Page 48 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

turner

. . .

T here’s a half-empty margarita glass sweating on the table between us, and my sister’s mascara is halfway down her cheeks like war paint. She’s doing that thing where she cries and tries to pretend she’s not crying, which isn’t a good look for her.

Red nose.

Bloodshot eyes.

Sniffles.

At least it looks and sounds like she has a cold.

“I swear,” Georgia says, stabbing her chip into the dip. “If one more person tells me this is ‘for the best,’ or everything happens for a reason, I’m going to throw this queso in their face.” She sighs. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

I drag my own chip through the soupy mess in the middle of the table and grunt. “Do it. I’ll back you up.”

My sister rolls her eyes. “You always say that.”

“Yeah, and I mean it every single time. You want me to tackle someone NFL style? Say the word.”

She huffs out a sad little laugh, smiling morosely. “You’re the best brother.”

I’m her only brother.

“Obviously.” I toss a chip in my mouth and lean back. “That guy was a douche. And not even a fun kind of douche.”

“What’s the fun kind?”

I shrug. I have no fucking idea but, “The fun kind looks a lot like my roommate Cash and sounds exactly like him, too.”

When my sister laughs, I get the satisfaction of being the shoulder she wanted to cry on tonight, especially since my own personal life is kind of fucked up at the moment. Makes me feel not so…

Alone.

She’s mid-rant about her idiot ex-boyfriend’s stupid gaming chair and the way he used to mansplain everything to her when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

I ignore it.

Then it buzzes again.

And again.

Three in a row.

That’s either an emergency or Nova sending me twenty memes in a row with no context.

I pull it out and glance at the screen.

It’s Nova. FaceTime.

I excuse myself from the table and walk outside, thumb swiping across the screen as I lift the phone to my ear.

“Nova?” I ask, watching her face appear under harsh kitchen lighting. “What’s going on?”

“Um, nothing.”

Clearly she’s full of shit because the number of times she’s FaceTimed me is never times before.

“So. I’m with Poppy and she could use cheering up, and I was wondering… where you were.” Pause. “I think it’s time for the two of you to talk. This is getting ridiculous.”

“I thought she was sick.”

“She was.”

My laugh falls short and flat. “She doesn’t want to see me, Nova.”

“She does ,” Nova insists. “She just won’t admit it because she’s stubborn and super dramatic and still a tiny scared of contacting you.”

“Why?”

“She’s embarrassed that she moved out, and she’s ashamed she’s pushing you away.”

Ahh.

Sure, makes sense. Poppy did do those things.

“As her best friend and her self-appointed representative, I’m calling you instead of sitting here watching her suffer in silence while pretending she’s fine.”

I tilt my head. “Is she pretending well?”

“Hell no. It’s like watching a goat try to rollerblade through wet cement.”

I blink. That makes no sense. “What?”

“Exactly.”

I glance at my watch, then back toward Georgia through the restaurant window. She’s laughing with the server now—thank god—because now we may have company.

“I’m hiding in the bathroom and she’s in my apartment with Luca, waiting for me because I said I had to pee.” She giggles. “Where are you? Consider this a mini-ambush, you’re welcome in advance.”

I stuff a hand in the pocket of my jeans. “I’m with my sister—she had a breakup and she’s currently stuffing her face with nachos and margs at La Chica Picante.”

“Oooh, love that. Give us a bit and we’ll be there soon.”

I end the call and stand there.

Shit.

A mini-ambush? That’s how we’re doing this? I stare down at my cell, gut churning.

I gave her space. Gave her allll the space I thought she wanted. I didn’t text. Didn’t call. I even ignored her cryptic Instagram story about “reinventing herself” next to a photo of a smoothie and a candle that looked like it cost more than my truck payment.

But now?

Now she’s coming here?

I blow out a slow breath and scrub a hand over the back of my neck.

“Everything good?” Georgia asks, glancing up as I slide back into the booth. She’s got queso on her chin and her eyes are a little glassy from the strawberry margarita she’s been nursing like an IV drip.

“Uh.” I clear my throat. “Nova is bringing Poppy here.”

