Page 79 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
I yank open the cabinet and grab the first box I see. Cheerios.
Perfect.
Dry, boring, perfectly unsexy Cheerios.
I dump a handful into a bowl, staring blankly at the little O’s as they bounce around, the sound like teeny, tiny, mocking laughs.
O…O…no.
You’re a horny mess!
I shove a handful into my mouth, chewing aggressively like that’s going to muffle the image of Turner. Nope, stop it. Knock it off.
I pick a dry morsel out of the bowl and study it. “Wow, look at all these O’s. Round. Perfectly symmetrical.”
I toss another handful of O’s into my mouth, chewing like a lunatic, trying to crunch the dirty thoughts away. But the O’s just turn to mush, and now it’s like I’m swallowing wet cardboard.
Then my sensitive ears hear the water shut off; my entire body tenses.
Several minutes later, footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. And then, the creak of the bathroom door opening.
I turn around as Turner emerges, a towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water clinging to his chest, his hair wet and tousled. He stops short when he sees me, his eyes going wide, dark, and unreadable.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The air between us is thick, heavy, charged. Then he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair.
Drip…drip…drip…
“Did Cash leave?”
“Yes. Just now,” I say, my voice coming out small and strained. “Went to the gym.”
Turner nods, his gaze drifting to the floor, then back to me. “Good.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because what the hell am I supposed to say?Hey, Turner, remember last night when I had your dick in my mouth? Are we cool? JK that was a dream?
Instead, I go with, “He hopes we’ve both chilled the fuck out by the time he gets back.
Turner rubs a hand down his face, the towel riding low on his hips. Low. Distractingly low. “Yeah?”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the towel slipping a fraction lower. I catch a flash of hip bone, the sharp cut of his V. Is he doing this on purpose, to torture me?
“Um. Yeah,” I say, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Apparently we’re both uptight.”
He snorts, and it’s such a casual, stupid sound for a guy who looks like he could star in a firefighter calendar, water droplets glistening on his pecs, abs tight and rippling. My mouth goes dry. My brain short-circuits.
“Are you… okay?” he asks, brow furrowing.
“Me?” I squeak, clutching the now empty cereal bowl like it’s a lifeline. “Totally fine. Just, you know, eating cereal. Having breakfast. Thinking about O’s.”
Turner’s gaze drops to my mouth. His jaw twitches.
“Right,” he says, voice a little rough. “O’s.”
“And obviouslyyouneed to get laid.” I laugh, my words coming out weird and high-pitched. “Like, whosaysthat? ‘Hey, man, you look like you could use a good?—’”
“Poppy,” Turner cuts me off, voice tight. “I get it.”
