Page 6 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

“ M y body is on fire,” I whisper into Nova’s ear the second she pulls me into her arms, hugging me like I haven’t spent the last fifteen minutes in a confined space with her fiancé’s very hot former roommate. “I could kill you.”

“Is that so?” She laughs into my hair, arms wrapped around my shoulders. “What did I do now?”

“Turner,” I whisper like it’s a curse and a confession all at once. “He’s so…”

Hot.

Sexy.

Built like a damn Greek god with a jawline carved by angels. A walking, talking sin.

I throw my hands up in defeat because language has officially left the building. “I’m moving out.”

There. I said it. Let the record reflect that I was brave! That I fought the good fight! That I lasted a whole twenty-four hours before the sexual tension became a health hazard .

Ugh!

Nova snorts. “You’re being so dramatic.”

“False. I’m being self-preserving,” I argue, pointing a very serious finger at her. “I cannot live under the same roof as that man. I had my hand on his thigh on the way here and it was rock hard.”

She laughs and I follow her to the bar, weaving through the rooftop crowd until we find a small standing table.

“So soon? It’s been thirty-six hours.” She hands me a drink that the bartender has already prepared. “Tell Mama Nova everything.”

I take a long sip of whatever pink cocktail she ordered for me and press the chilled glass to my cheek hoping to cool the hormonal wildfire raging inside me.

I fan my face dramatically. “We were stacked on top of each other in the Uber here. There was no room to breathe. None. At one point I literally put my hand on his leg. My hand was on his knee . Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Whoa.” Nova’s eyebrows shoot up. “On purpose?”

“Of course not on purpose!” I whisper-shriek, scandalized. “Do I look like someone who plans to grope their hot-ass roommate in the back seat of a moving vehicle? I had to grab onto something and that something just happened to be his very firm, very muscular quad.”

Damn does he have great legs.

Nova takes a slow, dramatic sip from her cocktail, lips pursed around the little black straw. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you right now? Because I don’t.”

“I blacked out for thirty full seconds.” I hold up my hand like it’s contaminated. “I can still feel his thigh through my palm. It’s like a ghost imprint. A phantom quad.”

She snorts at me. “ Please .”

“What am I supposed to do now?” I wail, dragging my fingers down my face. “How am I supposed to sleep knowing that his bedroom is six feet from mine? That those legs—those thighs—are just on the other side of the drywall?”

Nova contorts her face. “Um… like a baby?”

I groan and chug what’s left of my drink. “You are zero percent helpful.”

We both glance across the rooftop, past strings of twinkling Edison bulbs and clusters of beautiful, overdressed twenty-somethings all here to flirt, pose for Instagram stories, or find someone who looks good naked.

And then there’s them.

The guys.

Luca. Turner. The rest of their alarmingly athletic crew, loitering like they’re about to shoot a craft beer commercial.

Each of them is tall, broad, and built like the reason your ex still stalks your Instagram stories.

They’re laughing, sipping whiskey, throwing back their heads like life has never hurt them. They look unfairly good.

Not trying to be noticed.

Except everyone here has noticed them.

The young women congregating around the bar? Staring.

The waitress? Has circled their area three times.

“Damn, that’s a good-looking group of men.” Nova sighs dreamily. “Luca gets me so wet, I swear. All I have to do is look at him and my uterus bursts into confetti.”

“Please don’t say ‘uterus confetti’ while I’m this vulnerable.”

She laughs. “I speak the truth.”

But I’m not looking at Luca. Not even a little.

My eyes—like the absolute traitors they are—zero in on Turner.

Quiet. Broody. Solid. His arms are crossed, his jaw locked, like someone just told him his favorite team lost and puppies aren’t real. He’s not laughing like the others.

He just…

Standing there.

He raises his eyes and looks straight at me.

We lock eyes across the rooftop, and my body reacts like I’ve been struck by lightning. Every nerve ending crackles to life. I’m not even being dramatic—I actually forget how to blink . Or breathe . Or exist in any reasonable capacity .

His gaze doesn’t waver. He holds it steady, as if he’s seeing me for the very first time and likes the view. Like I’m not the girl who is going to eventually leave wet towels in the hall.

No, the way he’s looking at me now makes us feel like total strangers. A possibility. Someone he might flirt with at a party, back into a corner, and ask for their number.

He looks interested.

“Yikes.” Nova whistles low under her breath. “This is intense. He is literally eating you alive with his eyeballs.”

“Great. Cool. I’ve been vaporized.”

“Do you want to go say hi?”

“I want to toss myself off this roof.” Put myself out of this misery.