Her face lights up like she just hit the breakup-revenge jackpot. “ What! Oh my god, yes. This is great! This is exactly what I needed. Drama. Romance. Sexual tension. A possible parking lot make out.”

“Please stop.”

She grins. “No. I live for this shit.” Georgia waves her margarita glass in the air. “Relax. This is a good thing. She obviously misses you.”

“False. She’s being ambushed by her best friend.”

“That’s what friends are for.” My sister’s mood sours. “Unlike my friends—they all hated Blayke.” She drains the rest of her margarita. “I should’ve taken that as a sign, because anyone who changes the spelling of their own name is a walking red flag. Blayke with a Y is dead to me.”

My brows arch.

“Anyway,” she chirps brightly, slapping her hands on the table as if she means business. “Enough about my tragic dating history. Let’s circle back to yours .”

“Hard pass.”

She ignores me. “So what’s your plan when she gets here?”

“To not throw up.”

“Good start. Then what? Are you going to beg her to come back? Kiss her?”

“No.”

“I want you to get your girl , Romeo. She misses you. I know it. You know it. Nova definitely knows it.”

I exhale slowly and glance toward the door.

Every time it opens, my pulse spikes, even though I know it will take them longer to get here than the five minutes we’ve been waiting.

The server brings a set of menus and I ask for several more, nerves kicking into high gear. No amount of play time in front of thousands upon thousands of people prepares a dude for moments like this.

My knee bounces.

I may be sweating.

Georgia eyes my jittery leg like it might launch me into orbit. “You good there, Rocket Man?”

“Yup,” I lie. “Totally fine.”

“You look like you just got called to the principal’s office.”

“I feel like I’m about to get expelled.”

“You?” She snorts. “I might be younger, but I remember how you were the golden boy. Straight-A student. Team captain. Prom king.” She slides the basket of chips closer. “Here, eat a few more and stop drinking. Carbs fix everything.”

I take one and immediately regret it—my mouth is too dry to chew and the corn feels like dry sandpaper on my tongue.

Shit.

I drink more of my margarita.

Georgia fans me with a drink menu. “Jeez, you are being more dramatic about this than I was twenty minutes ago. She’s not coming to dump pig’s blood on your head, she’s coming to talk.”

“Yeah but she doesn’t know I’m here.”

My sister is unphased by my pouting. “So what? Surprise!”

“She hates surprises.”

“Sure, but I’m sure she loves you.”

That lands like a punch to the solar plexus.

I don’t respond, mostly because my mouth’s full of tortilla dust; but also because I don’t know how to say the thing I’ve been trying not to admit out loud: What if she wasn’t?

“What makes you so sure?”

My younger sister shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, Poppy is amazing and hilarious and I like her a lot. But she gives me ‘runaway bride’ vibes. Like—when the going gets tough, she’s a runner.”

I frown. “That’s harsh.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Georgia says, licking queso off her thumb like we’re not discussing the possible implosion of my entire situationship.

“Some people just get spooked when shit starts to get real. Like, real real. You’re not exactly a low-stakes kind of guy, Turner.

You’re all in. Intense. Like if someone dates you, it comes with commitment and probably a dog. ”

I blink. “I don’t have a dog.”

I mean, there’s a dog in the house but he’s not mine.

Nugget does not count.

I gawk at Georgia.

She shrugs unapologetically and slurps the last of her drink. Licks her sugar laced fingers. “My point is, you’re not a temporary person. I’m sure that freaks some girls out—especially girls like Poppy who are used to being independent.”

I glance toward the door again, that familiar flutter in my chest ramping up to chaos levels.

“Don’t overthink it. Be yourself.” She leans across the table and boops my nose with the tip of her finger. “Dude, do you even realize what a catch you are? While some guys are out screwing puck bunnies and getting their pole waxed in the parking lot, you’re at home putting together LEGOs.”

The fact that she’s not wrong is not lost on me; I open my mouth to object—or to chastise her but she holds up a hand, already steamrolling my Big Brother outrage.

“Don’t even,” she says, wagging a finger. “Shh.”

