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

turner

. . .

I am dead on my feet and want to crawl into bed.

Turning my neck from side to side, it feels permanently cricked from trying to sleep in a plane seat designed by a sadist, only reclining one inch. We took a red-eye home, and the entire team looks like we’ve been spit out of a blender as we shuffled through the airport this morning like zombies.

We won our game.

Best one of the season so far, no question. Tight, physical, aggressive in all the right ways. I played like a man possessed—two assists, one goal, and a beauty of a block in the third that brought a tear to coach’s eye.

Kidding.

That man is stone-cold and smiles for no one.

This was the kind of win that keeps you going. The kind that makes the bruises worth it. The early flights. The cold tubs. The entire lifestyle of broken sleep and banged-up knuckles.

If I could just crawl into bed and die there for a few hours, I’d be money.

As I pull into the driveway, shoulders tight and still wired from the game and too much caffeine, the first thing I notice is movement coming from the kitchen window.

The house is dark except for a faint glow from the kitchen window.

I blink, rub my eyes, and lean a little closer to the windshield. For a second, I assume it’s just someone forgot to turn off a light. Then I see it again—movement. A shadow of a human walking past the island, pausing in front of the fridge.

Definitely not a ghost.

I park in front of the closed garage door, and kill the engine, adrenaline buzzing low in my veins.

Nova?

But why would she be here so early? And doesn’t the cleaning crew typically handle that shit?

I step out of the car and lean inside to retrieve my carry-on bag from the passenger seat. The street is quiet. The house is still. Nugget, Cash’s furry travel companion, isn’t barking, which is weird because Nugget barks at clouds and leaves and his own reflection.

No dog. No Cash.

He’s out of town for another week.

New roommate doesn’t arrive until this afternoon.

As far as I know, no one should be here.

Suddenly, I’m on edge.

The kind of tension that creeps into your neck and makes your pulse tap against your throat like it’s checking for an exit.

I slowly walk up the front steps, trying not to jump to conclusions—like maybe we’ve been robbed. Or this is a home invasion.

Still… I’m cautious as hell. I shift the bag on my shoulder, punch in the door code, and push it open.

No barking. No TV.

Just faint music and the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and coffee? Wait, no. Eggs?

My brain is in such a fog I have no idea what the fuck I’m smelling or thinking or even doing, to be honest. Everything feels like it’s happening ten seconds behind. Like I’m buffering in real life.

I toe off my shoes, stepping inside in my socks, still mindful that the floors have been scrubbed clean. Forever courteous, that’s me…

Music.

No—voices.

The radio?

No. A podcast, one I listen to myself, that gets louder the closer I step, the voices drifting into a familiar segment: dating horror stories. Someone is recounting a Hinge date gone terribly wrong involving a wayward child at a park and an ex-boyfriend.

It’s funny. Normally, I’d laugh…

If I wasn’t so fucking confused .

I step around the corner, quiet, ready to defend myself, completely unprepared when I see her.

My brain malfunctions.

Like, literally seizes.

Because standing at the stove, completely unaware of my presence, is a very real, very scantily clad young woman.

Bare feet.

Bare legs for days .

Hot pink thong riding low on her hips and eaten between two, perfectly round ass cheeks.

She scoops the eggs onto a plate and leans forward, opening the refrigerator with the casual grace of someone who is very used to being half-naked in kitchens.

Her head disappears into the fridge, giving me an absolutely devastating view of her ass before she closes the door.

Holy shit.

A tiny bralette covers her tits that does nothing to hide the fact that it’s freezing in here. Or her nipples.

They’re pressed against the sheer pink fabric, rosy and hard.

There’s a spatula in her hand.

She’s making eggs.

Duh.

I blink.

She hasn’t noticed me yet.

And for the first three seconds, I don’t move. I stand rooted to the spot like an idiot, gawking at her, wondering if maybe I did die on the plane and this is some kind of weird post-game hallucination?

She is a fever dream I cannot take my eyes off of.

I look away.

Then immediately look back.

I’m a moron. And a man. And what the actual fuck is happening right now? This is not what I expected to walk into after a red-eye flight and two hours of sleep on a tray table!

Fuck!

My brain scrambles, trying to compute if I’m dreaming, or if this is some kind of early morning fever-dream punishment from the universe for eating airport sushi last night.

She stands upright again, closes the fridge with her hip, and finally—finally—turns.

Our eyes meet.

And she scream s.

I scream.

It’s not my proudest moment. It’s high-pitched, instinctive, and way too loud for a guy who weighs two hundred pounds and plays a contact sport professionally.

“Don’t come any closer!” she demands, pointing the spatula directly at me like the sizzling eggs are some kind of protection spell. “I swear to god, I will hit you with this.”

“I live here. I’m your roommate, Turner,” I explain, slowly raising my hands, feet firmly planted near the door to the laundry room. “I’m not a burglar. I’m not here to murder you. Promise.”

She clutches the spatula to her chest, but her posture eases—barely. Her cheeks are flushed, chest still rising and falling like she just sprinted a mile. And she still hasn’t realized she should probably cover up.

I’m trying really hard not to look at her body, but my eyes are disloyal bastards.

She’s so fucking cute .

Ridiculously hot.

“Jesus Christ!” she gasps, lowering the utensil with a laugh. “You scared the shit out of me.”

I look at the floor.

Then the eggs.

Then the wall.

Then accidentally at her tits again.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, my voice hoarse with exhaustion and the sheer effort it’s taking not to ogle her like a caveman. “I thought I was coming home to an empty house.”

She drags a hand through her dark hair, flustered and clearly forgetting the fact that she’s damn near naked.

“Nova said you wouldn’t be back until later today.” She crosses her arms. Not to cover up. Just to look more intimidating. It somehow makes things worse because her tits are amazing.

Sorry I keep noticing .

It’s hard not to.

“Yeah, uh.” I nod, keeping my gaze firmly locked on the far corner of the kitchen like I’ve never been less interested in anything remotely shaped like a woman. “Red-eye got in early. I wanted to sleep in my own bed.”

A beat passes.

Her eyes flick to the skillet, eggs still sizzling in the pan, then back to me.

“You want some?” she asks, voice a little softer. “I mean… I already made them. Seems dumb to waste food after I, you know, screamed at you and threatened you with a spatula.”

She’s offering me eggs.

In her underwear.

That is barely underwear .

I clear my throat. “Uh… that’s—really nice. Thanks. But I think I just need to, uh…” I gesture vaguely over my shoulder. “Sleep. For, like, six to ten years.”

She nods quickly. “Totally. Right. You’re tired. That makes sense.” Then she holds the spatula up like a microphone. “No hard feelings?”

“Nope. We’re good.”

We both stand awkwardly frozen, fake smiles plastered on our face.

Then.

I reach for my travel bag, nearly tripping on a squeaky dog toy, and give her a small wave. “Okay, well. Welcome home, I guess. And um—sorry for, uh… seeing everything.”

Her head tilts. “You didn’t see everything.”

Like hell I didn’t.

I raise a brow. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Her mouth drops open and it’s then that she realizes: I have in fact seen everything.