Page 84 of Don't Go Breaking My Heart
“Right. Let’s do this.”
Inside, it’s like a sensory overload. Balloons in every color of the rainbow. Confetti falling from some invisible source. And is that a karaoke, instrumental version of “It’s Raining Men” playing over the speakers?
I glance around, eyes darting to the inflatable unicorns, disco ball piñatas, and a life-size cardboard cutout of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson wearing a birthday hat.
He’s standing next to a T-Rex, a life-size Woody, fromToy Story—and Freddy Krueger.
Jeez.
“This place is bonkers,” Poppy says, her gaze trailing over the rows of costumes and novelty wigs. She plucks up a pink one and eases it on over her hair, fluffing it like she’s getting ready for a night out at the club. “What do you think?”
“I think you look like cotton candy.”
Good enough to eat.
Poppy grins, does a little hair flip, and strikes a pose in front of the cowboy cutout. “What do you think? Wanna be my boyfriend?”
The cowboy, unsurprisingly, says nothing.
Poppy bats her lashes dramatically, fanning her face with her hand. “Oh, stahp—you’re making me blush. Stop it.”
Before I can respond, she yanks a silver cowboy hat off a nearby shelf and plops it onto my head.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “Now you look like arealTexan.”
I glance in a fun-house style mirror at my reflection. The cowboy hat sparkles like a disco ball under the fluorescent lights, making me look like the world’s least intimidating party sheriff.
“Howdy, ma’am,” I say in a deep, southern drawl, tipping my hat. “I reckon you best take that wig off before I have to carry you off into the sunset.”
Her eyes go wide.
Poppy swallows, her eyes locking on mine, and for a second, the air between us goes heavy. Charged. Like we’re both thinking the exact same thing because we probably are.
Dicks.
Come.
Blow jobs.
Tits, ass, pussy.
“Oh my god—look!” She removes the wig from her head and darts to a display of colorful candy.
Okay. So maybe we aren’t thinking of the same things.
Ha!
I follow her, taking off the cowboy hat and placing it back on the rack, trailing along as she runs her hands along the display case. M&Ms of every color. Gumballs. Rock candy.
“I used to love rock candy when I was a kid,” she tells me, taking a pink piece out of the case and resting it on her tongue. “I tried making it once with my friend Cara.”
Her lips wrap around the pink crystal like she’s got no idea what it’s doing to me, and my brain is short-circuiting. Poppy sucks on it, completely oblivious to the fact that my cock just twitched a little inside my pants.
I swallow hard, dragging my eyes from her lips to her eyes, forcing myself to focus on the words coming out of her mouth and not the way her tongue just slid over that stupid piece of candy.
“And?”
“And,” Poppy laughs, tossing the candy back into the bin, “her dumb little brother had eaten all the sugar crystals off the strings and puked rainbow vomit all over the kitchen floor.”