Still, I shoot her a flat look. “Could you not hype me up like I’m a contestant on The Bachelor or Love is Blind?”

“Please. Those men are hardly what I’d consider boyfriend material. They’re on those shows for the clout.” Georgia’s eyes flicker toward the front door. “Oops, they’re here. Time to look alive.”

I freeze.

My spine straightens. High alert.

I tug at the collar of my shirt as if it’s suddenly decided to strangle me, and watch as Nova leads Poppy into the restaurant, casually here for burritos or tacos and laughter.

Poppy doesn’t see me yet.

She’s scanning the room and by the looks of it, unsure what they’re doing here in the first place, and I’m hit with it. It: the sharp, aching punch of want and need that’s been dogging me since the moment she packed her shit and left the house.

She’s in high-waisted jeans and a white crop top, boobs strained against the fabric. Wedge heels. Hair pulled back into a low ponytail and the big gold hoops she loves so much.

And then?—

Then she sees me.

Poppy’s entire body halts as if it hit a wall of glass. Eyes go round. Lips part in shock.

She wasn’t expecting me to be here .

I mean, I knew she was going to be surprised. Part of me even thought maybe she’d walk out, even though I have done nothing wrong but fall for her.

Her gaze snaps to Nova, who shrugs like Whoopsie-daisy! and then back to me. Back to Nova. Back to me.

We lock eyes.

Tentatively, I smile.

She takes one hesitant step forward. Then another.

I push out of the booth on instinct, ready to greet her because that’s the gentlemanly thing to do, isn’t it?

“W-what are you two doing here?” she asks when she reaches the table and thank god for my sister, because she chimes in before I can part my lips.

“Blayke broke up with me and I needed a shoulder to cry on.”

Poppy’s mouth forms an O. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Georgia waves her hand like she’s fanning away tears. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Margarita therapy is really underrated, honestly.”

Poppy offers a small, uncertain smile, her eyes grazing me again and I can see the wheels turning in her head. Is this a setup or just a very bizarre coincidence?

Yes.

It’s a setup .

She still doesn’t sit.

Georgia bumps her hip against the bench, eyes wide and deceptively innocent. “Sit with us. Come on, come. We’re about to order food.”

Hesitantly, Poppy lingers—until Nova bumps her toward the seats, practically shoving her into the booth, landing next to my sister with a soft oof , shooting Nova a betrayed glare that screams how could you do this to me?!

I clear my throat, hyper-aware of my posture, my feet rooted to the floor, my hands; the fact that I have no idea what to do with them. One’s wrapped around my sweating glass, the other wants to stuff itself back in my pocket.

Poppy won’t make eye-contact.

Georgia, bless her meddling heart, doesn’t seem to notice the tension that’s thick enough to butter bread with.

“We were just saying how this place has the best chicken enchiladas. Life-altering. Their quesadillas are great too, if you just want nibbles.”

Beside the table, Nova shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers tugging at the hem of her sleeve.

Then, in possibly the least subtle move I’ve ever witnessed, she clears her throat. Loudly. Like choking on a corn chip, impossible to dislodge, eyes fastened on my sister.

Georgia ignores her.

Nova tries again, this time adding a dramatic stretch and a stage-whispered, “Um—Georgia, right?” she says, her tone edged with nerves. “Sorry to interrupt, but… could I borrow you for a teensy weensy second?”

Georgia blinks up at her, reluctant to tear her gaze from the menu.

“Me? Why?”

“I need help... finding the bathroom.” Nova gestures toward the opposite side of the restaurant where a neon Restrooms sign is literally glowing like a Vegas billboard, next to a massive mural of a Catrina with brightly colored angel wings.

More throat clearing.

More coughing.

Georgia’s eyes narrow suspiciously at Nova, looking between the two of us, her lip twitch tells me when she’s finally caught on.

Ohh…

“Oh,” she says slowly, sliding out of the booth with a chip still in hand. “ Right. Bathroom. Yes. Come, friend. Let us pee.”

Nova rolls her eyes.

Poppy turns red.