Page 23 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

I tug Turner down the aisle, dodging inflatable aliens and oversized, floating balloons while the music overhead switches to a ukulele version of “Moana”.

We cannot for the life of us find the pinata we came for.

“It should be here,” he mutters, scanning the shelves stacked with pinatas. “Their website said they had one in stock.”

I squint at the wall of colorful paper animals. There’s a unicorn. A giant teacup. A dinosaur with googly eyes, which—in my opinion—everyone should have at their party.

“Yikes,” I say, plucking up a tiny mermaid stuffed doll with disturbingly realistic eyes off a nearby shelf. “If this thing came to life, it would murder us in our sleep.”

“Hell no.” Turner grabs it from my hand and stares into its plush face, frowning. “Why does she look like she wants to steal my soul?”

“Because she does.”

He shoves it back onto the shelf and steps back, frustrated. “Crap.”

“Maybe the lizard is somewhere else?” I suggest hopefully, grabbing his arm again and dragging him to the next one. But all we find are more random decorations and balloons, some of which are shaped like poop emojis, video game logos—and a dragon that looks like it’s seen better days.

Deflated.

“Bet we could get a discount on this walking balloon. It only has one arm.”

“A dragon cannot be a lizard,” Turner mutters, the muscles flexing beneath his shirt.

Yum.

I watch the way his fingers slide over his skin, the way his forearms tense, the veins there prominent and distracting. Focus, Poppy.

We’re here for a child’s birthday party. This is not sexy time . This is go time.

“Okay,” I say, pulling in a breath. “So, if we can’t find the lizard, what’s your backup plan?”

Turner rubs at his jaw, glancing around like he’s about to spot the mythical Smash Lizard hiding behind a display of plastic tiaras. “I don’t know. My nephew specifically asked for that one.”

“Okay, well…” Then I don’t know what to tell you. “If you put a rush on it—you could order one.”

He turns to look down at me. “You think so?”

“For sure.”

“Or,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “We just go to another store.”

“Oh, you want to keep hanging out with me?” I tease, bumping his hip with mine.

Turner’s eyes flick to my mouth. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “I do.”

I clear my throat, flashing him a grin. “Okay then. Let’s go find your monster lizard.”

Get it? Monster lizard?

Dick?!

Real mature, Poppy …

We head back to the truck, and when we’re settled inside, he cranks the AC up to full blast. The cool air whips my hair around, sending a few strands into my lip gloss. I swipe them away, glancing sideways at him.

“Where to now, cowboy?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt.

“Uh… there’s that giant party warehouse down by the freeway,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. “We can try there.”

My eyes flick to that hand. Big. Strong. The kind of hand that knows how to hold on and when to let go…

“So you know I have two sisters,” he says, breaking the silence we’ve been sitting in since we left Party Ville. “You close with your family?”

“Uh, yes.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I have one older brother—Jack. He has me beat by two years. Huge pain in the ass. Mom and Dad are still together. They’re great, just a little intense.”

“Intense how?”

I snort. “Think helicopter parents who never figured out how to land. They still call me every Sunday to make sure I’m alive.”

Turner chuckles, his thumb tapping against the steering wheel. “My mom is the same way. I get a text every morning: what are you doing?”

I laugh, the sound rolling out easily. “What does she think you’re doing, robbing banks?”

“I guess so,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Either that or sleeping in. Which I haven’t done since I was nine.”

Turner laughs at the idea that he would sleep late, and the sound is so warm and so deep, it curls through the cab of the truck and settles in my stomach like warm honey.

Ooey.

Gooey.

Goodness…

“So what does your brother do?” he asks, glancing over at me.

“Jack? He’s a lawyer,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He was the golden child. You know, the overachiever who went straight from college to law school, never once did anything remotely rebellious like toilet paper someone’s house.” I pause. “You said your sister had two kids—what does she do?”

“Stella is a graphic designer for a PR firm. She works long hours and kind of wants to quit to find something remote.”

I cringe. “Ohhh they make her go into an office?”

He nods. “Yeah. She would rather work from home.”

“Makes sense.” I take a sip from the brown sugar oat milk espresso I’ve been neglecting. “I’d want to work from home too. No fluorescent lights making you look like a corpse. And you can eat as much peanut butter straight from the jar as you want without anyone judging you.”

Turner’s lips quirk. “Peanut butter?”

“Love it.” I put it on everything…

We pull into the parking lot of the giant warehouse store, and it’s exactly as expected—huge, loud, and completely chaotic. The lot is packed with cars, shopping carts scattered everywhere like a toddler threw a tantrum.

Turner cuts the engine and looks over at me. “Ready to do this?”

“Always.”

Inside, it’s a circus. Kids are screaming, their tiny voices echoing off the steel walls because some person in a whimsical looking bear costume is growling near the registers for absolutely no reason.

Jeez.

“Okay,” Turner says, hands on his hips as he surveys the chaos. “Where do we start?”

“With her.” I point to a nearby employee; a teenage girl with blue hair and a nose ring. “Excuse me—do you know if you have a giant Monster Smash cut-out?”

I put on a begging face.

The girl blows a bubble with her gum, pops it, and shakes her head. “Sold out.”

“Fuck,” Turner mutters under his breath. “Just my luck.”

“But.” The girl jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “We have a sale on the princess pinatas—they’re sixty percent off. And a discount on the LEGO pinata at twenty-five.”

Turner groans. “That doesn’t help me.”

“He’s desperate,” I joke, wanting to wrap my arms around his waist and make all his troubles go away. Poor baby, can’t get his hands on a lizard…

Back in the truck, Turner grips the steering wheel and runs a hand through his messy hair. “That was a waste of time.”

