Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I gawk at him.
Where does he come up with this bullshit?
“She didn’t want to lick anything,” I say. “She was eating bacon.”
“Exactly. And eye fucking you like the next best breakfast option.”
I groan and pivot toward the yard again, eyes on Nugget, who is now lying on his back, feet in the air, tongue flopped out, enjoying the sunshine the same way I should be.
“Listen, man. I’m not saying go full caveman and drag her off to your room by her braids—”
“Fucking A, Cash!”
“—I’m just saying, you might want to start thinking about what happens if she meets a guy and she wants to bring him home and you have to hear them fucking in the room next to yours.” He stands from the deck chair and stretches. “Just sayin’. You should start thinking about shit like that. Don’t be a prude—ain’t nothing wrong with fucking your roommate.”
I rub my temples because he’s giving me a headache. “Do you have an off switch?”
Cash grins like I’ve complimented him. “Nope. But I make a lot of sense.” He shrugs, heading toward the door. “I’m just giving you the hard facts before you find yourself folding laundry while some finance bro in boat shoes plows our roommate through the drywall.”
“That’s not her type.” I’m confident of that. And furthermore, are there finance bros in Texas?
“His name will be Chad,” Cash throws over his shoulder. “He’ll ask if we recycle and if we want to invest in his Crypto.”
I flip him off as he steps back inside, but I know he’s not wrong.
Not about Chad. Not about boat shoes. Not about the fucking Crypto.
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 know but 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 much not asleep, 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.
Tan.
Hair that probably costs more to maintain than my shampoo budget for the year. Flashy, in a laid-back way—if that makes any kind of sense. Pretty in that devil-on-your-shoulder sort of way.
That roommate is trouble.
He’s exactly the kind of guy I used to fall for in college—right before they’d text me something like “u up?” at 2 a.m. after ghosting me for four straight days.
So yeah. Been there. Done that. Have the emotional damage.