Page 40 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

H ere’s the thing about trying not to catch feelings for your roommate: it becomes significantly harder when he agrees on coming with you to look at new apartments.

Especially when the only reason you’re looking is because sleeping with said roommate has officially crossed into an emotionally complicated conflict of interest.

“This place better be terrible,” he mutters as I turn into the complex.

It’s not.

It’s stunning.

Shiny and new and full of landscaping so aggressively maintained it makes me nervous. The kind of place where the whisper quiet laundry machines are stacked and the pool looks like an oasis.

Not that the pool at our house isn’t nice—but with Cash throwing impromptu parties and me impromptu falling into bed with Turner, a change of scenery is best for all three of us.

The leasing agent meets us at the front entrance, all smiles and shiny hair and the kind of clipboard confidence I’ll never have.

“Welcome to The Arbors!” she chirps, like we’ve just stepped onto a cruise ship instead of an apartment tour. “You must be Poppy. And…?”

“Um. My current roommate.”

Turner gives me a flat look.

The agent giggles politely and ushers us into the model unit, which, of course, is huge and spotless. And staged within an inch of its life. There’s a throw blanket folded with military precision on the couch and a fake plant thriving suspiciously in a corner where real sunlight would never reach.

Turner walks through the kitchen like a man inspecting a crime scene. He opens a drawer, peers into the oven.

He opens the pantry. “Hmph. Not even a single bag of stale tortilla chips.”

“It’s a model unit , Turner.”

He turns to face me, leaning his massive frame against the doorjamb. “You’d hate it here.”

“No I wouldn’t,” I shoot back, defensively, cause he’s such a know-it-all, and cupping a hand around my ear. “Do you hear that noise?”

He shakes his head.

“Exactly. No dog, no Cash, no party people.”

Turner raises a brow, arms crossing over his chest. “So you’re saying you like silence now?” He pushes off the doorframe and steps toward me. Too close. Close enough I can see the flecks of gold in his irises. “So what—you’re just going to move in here and pretend you won’t miss me?”

My breath catches.

I open my mouth—something sarcastic, something breezy—but the leasing agent’s phone rings and she holds up a finger. “Sorry! One second, I need to take this.” She steps out into the hall, already nodding through whatever crisis awaits her on the other end.

And now it’s just the two of us. In a pristine, perfectly staged one-bedroom apartment with tension so thick you could cut it with a decorative cheese knife.

I head toward the little office nook and stick my head in the door. “This is nice,” I say, voice too bright. “Could have a big desk and probably a couch.”

We drift toward the bedroom. It’s huge. Light-drenched.

Pretty—unlike what I have now. My room was obviously decorated by a man and it’s already cramping my style. The nightstand wobbles. The blinds don’t close all the way. The carpet has a mysterious stain I’ve chosen to spiritually ignore.

But this?

It’s curated. Safe. Adult.

I step inside and trail my hand along the edge of the bed. Everything in here matches. The rug is plush. The lamps actually have lightbulbs that work.

I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s leaning in the doorway again, arms crossed, like he’s trying not to get too close. Like the idea of me in a different zip code is something he doesn’t want to think about.

Too bad. I’m already thinking about it enough for both of us.

I lower myself onto the bed, bounce lightly on the mattress. “Firm,” I murmur, like I’m capable of being normal. “Feels expensive.”

And then he moves.

Crosses the room in three long strides, stops in front of me, and before I can ask what the hell he’s doing—he scoops me up.

“Turner—!”

I yelp, my hands grabbing his shoulders as he lifts me like I weigh nothing, dropping me in the middle of the bed.

I blink up at him as he looms over me—big, broad, shirt slightly rumpled, jaw clenched. Eyes on me… as if he wants to devour me. Like it’s been driving him wild all morning.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, even though I already know. “The agent might come back.”

He braces one knee on the mattress, hand planted beside my hip, leaning in close—too close—until all I can see is him.

“You’re really going to move into this place and sleep in a room like this without knowing what it’s like to have me fuck you in it?”

Then.

He kisses me.

Hard. Intentional. Like he’s staking a claim. Like this model bedroom is the hill he’s willing to die on.

His hand slides to my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like he’s holding onto more than just me. Like he’s trying to anchor both of us to this moment before the real-world rushes back in.

I kiss him back.

How could I not?

I let out a quiet gasp when his thumb brushes the skin just under my shirt, and he groans like that sound alone might undo him.

“Poppy,” he murmurs against my lips. “Don’t do it. Don’t sign this lease.”

The words land between us like a live wire.

I look up at him, the feel of his whiskers still tingling against my cheeks as his warm hand moves under my shirt, thumb stroking above the waistband of my jeans.

“Poppy,” he says again, quieter this time. Like it hurts. Like saying my name is a full-body event. “Don’t do it.”

His mouth finds mine again—softer now. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite every stupid thing we haven’t said by kissing me just right.

His hand slips higher.

Over my ribs, up my side, every inch of skin lit up like a power line…

“Don’t move. I’ll miss you—the dog will miss you,” he breathes against my neck, voice thick and desperate. “Not yet. Stay.”

Stay.

Not: stay with me.

Just… s tay.

