Page 61 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
Because the second he said it—some guy fucking Poppy—I felt my entire rib cage contract. Like a trash compactor squeezing my insides into pulp.
And yeah, maybe that’s not healthy. Maybe that’s a red flag with tassels and a parade float. But I don’t care.
Because now all I can think about is some smug asshole knocking on our door with a six-pack and a fake tan, flashing dimples at Poppy while I sit on the couch building a LEGO drawbridge like a total virgin.
Nugget whines and nudges the ball against my foot.
I stare at the door where Cash retreats, trying to shake the image out of my head. Trying not to picture Poppy’s soft laugh. The curve of her hip in those tiny pajama shorts. The way her bare tits looked in that see-through bra….
The dog barks.
I bend over, take the ball. Toss it.
Nugget chases it like his little life depends on it.
I wish I could throw my feelings that far.
poppy
. . .
The house has been eerily quiet for hours to the point I regret staying in when I could have been socializing, even if that meant bonding with my new roommate while he double-fists Fireball and downs jalapeño poppers. At least, that’s how I imagine it…
The goal was to meet friends, yeah?
To put myself out there.
To live a little.
Instead, I spent the night stress-organizing my closet and watching four episodes of a baking competition while eating pizza out of the box. In pajamas.
Lame, I knowbut it had to get done.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling fan, willing it to hypnotize me into unconsciousness. It doesn’t work. Obviously. My brain is too full—of thoughts I’m not supposed to be having. About Turner. About his stupid forearms and his stupid sexy voice and the way his laugh sends quivers to my vagina.
Ugh.
I roll onto my side. Then my other side. Then flat again. My sheets are twisted. My pillow feels like a rock.
Reaching for my phone, I check the time, dismayed by how late it is: 2:15 AM.
I toss my phone back on the nightstand, frustrated. I should have taken melatonin. Or magnesium. Or both.
Instead, I’m lying here wide-awake, thinking about all the things I should not be thinking about: sex. Sex with my roommate. My roommate. I am a woman on the brink of losing her damn mind!
And now, thanks to the silence and the darkness and the fact that I am very muchnotasleep, my brain has decided to stage a highlight reel of every questionable moment we’ve had since I moved in!
Him walking in on me in the kitchen, nearly naked.
Me walking in on him jerking off.
Us in bed, sitting close, re-writing his dating app bio.
Oddly enough my brain goes to Cash, too.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
