Page 33 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

I kick my shoes off in the entryway and toss my keys into the little bowl on the table—only to miss it completely and hear them clatter onto the floor behind it. Typical.

The good news: my first day at my new job was a success.

I didn’t get frustrated and lose my cool.

I didn’t get locked out of the system I was literally hired to help secure, and they had a Big Apple Bagel bar in the staff break room.

Full spread. Blueberry, asiago, everything, plain, cinnamon raisin—the works.

One of the IT guys showed me the secret stash of flavored cream cheese he keeps hidden in the back fridge.

Not bad!

“I’m home!” I call out, expecting the usual silence or maybe the sound of Turner clicking together LEGO pieces or Cash shouting at his Play Station like a giant child.

Instead, I get...

“ Hi .”

A voice. A female voice.

I freeze in the middle of peeling off my jacket, blink twice, and slowly turn on my heels toward the living room.

There, perched on the edge of our stupidly expensive leather couch, is a young woman.

A young woman I don’t know.

A very beautiful young woman I don’t know.

She’s holding her phone and watching me, all dewy-skinned and delicate, like she’s the kind of person who applies sunscreen and drinks nine billion gallons of water per day and walks twice as many steps.

Her long legs are tucked beneath her, her long brown ponytail is shiny and thick, and her sweatshirt and bike shorts are casual in that effortless way that says, flirty. Cute. Young.

“Oh,” I say dumbly. “Hi.”

She smiles. “Hey! You must be Poppy.”

Okay. Alarming.

I glance around like Turner or Cash might be hiding behind the kitchen island, waiting to yell Surprise! One of your roommates brought home a hot stranger!

Who is she?

Why is she here?

Why is she wearing Turner’s hoodie?

My stomach immediately begins to churn with something I’m none-too familiar with: jealousy? Dread?

“I’m waiting for Turner,” she explains. “He’s in the bathroom.”

“Ahh.” It comes out a little too high-pitched, like someone stepped on a rubber duck.

She beams at me like this is a perfectly normal situation—just a random Monday afternoon hangout with a mystery girl in my living room wearing not-my-boyfriend’s clothes.

“Hope you don’t mind me hanging out here while I wait. He’s been in there forever—don’t know what he’s doing.” She snorts. “When I got here he was building that castle he’s been working on for like, ages.”

I nod, wanting to walk away from this conversation but not wanting to be rude.

It’s not rude to walk away, I scold myself. SHE IS NOT YOUR GUEST. SHE IS HIS.

The words rattle around in my skull like a ping pong ball in a dryer.

Not mine.

Not even a baby bit mine.

I make a noise that could mean anything—agreement, acknowledgement, a cry for help—my eyes darting toward the bedroom hallway.

“Oh, and—get this—he cut himself with a box cutter trying to trim a cardboard box ten minutes ago. That’s why he’s in the bathroom. He said it wasn’t bad, but I swear, if there’s blood on that hoodie, I’m going to make him buy me a new one.”

IT’S HIS HOODIE! I want to shout.

I force a smile so brittle it might crack my face. “Sounds like you two are close.”

She beams. “Oh yeah. He’s my favorite person in the whole world.”

I nod again.

Stiff.

Controlled.

Trying not to combust.

Turner rounds the corner, barefoot, hair tousled like he’s been running a hand through it, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips and no shirt in sight. Just bare chest, tan skin, and a bandage wrapped around one hand like it’s no big deal.

My eyes flick to the gauze, then back up to his face, trying to read… something. Anything.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me.

“Oh, hey,” he says, as if he forgot we might both exist in the same room. “Poppy. You’re home.”

There’s a pause.

I arch a brow, my face a picture of pleasant neutrality. “Apparently.”

His jaw tics. “Uh—this is Georgia.”

The girl on the couch waves. “Hi again!”

I smile, sharp and shiny. “You two seem...cozy.”

Turner opens his mouth, then—bless him—closes it again, brow furrowing like he’s choosing his words carefully as not to make things worse.

“Georgia is my little sister. Remember, I told you about her before?”

Silence.

Then—

“Your what ?”

He had told me about her once before. Georgia is the sister in college, Stella is the sister with two children. And I. Am. A. Moron.

I wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Preferably while I’m still clutching my dignity. But beggars can’t be choosers and so I’m forced to stand here and be embarrassed.

“Georgia, this is Poppy. My roommate.”

His sister rises from the couch, mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Roommate. Right.” I know bullshit when I see it.

Georgia’s smile is all sunshine and little sister mischief. “I missed my big brother,” she says, casually tugging the sleeve of Turner’s hoodie like she’s known him her whole life—which, of course, she has. “So I made him promise to take me to dinner. Something with real napkins.”

