Page 5 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

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. . .

T he weight room is quiet.

There’s music playing overhead—some EDM remix someone left on the playlist—but I’m barely aware of it. I should be focused. I usually am. This is the part of training I actually like. The solitude. The burn. The repetition that lets my brain zone out and lets my body take over.

Except today, my brain won’t shut the fuck up.

All I can think about is Poppy.

More specifically: I cannot stop thinking about the way her hips curved, the way her mouth fell open when she saw me, the way her voice squeaked when she threatened me with a spatula.

Her ass in that pink thong. Tits in that lace bra, framed by the refrigerator light like some kind of half-dressed kitchen angel sent to torment me.

I drop the barbell back into the rack and scrub a hand down my face.

I’m a terrible roommate.

She deserves to feel safe. Comfortable. Not ogled.

And to be clear, I didn’t ogle. I caught a glimpse. A very sudden, very intense glimpse. One I’ve been actively trying to erase from my brain for twenty-four straight hours.

Hasn’t worked.

As a form of punishment, I load more weight onto the bar, like that will purify me.

It doesn’t.

It just makes me sweat harder.

I exhale through my nose and reset my stance. I will not make this weird. I will not let it be weird. I will be the chill, normal, extremely respectful roommate she needs.

A crotch enters my vision and I glance up.

Luca Babineaux. My new roommate’s best friend’s fiancé. And our landlord.

Fantastic. Just what I need when I’m already one bench press away from disassociating.

“Heard you had an eventful morning at your house recently,” he says, all smug and amused, a shit-eating grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Bastard has been waiting all day to say something.

My arms are toast, my brain is scrambled eggs, and my will to live is somewhere in the locker room with my deodorant.

“Is Nova incapable of keeping a single thing to herself?”

“Obviously not.”

“Poppy was cooking eggs,” I groan miserably. “In a thong .”

Scrap of lace between her cheeks. Thin bra. I’m only human, not made of stone. And in my bedroom, ten feet away, I could hear her humming…

Luca whistles. “And you lived to tell the tale. You’re a stronger man than me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I snap.

“Exactly.” He keeps grinning. “That’s why I’m impressed. You’re basically a monk.”

I rest my elbows on my knees, exhaling hard. I can still see her. Those legs. The underwear. That nervous laugh. I can smell the damn eggs...

“She lives under the same roof,” I mutter. “I cannot afford to have these thoughts about her.”

But I have been. Constantly.

It’s like my brain has developed a new setting: Poppy Mode. Always on. Always aware.

“Sure you can.” Luca kneels his knee on the bench beside me and leans in like we’re having a team meeting. “You’re human. Your eyes aren’t broken. Maybe what you need is to get out of your own head. Go out. Get laid.”

I shoot him a look.

He shrugs. “I’m serious. Go find someone who doesn’t live down the hall from you to clear the pipes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

But also, he’s not wrong.

It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten laid. Still, it feels weird premeditating it.

“When is the last time you were on a date?” Luca continues probing, as if it’s his job.

I grunt through my final push and rack the bar with a clang. “Um. I don’t know. I’ve been busy.”

He picks up a towel, wipes his hands. “Too busy to make time for a little joy in your life?”

I sit up, grab my water bottle, and shoot him a look. “By joy, do you mean fucking?”

Luca grins, leaning against the squat rack like he owns the place. “That’s exactly what I mean. Come out with us tonight. Drinks. Music. I’ll put together a small group, just the usual suspects. Nothing crazy.”

I roll my shoulder, considering. The idea of loud music and sticky floors doesn’t exactly appeal, but sitting home with the temptation of my new roommate, again, sounds worse.

“I don’t know, man,” I say, tossing my towel over my shoulder. “I don’t think I’m in the mood to pick up a stranger…”

“Listen. No one is putting pressure on you, but you haven’t been social in ages. It’s us,” he goes on. “We’ll celebrate my engagement.”

I arch a brow. “Didn’t you already celebrate your engagement like five times?”

“Who’s counting?” he asks. “And tonight will make six.”

I snort.

“Fine,” I relent, already warming to the idea of being out instead of stuck in my own head. “Okay. Yeah.”

Luca claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and satisfied, like he’s just negotiated a trade. “Good. I’ll text you.”

I watch him walk off.

When I’m showering later, I do a mental inventory of my closet. Jeans. T-shirt.

No. Jeans and a polo.

Maybe the navy one.

I let the hot water pound into my shoulders and exhale slowly. Trying to talk myself out of overthinking this, but it’s basically muscle memory at this point. Overthinking is what I do best.