Nova clinks her glass against mine. “To roommates. And terrible life choices.”

“To thighs,” I mutter. “Specifically his.”

And because I’m a masochist, I glance back at Turner.

Big mistake.

Huge.

Still leaning casually against the bar, he has one hand wrapped around a glass, the other shoved in his pocket like he’s got all the time in the world to watch me. His jaw is tight, eyes dark, and the slow, deliberate way he drags his gaze down my body?

Holy shit...

Nova nudges me with her elbow. “Girl. You are staring. ”

I down the rest of my drink, slamming the glass on the tabletop. “If I sleep with him, you’re legally responsible.”

“This is your fault—you made eggs in your undies.”

WOULD SHE STOP TALKING?

Then Turner raises his glass to me, a silent toast from across the rooftop. Cheers.

Nova follows my gaze, eyebrows shooting up when she sees him. “He definitely wants to devour you.”

I swallow. “He’s hungry?”

“For you. Obviously. Jesus, Poppy, I feel like I should excuse myself.”

“I—” My voice squeaks like a broken flute. “I told you the past few hours have been a nightmare.”

A delicious, tension-fueled nightmare with biceps and bedroom eyes. One that I’m trapped in with no escape.

“Come on,” Nova says, looping her arm through mine.

“Wait—where are we going?” I whisper-yelp as she tugs me across the rooftop.

“Over there.”

“Why?!”

“Because I said so.”

Before I can protest further, she’s marching us across the patio, weaving between tables and cocktail waitresses like she’s on a mission from god, which she very well might be, because ten seconds later we’ve arrived at the testosterone epicenter of the bar.

“Hello boys,” she chirps, sweet and sugary confidence.

A few of them greet her, smiling and nodding, familiar with her for years as Gio’s sister. She throws her arm around Luca, giving him a kiss on the mouth.

Nova releases my arm and gives me a shove. A shove. A literal push with her well-manicured hand that sends me jostling awkwardly into Turner’s firm, meaty body.

My mind reels: am I being matchmade right now?

Is this some kind of setup?

I feel my body flush, grateful my shirt covers my entire neck or he’d see the rash blooming there. “Sorry. Nova shoved me.”

“I noticed,” his low voice allows.

I shift on my feet, heart thudding behind my ribs. “She’s never been subtle.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she’s efficient.”

Nervously, I chug everything in my glass, swallowing it down with a grimace because the bottom of my drink is tart.

Glancing around, I grow desperate for something casual to say, but my brain is nothing but static. I could talk about the music. Or the weather. Or how obscenely broad his shoulders look in that snug polo shirt ?—

“Would you like another drink?” Turner asks suddenly, saving me from whatever train wreck of a sentence I was about to unleash.

“I—yeah. Yes, please.”

He takes my empty glass and gives me a small nod, then turns toward the bar and I watch, eyes scanning his entire back side. The broad stretch of his back, the way that shirt clings to his traps. His narrow waist. And that ass ?

When I close my eyes tonight, I’ll be imagining what it looks like in the flesh...

Firm. Defined.

Thick thighs.

I exhale and glance over again, just in time to see Turner step away from the bar, drink in hand, his gaze scanning the crowd until it lands on me.

Direct hit.

He starts walking back, and Nova materializes, murmuring over my shoulder like she’s narrating a National Geographic special. “Here he comes. The apex predator in his natural habitat.”

“Nova.”

“He comes bearing gifts.” She’s using an Australian accent.

I laugh. “Knock it off.”

But it’s too late—he’s already back.

I take the drink, careful not to brush his fingers this time. Once was enough. My body still hasn’t recovered from that minor contact.

Nova has vanished —like the party goblin she is—and I am suddenly very aware that Turner and I are alone-ish. Close. Closer than we probably should be.

He’s standing so close.

Yes, it’s so he doesn’t have to shout to be heard—but close just the same. I can smell him again. His cologne. His shower gel. Shampoo.

I take a sip, trying not to stare at his chest.

Whoa! Damn this drink is strong.

“I owe you one,” I say, gesturing to the glass. It’s shaped like a bell and filled with pink liquid, a purple flower floating on its surface. “Mmm.”

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

“I have a tab?”

“You do now,” he says, lips twitching as he sips whatever cocktail is in his glass, the large, square ice cube jingling against the crystal. “Running tally.”

I raise a brow. “What’s the damage so far?”

He considers, leaning a fraction closer. “One drink. Two heart attacks. And a near-death experience in the back of that Uber.”

I giggle and roll my eyes. “You were fine.”

“My life flashed before my eyes. Who was going to save me?”