“Order it online.” Easy peasy. “Pay a little extra and it’ll be here by Wednesday.”

“You think so?”

“You know—the internet? The onlines? Ever heard of it? You can literally get anything on there—including but not limited to, video game lizard pinatas for kids.”

“Ha ha—you’re funny.”

To prove my point and to be extra helpful, I begin scrolling my phone, googling Monster Smash Lizard.

“Here, see?” I turn my screen toward him even though he’s driving and isn’t looking at me.

“Multiple options and all of them the same.

We got ‘Glowing Lizard King,’ ‘Super Smash Lizard King,’ and my personal favorite—‘Lizard King with Real Fire Breath Action—which is literally just orange and red streamers.”

I pause. “I’ll send you the links. What’s your phone number?”

Turner rattles off his digits, and I type them in, trying not to make a big deal out of the fact I’m now the proud owner of his cell phone number.

He pulls into our driveway.

“There,” I say, hitting send. “You’re now the proud owner of three Lizard King pinata options. Congratulations.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab my drink before hopping out. “Don’t forget to actually order it or your nephew is going to end up beating the crap out of a rainbow unicorn.”

Turner laughs, the sound low and warm, and it wraps around me, sinking into my skin like a warm bath. “Noted.”

He lingers by the truck for a second, keys in hand, eyes on me. My heart does a stupid, fluttery little thing in my chest. But then he clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and nods toward the house.

“Well. Thanks for, uh…”

“Sure,” I cut in quickly. “No problem.”

Cash is nowhere to be seen when we walk through the laundry room door, thank god.

I’m not in the mood for his obnoxious grin or his crude jokes or the way he’s probably going to notice that Turner and I are both walking a little closer than usual, a little slower, like we’re not ready to split off just yet.

But we do.

Turner veers left toward his bedroom without another word, and I go right, into mine. My room feels heavy and stifling, the bed unmade and the blinds half-open, letting in slashes of afternoon light that cut across the floor.

I drop my purse onto the dresser, then stand there—bored and lonely already, wanting to spend more time with him.

What is wrong with me?

He’s your roommate, Poppy.

That wasn’t a date. You weren’t spending quality time t ogether.

He wanted company and you were a warm body.

You need to start work. That’s what you need—a distraction. It can’t come soon enough.

I grab the remote and turn on the new TV in my room, determined to steer my mind away from my loins.

Ha ha.

The screen flickers to life, filling the room with bright, cheery colors and the overly enthusiastic host of some mindless home renovation show.

Perfect. Exactly what I need—people tearing down walls and fixing foundations. Fixing things that are broken.

I sink back against the pillows, hugging one to my chest as the host babbles on about open floor plans and rustic farmhouse sinks. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

My phone pings with a familiar notification.

The dating app.

I grab my phone off the nightstand and open the app. Instantly, the screen fills with the grinning faces of men holding fish or flexing in gym mirrors or posing with a dog that’s probably not even theirs.

Perfect.

Exactly what I need. Men who are not Turner with their generic bios and their overused pick-up lines.

I swipe right. Swipe left. Another left. Right, just because he mentioned liking pineapple pizza and I am in the mood to be charitable…

My phone pings again.

A new message.

It’s from a guy named Evan, whose profile says he’s a chef, and his first message is: “What’s your favorite thing to eat in bed?”

“Get out of here, Evan!” Delete. “Have some damn respect.”

Men are exhausting.

I blow out a frustrated breath and pick up my phone again, determined to just swipe for the mindless distraction and not overthink every man’s terrible attempts at flirting.

Left.

Left.

Right.

Left until my thumb has carpal tunnel.

Until—

I freeze.

There, staring back at me from the screen, is Turner.

When I helped him tweak his profile, I was the one who said, “Use that picture.” And, of course, the photo of him in the plaid button-down—he’s holding a glass of whiskey. So sexy, although I would never have the courage to say that to his face. But I’m admiring that face now.

The strong jawline and bright smile I’ve come to know so well.

I scroll through his photos, each one more annoyingly attractive than the last. The hoodie and bedhead. The post-workout, sweaty and shirtless. The one of him with Nugget, when the dog was a puppy.

Turner, 27. Perpetual hockey bro. Own my own laundry basket. Will buy you coffee and listen to your podcast recommendations without judgment. Six foot something. Can reach the top shelf and carry your emotional baggage.

I reread that bio three times, thumb hovering over the red dot. Green dot.

Swipe right or left.

What would he do? How would he react? The guy who already thinks I’m weird for running, screaming into his room because I thought Cash was a murderer.

What would the harm be in swiping on him to get a reaction?

It’s not like I haven’t already humiliated myself in front of him at least a dozen times since moving in. What’s one more awkward encounter?

Left to keep pretending that the tension isn’t there, that I don’t notice the way his eyes linger on my mouth when I talk.

Right to find out if he swiped right on me first.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and swipe. Seconds go by. One minute, then another…

My phone pings. A new match. A new message.

Turner.

I jolt so hard I almost drop the phone.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

Turner: Did you seriously swipe right on me?

My heart slams against my ribs, and I bite down on my bottom lip, fighting a grin. He had to have swiped right to know it was a match.

I can play this game.

Me: Did YOU seriously swipe right on ME?

Three dots. Then nothing.

I can practically feel him stewing, pacing around his room, running a hand through that stupidly perfect hair, trying to decide how to respond.

Finally, the dots pop back up.

Turner: I did. I was curious.

Me: Curious about what?

Turner: About whether or not you swiped on ME.

I blush from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes, an ooey gooey feeling.

Me: Well, now you know.

Turner: Now I know.