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)
Us.
The word hangs in the air, lingering. For one horrible moment Turner doesn’t smile; he has no smart-ass remark—not that he’s ever sarcastic, but he gives me nothing but an unreadable, steady gaze that has me squirming in my seat.
My stomach twists.
Oh shit. Did I make this weird by admitting that?
I open my mouth to backpedal; before I can get a word out, Turner exhales sharply and leans back in the booth, shaking his head like he’s trying to process it.
Then,
“Jesus Christ, Poppy,” he says finally, voice low but incredulous, “I thought you never wanted to see me again. Now you’re talking babies—” A grin breaks across his face. “—This is great fucking news.”
It is?
I sit up straighter.
“If there’s even a version of reality where you’d consider having a baby with me, I’m calling that a win.”
He is?
“You are?”
He nods. “Fuck yes. We haven’t known each other long so I don’t know what this is, but goddamn, these past few weeks have sucked.”
My chest tightens, but before I can respond, he leans forward, hands sliding across the table until they’re wrapped around mine.
“The place has gone to shit,” he says solemnly.
I let out a short laugh, the knot in my stomach loosening. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I have to be dramatic. I won’t have a place to live soon.”
That makes my head snap up. “Wait—what?”
“Fucking Luca wants to sell the house so he and Nova can unload her apartment and buy something together. She obviously hates our place or she’d just move in, right? Either way, Cash and I have to find new spots. He gave us about six months, but I’m not going to wait. They’re already talking paint colors and upgrades, and you know what that means…”
Turner needs a place to stay.
Turner is moving.
“So what’s your plan?”
His mouth curves, that slow grin that gets me every time. “Thought I’d move in with you.”
He’s joking. I know he’s joking.
Still.
My grin tips into something equally dangerous. “Obviously.” I let the pause stretch, just long enough for him to notice. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
His foot hooks mine beneath the table, a casual trap I don’t bother escaping. “By catching up, do you mean banging and oral?”
I do miss the oral…
I lean forward, presenting him with enough to make his eyes drop from my eyes. “Wow. You skipped right over movie nights and cooking dinner together.”
“Those are implied,” he deadpans.
The idea of sharing space with him again makes my chest feel fizzy and warm, like champagne bubbles expanding behind my ribs.
“You’d have to pull your weight,” I warn, trying to keep my voice steady. “Cooking, cleaning, killing spiders.”
“You love having me around.”
I pretend to think about whether or not I actually do, twirling a straw between my fingers. “Hmm. You do keep the coffee pot full.”
“That’s not the only thing I want to fill,” he says, and I choke on air.
My mouth opens.
Closes.
“Are we getting along?”
Before either of us can respond, the clatter of heels on tile interrupts us and Georgia slides back into the booth beside him with all the grace of a college student who’s been dragged through a lecture hall.
Nova rests her hip on the table.
“Wow,” Georgia says, surveying us like a scientist observing two suspicious lab rats. “What’s this? A moment?”
Nova narrows her eyes at me. “Why do you both look guilty? What’d I miss?”
Turner smiles at my best friend. “We were just saying how we’re going to get out of here, go back to her place, and bang one out.”
His sister’s jaw drops. “COULD YOU NOT?” She pauses. “Wait. What about me? I’m not done wallowing!”
turner
. . .
Two months later…
Idon’t knock.
Haven’t in weeks. Not when I’ve been living here for two months—long enough to know the rhythms and quirks of this brand-new apartment. Take the fridge for example; it makes a tiny ping before it kicks on. The bathroom door sticks if you close it too hard. And Poppy? Has exactly one of three settings when I walk in after a long day:
Wearing sweats, messy bun, ready to chill on the couch.
Still dressed from work.
Or…
Nearly naked.
Bare feet.
Bare legs for days.
Hot pink thong underwear riding low on her hips and eaten between two, perfectly round ass cheeks.
She takes a plate out of the cabinet. Leans forward, opening the refrigerator with the casual grace of someone I know is very used to being half-naked in the kitchen.
Her head disappears into the fridge, giving me an absolutely devastating view of her lower half.
Holy shit.
A tiny bralette covering her tits that does nothing to hide the fact that it’s freezing in here. Or her nipples.
They’re pressed against the sheer pink fabric, rosy and hard.
There’s a spatula in her hand.
She’s making eggs.
I smile.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
For the first three seconds, I don’t move. I bask in it, rooted to the spot, gawking at her; wondering if maybe I did die on the plane and this is some kind of weird post-game hallucination?