Page 83 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
I take a sip, the cold liquid hitting my tongue. It’s…
Sweet. And smooth. And kind of really good?
Poppy is watching me like she’s just handed me a glass of poison, waiting to see how long it takes for it to kick in and kill me.
“Well?”
“I like it.” I lick my lips, taking another sip. “It’s good.”
“You like it?”
I nod, taking another long sip to prove it. “Yeah. What, you think I couldn’t handle a fancy coffee?”
Her grin spreads slowly, dangerously. “Oh, I knew you could handle it. I just didn’t think you’d actually enjoy it.”
“Well, it’s good,” I repeat, because Ireally, reallylike it. The sweetness, the coldness, the way it makes me feel like maybe I could get used to this.
Yummy. Froo froo.
Poppy is watching me, grin as wide as the goddamn Grand Canyon. “Should I make you a playlist to go with it? Maybe something like ‘Songs to Sip Your Brown Sugar Oat Milk Shaken Espresso To.’”
I roll my eyes, setting the cup down in the cupholder and trying not to laugh. “You’re cute.”
She is.
My eyes stray to her smooth legs, crossed at the knee, bare and bronzed and sexy as hell. The shorts she’s wearing barely cover the tops of her thighs, and the way she’s leaned back casually makes her look like she belongs.
Comfortable.
Unlike me, who can’t stop thinking about my dream.
About the way she tasted. The way she sounded. The way she looked up at me with those wide, dark eyes while she…
“Turner?”
My head snaps up. “Huh?”
“You just drove past the party store.”
Did I?
Shit.
“You okay there, buddy? You seem… distracted,” she says, voice dripping with fake concern.
I grip the steering wheel, jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
“Right,” she says, dragging out the word. “Because the giant, bright red flailing wobbly thing flapping in the breeze is impossible to miss.”
Touche.
I hang the next right. Make another right into the parking lot.
She’s not wrong. Plus, there’s a giant inflatable gorilla clutching what has to be two dozen balloons whipping in the wind, one of its big arms half-deflated and limp.
We step out, and the wind immediately slaps us in the face with a wall of heat. The kind that makes the asphalt shimmerand my shirt stick to my back. Poppy’s hair whips around her shoulders, a few strands catching on her lip gloss. She brushes them away, squinting at the store’s front entrance.
“Monster Smash cut-out, here we come,” she says, her tone deadpan.