“You said you’d settle for a restaurant that had French fries.”

She ignores him. “You should come with us!”

“Me?” I blink.

“Yeah, come! Please?” she begs. “You’re his roommate and I want to get to know you.” She bounces on the balls of her feet as only a younger person can and still look cute. “It’ll be fun. We’ll mock Turner relentlessly and harp on his dating life—it’ll be a bonding exercise.”

I glance at Turner.

Zero expression either way. He’s not encouraging me to come, but he’s also not protesting.

Shit.

My head shakes. “I don’t want to intrude?—”

Georgia waves me off. “Girl, you live here. If anyone’s intruding, it’s me.

Come on ,” she adds, flashing me a megawatt smile like she’s selling me a timeshare and not dragging me into a possibly awkward family dinner.

“It’s just dinner. And dessert. And maybe emotional blackmail.

You can sit across from me and tell me all of Turner’s weird habits.

Like if he sings in the shower or leaves beard hair in the sink. ”

Turner groans. “This is already a disaster.”

His sister clearly isn’t taking no for an answer.

“What time?” I say, because I am nothing if not susceptible to peer pressure and internal chaos.

“Six.”

That’s in forty minutes. “Can I wear jeans?”

He nods. “Obviously.”

I nod slowly. “A girl could eat. And I never pass up a free meal.”

Georgia pumps her fist in the air as if she’s just secured tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. “Dinner squad locked in.”

Turner raises a brow. “Dinner squad?”

“That’s what we are now,” she says breezily, plopping back onto the couch and swinging her legs over the arms. “Fair warning—if there’s a breadbasket, I will fight you both for the last one.”

I glance between them as I head toward the hallway. “Noted. You’re violent and competitive. I’ll bring a fork to defend myself.”

I swear I can feel Turner’s gaze on me as I retreat to my room.

Inside, I lean against the closed door and exhale, pressing the heel of my hand to my chest like that’s going to help regulate the full-blown thump of my heart.

Honestly? It’s not just the surprise sibling visit.

It’s the weird tightness in my chest when I walked in and saw Georgia in his hoodie before I knew who she was .

It’s the way I wanted him to introduce me as something more than his roommate—even though I am just his roommate. Technically. Occasionally naked and emotionally confused, but still.

Roomies.

“What to wear, what to wear…” I mutter to myself, standing in the middle of my closet. It’s now organized to perfection, by color, easy to see exactly how many emotionally-driven, questionably-priced online retail shopping sprees I’ve been on this year. Spoiler: a lot.

Too many.

I skim past the dresses that looked better online, and tops that scream WE BE CLUBBIN —landing on something that might be appropriate; as if I hadn’t seduced Georgia’s brother in the pool this weekend.

Black, black, maroon.

“No,” I say aloud, flinging a sequined jumpsuit across the bar. “This is dinner. Not the Met Gala.”

UGH!

I want to look pretty and fuckable…

But I don’t want his sister to suspect anything.

Life is hard.

High-waisted jeans.

Black, off the shoulder top that displays enough cleavage to be questionable, but still appropriate.

Heels to better match his height. Or, more accurately, heels to remind him exactly how long my legs are when wrapped around his head.

I finish the look with gold hoops and red lipstick that could leave a very telling mark on someone’s neck if things… were to escalate toward the end of the evening.

“Let’s keep it classy,” I whisper to my reflection as I spritz perfume on my collarbone like a liar. “This is a group date.”

I step out into the living room and nearly collide with Georgia, who gives me an approving once-over and zero hint she’s onto me.

Us.

“You look so hot!” she chirps. “Like, so hot. Like a girl who would make out with my brother at a pool party.”

I freeze. My heart has stopped beating.

“Oh my god—I’m kidding.” She laughs. “You should see your face.”

“It’s bright red, isn’t it?” I laugh nervously. “’Cause that would be wild, wouldn’t it?”

“So wild.”

Then Turner steps out of his room and I catch a whiff of him, vagina already making executive decisions on my behalf.

He looks annoyingly good—hair damp like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial, sleeves rolled up on his blue, button down shirt.

Dear lord, he’s handsome…

Georgia, oblivious, grabs her purse and flips her sleek ponytail. “Let’s go, people! I’m starving, and if I don’t eat soon I’ll start chewing on Turner’s emotional baggage.”

He shoots her a look. I shoot myself an invisible tranquilizer.

I’m spared his close proximity when he volunteers to drive us downtown—Georgia hops in the passenger seat without hesitation, leaving me alone in the back seat.

Great.