"It’s just a night out," I murmur to the tile wall. "It doesn’t mean anything."

Like Luca said earlier, I haven’t gone out in forever. Haven’t tried to meet someone. Haven’t had the desire to meet someone. Call it lack-of-interest, call it laziness…

I’m not some sex-crazed animal, but I’m also not a monk, no matter what that jackass says. The man gets himself engaged and suddenly he’s the Dalai Lama of relationships?

I’ve always been reserved.

Kind of quiet.

Not shy exactly, but not the kind of guy who dominates a room.

Growing up with two headstrong sisters will do that to you.

You learn patience. You learn respect. You learn how to keep your voice calm and your hands to yourself even when someone is screaming about a stolen sweater or threatening bodily harm over hair product.

It also made me good at reading people. Made me aware of the space I take up in the world. How to be thoughtful. How to be polite. How to listen.

And sometimes?

It made me completely invisible.

I never really minded. I was the steady one. The reliable one. The guy moms loved and girlfriends trusted. But sometimes I wonder if all that carefulness makes me hard to see.

I pull on a pair of clean boxers and cross to my dresser.

Okay. Navy polo. Jeans that actually fit. Deodorant. The expensive cologne I bought myself when we were playing in Sweden…

I swipe it once across my chest and once at the base of my throat.

Awesome.

“Go have fun, you boring motherfucker.”

Grabbing my wallet, keys, and phone from the dresser, I give myself one last once-over.

The shirt fits. My hair isn’t doing anything too tragic. I look like someone who might, on a good night, be flirted with in a dimly lit bar.

Cool.

I open the bedroom door, expecting the hallway to be empty—but of course it isn’t, because the universe is a cruel and petty bitch.

Poppy is standing there.

Dressed up.

Wearing heels, high-waisted jeans, and a white long sleeve tee that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she is, without question, the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

Her hair is done. Shiny. Bouncy like a shampoo commercial.

My pulse kicks up. My mouth goes dry. And my body reacts before my thoughts can catch up.

Christ.

She’s my roommate.

"Hey," her glossy lips say as she blinks her long lashes at me. They’re black and the longest I’ve ever seen.

"Hey." I immediately forget how to formulate sentences.

She glances at my outfit. I glance at hers.

My eyes catch the shape of her narrow hips, the dip of her waist. Her slim, brown belt.

Her boobs.

"You heading out?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

“I am.” Her head tilts. “You?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “You look nice.”

Gorgeous, in fact.

My roommate dips her head as if she’s embarrassed by my compliment. “Thanks. You look nice, too. Is it a date?”

The air between us shifts as she waits for my reply.

It’s heavy.

Electric.

We might both crackle if either of us takes a step closer.

“Uh—no. I’m going out with friends.”

She tilts her head slightly, her earrings catching the light. Her eyes—big, dark, unreadable—stay on mine longer than they should.

“Me too,” she says softly. “Nova and some friends. Sort of a welcome-to-town thing.”

Oh no.

My heart thuds in my chest, kicking up speed. "Where?"

“It’s a rooftop bar. I think it’s called Mile High Club on Fifth—but I have to double check again.”

Of course it is.

Goddamn, Luca, that double-crossing, matchmaking shit-stirrer.

"That’s where I’m headed.”

Her eyebrows lift. "Really?"

"Yeah. What a coincidence."

She lets out a nervous little laugh and glances down, brushing her thumb along the edge of her brown clutch, fiddling with the gold buckle. “This town is already starting to feel small.”

I can’t stop looking at her.

At the way her long hair whisks around her shoulders. I’ve seen this woman nearly naked, and somehow, this outfit is worse. Or better. And suddenly I’m very aware of the fact that she lives just down the hall . For once, it sure would be nice to see her in a pair of nasty pajamas.

"It sure does feel small," I murmur. "Do you… want to share a ride?"

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine, soft and hesitant. "Only if you don’t mind. Since we’re going to the same place."

"I don’t mind."

A small pause.

Then a nod. "Great."

"I’ll order the car," I say, reaching for my phone, trying to keep my hands from freaking out.

Poppy watches several seconds, eyes trained on my fingers before glancing away, the quiet between us is so awkward but in reality, we're just two people going to the same place.

Two roommates hanging out!

The Uber arrives three minutes later and we both groan when a tiny, black eco-friendly compact car pulls up to the house that looks as if it were designed by someone who’s never met a tall person.

Fan fucking tastic.

Poppy hesitates when the driver leans over the seat to confirm my identity, giving us a smile when I pull open the back passenger door.