As if I don’t move out of the house, none of this has to change.

His hand pauses beneath my bra, fingers flexing like he wants to say more with touch than he can with words.

I breathe out. “You’re making this really difficult.”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, eyes closed. “I can’t believe you’re leaving because of logistics and it’s not the worst fucking idea you’ve ever had.”

“I didn’t think you’d care this much,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His brow furrows. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

Turner kisses me again, slower this time. Hot.

His palm glides over my boob. He squeezes—at the exact same time his tongue slides into my mouth and that’s when I make a sound I will deny to my grave…

The kind that gives me away.

Desire. Frustration.

“You’re killing me,” I breathe, dragging my mouth from his.

His eyes are hooded, cheeks flushed, voice wrecked. “Good.”

“You’re not allowed to be hot and emotionally manipulative. Pick one.”

“No,” he says, and kisses me again, rougher now, like he’s trying to undo every inch of distance I’ve tried to put between us.

I can feel how badly he doesn’t want this to end. The ache in his kiss. The way he presses me into the mattress, his dick straining against my thigh.

My breath catches. His mouth is still doing terrible, wonderful things to mine.

We are, without question, about to cross a line we can’t uncross.

And then?—

A polite knock on the doorframe.

“Sorry to interrupt,” comes the smooth, chipper voice of the leasing agent, “but I have brochures if you’re still considering submitting an application.”

We freeze.

Turner’s hand stills under my shirt. My leg half-wrapped around his. Both of us flushed and breathing like we’ve just run a marathon with our mouths.

He doesn’t move immediately. Just lifts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to decide whether to fake his own death.

I twist my neck to see her.

She’s holding a stack of glossy pamphlets and wearing a smile so calm, so practiced, it deserves an award.

No raised brows. No judgment.

Just the smug professionalism of a woman who’s absolutely walked in on worse.

“I’ll, uh…” Turner clears his throat and eases off me, adjusting his shirt like it personally betrayed him. “We were, uh?—”

“Testing the bed,” I offer quickly, cheeks on fire.

She nods. “Of course. Very popular feature.” The agent hands me the brochures. “You can take your time. Let me know if you have any questions. About the apartment.”

Turner doesn’t say anything. He exhales, long and heavy, running a hand through his hair like he wants to throw himself out the first-floor window.

We don’t speak the rest of the tour.

And when I get home, I text Nova.

Me: Do you have like 10 minutes for a mild spiral orrrr

Nova: Obviously. Call me.

So I do. I crawl into my bed—which smells like Turner’s laundry detergent and sex and cologne—and try not to cry while telling her everything.

She listens. Makes occasional noises of sympathy. Doesn’t interrupt.

When I finally stop talking, she exhales. “Okay, so to clarify…you went to look at the apartment because you don’t want to fall in love with him, and then you dry-humped him on a bed in the model unit?”

“That sounds accurate,” I mutter.

“Poppy,” she says gently. “You already fell. You’re just trying to move out before you have to admit it.”

I swallow hard. “I know I should. Move out. We’ve crossed lines. It’s complicated. It’s messy. We started sleeping together before either of us even talked about what we wanted . And now I don’t even know what I want anymore.”

My throat tightens.

“Look,” Nova says, “if you need space—real space—to figure it out, move. But if you’re just running because you’re scared he might actually feel the same way and it’ll ruin everything... then girl, you’re not escaping. You’re delaying the inevitable.”

“Which is what?”

Nova doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re in love with him.”

I blink at the ceiling like it might offer an escape hatch. “I am not ?—”

“Poppy.”

“No, I?—”

“Poppy.”

I flop onto my side, defeated. “How would that be possible?”

I do the mental math, unsure how many days it’s been. Confused.

Nova snorts. “You think love follows a timeline? Like there’s a minimum-waiting period before your feelings are allowed to count?”

I roll onto my back again, staring at the ceiling fan that’s doing a halfhearted spin. “I didn’t plan this.”

“No one plans this,” she says. “That’s literally what makes it real. If you could plan it, it’d be a Pinterest board, not a relationship. And need I remind you how my relationship got started? It was a mess.”

It was. Her relationship with Luca Babineaux began with a lie. Lots of them. A secret relationship, sneaking around.

It should’ve crashed and burned but it didn’t.

Once she stopped lying to herself and to her brother it became one of the truest, purest forms of love I’ve ever seen.

I press a hand to my stomach like I’m trying to quiet the butterflies or suppress an incoming emotional breakdown—jury’s out on which.

“Nova?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I stay and he doesn’t feel the same way?”

She’s silent for a beat. Then says, “Then you’ll know. And you’ll survive. But if you leave without telling him how you feel you’ll never stop wondering.”

Of course—she’s right.

Still.

That does nothing to stop my stomach from twisting in knots and my fight or flight instincts from kicking in.

“I wish he’d just say something. Spell it out. Give me a sign or write it on the wall or tattoo it on his forehead.”

Nova snorts. “Yeah, but that’s not how this works. You’re both stubborn idiots who flirt like middle schoolers and avoid real feelings like they’re contagious.”

I laugh. “God, you make it sound so off-putting.”

“Just do it.”

I’m not sure if I can, so I do not make her any promises.