lunatic, trying to crunch the dirty thoughts away. But the O’s just turn to mush, and now it’s like I’m swallowing wet cardboard.

Then my sensitive ears hear the water shut off; my entire body tenses.

Several minutes later, footsteps.

Heavy. Slow. And then, the creak of the bathroom door opening.

I turn around as Turner emerges, a towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to his chest, his hair wet and tousled. He stops short when he sees me, his eyes going wide, dark, and unreadable.

For a second, neither of us speaks. The air between us is thick, heavy, charged. Then he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair.

Drip…drip… drip …

“Did Cash leave?”

“Yes. Just now,” I say, my voice coming out small and strained. “Went to the gym.”

Turner nods, his gaze drifting to the floor, then back to me. “Good.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the hell am I supposed to say? Hey, Turner, remember last night when I had your dick in my mouth? Are we cool ? JK that was a dream?

Instead, I go with, “He hopes we’ve both chilled the fuck out by the time he gets back.

Turner rubs a hand down his face, the towel riding low on his hips. Low. Distractingly low. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the towel slipping a fraction lower. I catch a flash of hip bone, the sharp cut of his V. Is he doing this on purpose, to torture me?

“Um. Yeah,” I say, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Apparently we’re both uptight.”

He snorts, and it’s such a casual, stupid sound for a guy who looks like he could star in a firefighter calendar, water droplets glistening on his pecs, abs tight and rippling. My mouth goes dry. My brain short-circuits.

“Are you… okay?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“Me?” I squeak, clutching the now empty cereal bowl like it’s a lifeline. “Totally fine. Just, you know, eating cereal. Having breakfast. Thinking about O’s.”

Turner’s gaze drops to my mouth. His jaw twitches.

“Right,” he says, voice a little rough. “O’s.”

“And obviously you need to get laid.” I laugh, my words coming out weird and high-pitched. “Like, who says that? ‘Hey, man, you look like you could use a good?—’”

“Poppy,” Turner cuts me off, voice tight. “I get it.”

“Oh. Right.” I snap my mouth shut, cheeks burning. My brain is actively screaming at me to shut up and walk away before I embarrass myself any further, but my mouth didn’t get the memo.

Turner watches me, eyes half-lidded.

Then he sniffs, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to dislodge a thought. “I have to, uh, run some errands,” he says, voice rough.

“Errands,” I repeat, because that’s a safe, normal word that doesn’t involve dicks or getting laid or me accidentally drooling on his abs. “Cool. Like grocery shopping?” Or. “Target?”

“Nah. More like…” He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that makes my brain go fuzzy. “I have to find a specific kind of pinata for my nephew’s birthday.”

I feel my brows go up. “How specific?”

“It’s from this video game my nephew is obsessed with. Something called ‘Monster Smash.’”

“Monster Smash?” Never heard of it.

“Yup.” Turner sighs, shoulders slumping. “He’s seven and all he’s been talking about is this ‘Smash Lizard’ pinata. Apparently, it’s like—the final boss in the game or some shit.”

I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing. “So, you’re on a mission to find a pinata,” I say, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Well, that’s an adorable way to spend the day.”

“His birthday party is next weekend, and this is the one thing I’m in charge of.” Turner’s eyes meet mine. “Wanna come along?”

“Yes,” I blurt out. “I mean—” I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

Turner’s smile spreads, slow and easy, like he’s relieved.

“Are we talking about, like, a cute little lizard pinata? Or a terrifying, bloodthirsty, video game boss lizard pinata?”

Turner huffs out a laugh, rubbing his jaw, the dark stubble scraping against his palm.

“Pretty sure it’s the second one. My older sister sent me a picture, and it looks like Godzilla and a lizard had a baby and then dipped it in neon paint.

If I don’t show up with that stupid lizard pinata, I’m never going to hear the end of it. ”

“Aw, look at you,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and cocking my head. “Such a good uncle.”

Turner rolls his eyes, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck, and I’m 99% sure he’s blushing. Which only makes it worse .

Or better. Or both.

I watch him scratch the back of his neck, all sheepish charm and sweet shyness, telling me about how he’s willing to spend his entire Saturday hunting down a paper lizard so his nephew can obliterate it with a stick during his party.

It’s hot.

Such a turn-on.

My vagina tingles. “Are you going to be wearing that towel the whole time?”

Turner’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why? You want me to?”

No, obviously. Who wouldn’t want to see him prancing around in one?

My face goes nuclear. “I—I didn’t?—”

“I’m fucking with you. I’m going to put clothes on and we can get moving.”

I glance down at my outfit; not cute. Basically pajamas. “I’ll change too.”

He turns and saunters down the hallway, towel still slung dangerously low on his hips, like he has no idea what he’s doing to me. Or he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Either way, I need to get my head on straight.

I close my bedroom door, leaning back against it and sucking in a deep breath. Okay. Cool. Totally fine. Just going to the party store with my hot roommate to find a hideous pinata while trying not to remember the dream with his dick felt in my mouth.

Totally. Fine.

Yanking open my closet, I grab the first halfway-decent outfit I can muster—a loose, cropped T-shirt and pair of high-waisted denim shorts.

Cute but casual.

I slip on some sneakers, swipe a little mascara on to make it look like I’m a functional human being, and try not to overthink it.

When I step back into the living room, Turner’s already waiting by the door. He’s in a plain gray T-shirt that stretches nicely across his shoulders, a pair of dark jeans that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still damp, sticking up in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive.

“You ready?” he asks, tossing me a set of keys.

As I’ll ever be…