“This doesn’t look very roomy,” Poppy mumbles. “It’s like a tin can.”

Indeed it does look like a tin can.

If we get clipped before we reach our destination, we’re toast. Done. Chopped liver.

I gesture for her to climb in. “Ladies first.”

She slides in as far as she can scoot—which isn’t far—and fumbles for the seatbelt. The buckle clinks, metal scraping plastic, but the strap’s twisted behind her. She tugs again, brows furrowing, then glances at me with a bemused smile.

“It’s stuck.”

I lean in automatically. “Here, let me?—”

My hand brushes hers as I reach around her side to untwist the belt, and the second our fingers touch, my whole body locks up. Her perfume hits me, something soft and sweet, and it’s game over.

The space is too tight.

My thigh’s pressed to hers. Her hip bumps mine. We’re packed in like sardines and there’s nowhere to go, no room to breathe, no safe place to look.

Thus, I keep my hands in my lap, fingers curled into my palms, staring at the back of the driver, boring holes into his head, willing him to drive faster.

Faster.

Faster.

Get me out of this car before I say or do something I can’t take back.

Almost as if he heard me, the driver takes the next turn quickly.

Too quickly. Poppy shifts beside me, shoulder brushing mine, and I feel like I’m being tasered in slow motion. Her hair catches on the collar of my jacket, a few strands trailing over my neck like a goddamn temptation.

I freeze—obviously.

“Sorry,” she whispers, barely audible over the sound of my rapidly spiraling thoughts.

Her hand lands on my thigh to steady herself and I forget how to breathe. The other grips the handle above the window like we’re careening off a cliff and she needs an anchor. I am not a safe place to land. I am the cliff.

“Sorry,” she says again, lips shining in the early evening light. “I wasn’t trying to—my balance just—sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “It’s a small car.”

“So small,” she agrees, clutching her purse tighter.

Our knees are still touching.

Still touching.

I shift. An inch. Maybe two. Doesn’t help. My leg still feels like it’s burning. Like her skin has branded mine. I feel every tick of the clock in my bones.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Every second is a battle. Every breath feels like I’m trying to inhale her perfume. Then she turns slightly toward me, voice soft.

“You smell good.”

My pulse jumps. “Thanks.” It comes out rougher than I mean it to. Embarrassing. I hate myself for liking the way she said it. For the way it made my stomach twist.

The driver clears his throat, a dry rasp that slices through the charged silence. I glance up to find him watching us in the rearview mirror, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Date night?” he asks, wry.

Poppy makes a strangled noise like someone’s kicked her under the table.

“No.” God no! “We’re roommates.”

The driver raises a brow. “Roommates, eh?” He winks. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re practically in each other’s laps back there.”

YEAH BUDDY BECAUSE THERE’S NO FUCKING SPACE IN YOUR CAR!

Had he not noticed I’m six foot three?

Poppy bites her lip and stares out the window. I swear I see her shoulders tremble from laughter, and grin myself, looking out my window.

Two more minutes in hell and we pull up to the skyscraper where Mile High Club resides seventy stories up, with overpriced cocktails, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the most romantic, mind-blowing view I’ve ever seen in my entire, fucking life.

The Uber driver snickers as we get out. “Have fun, kids.”

Not kids.

Not a couple.

Not dating.

I slide out of the car, turning to reach a hand back toward Poppy so she can use me as leverage and slide out easy. “Here—careful, there’s a curb.”

She stares at my outstretched palm before she slips her fingers into my hand.

A simple gesture. But my brain doesn’t care.

Zip.

Zap .

Her skin is warm. Her grip is delicate. Petite. And I feel a quick shiver, wondering if it’s me imagining it, or if it’s her.

“Thanks.”

I clear my throat. “Ready?”

She nods, letting go of my hand and smoothing down her top with a breath. “Yeah.”

Inside the lobby, we’re greeted by the spa like smell of eucalyptus and a sleek glass elevator. A few other patrons pile in with us—two women in cocktail dresses, a guy in a blazer wearing a backwards baseball cap, another guy wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun has set.

Suddenly, we’re back in a box made for sardines.

I let Poppy step in first and stuff myself in beside her, our bodies pressing together again.

This. Elevator. Is. Miniscule.

The doors close.

The floor vibrates.

And thank fucking god, we begin our ascent.

Poppy stares at the number above the door, exhaling slowly, probably counting the floors. Sixty…

Sixty-four…

Sixty-eight.

Her hip bumps mine with every subtle sway of the elevator.

Seventy floors feels like a thousand.