Page 88 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
I pause. “I’ll send you the links. What’s your phone number?”
Turner rattles off his digits, and I type them in, trying not to make a big deal out of the fact I’m now the proud owner of his cell phone number.
He pulls into our driveway.
“There,” I say, hitting send. “You’re now the proud owner of three Lizard King piñata options. Congratulations.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab my drink before hopping out. “Don’t forget to actually order it or your nephew is going to end up beating the crap out of a rainbow unicorn.”
Turner laughs, the sound low and warm, and it wraps around me, sinking into my skin like a warm bath. “Noted.”
He lingers by the truck for a second, keys in hand, eyes on me. My heart does a stupid, fluttery little thing in my chest. But then he clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and nods toward the house.
“Well. Thanks for, uh…”
“Sure,” I cut in quickly. “No problem.”
Cash is nowhere to be seen when we walk through the laundry room door, thank god. I’m not in the mood for his obnoxious grin or his crude jokes or the way he’s probably going to notice that Turner and I are both walking a little closer than usual, a little slower, like we’re not ready to split off just yet.
But we do.
Turner veers left toward his bedroom without another word, and I go right, into mine. My room feels heavy and stifling, the bed unmade and the blinds half-open, letting in slashes of afternoon light that cut across the floor.
I drop my purse onto the dresser, then stand there—bored and lonely already, wanting to spend more time with him.
What is wrong with me?
He’s your roommate, Poppy.
That wasn’t a date. You weren’t spending qualitytime together.
He wanted company and you were a warm body.
You need to start work. That’s what you need—a distraction. It can’t come soon enough.
I grab the remote and turn on the new TV in my room, determined to steer my mind away from my loins.
Ha ha.
The screen flickers to life, filling the room with bright, cheery colors and the overly enthusiastic host of some mindless home renovation show.
Perfect. Exactly what I need—people tearing down walls and fixing foundations. Fixing things that are broken.
I sink back against the pillows, hugging one to my chest as the host babbles on about open floor plans and rustic farmhouse sinks. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
My phone pings with a familiar notification.
The dating app.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and open the app. Instantly, the screen fills with the grinning faces of men holding fish or flexing in gym mirrors or posing with a dog that’s probably not even theirs.
Perfect.
Exactly what I need. Men who are not Turner with their generic bios and their overused pick-up lines.
I swipe right. Swipe left. Another left. Right, just because he mentioned liking pineapple pizza and I am in the mood to be charitable…
My phone pings again.
A new message.
