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)
Two more minutes in hell and we pull up to the skyscraper where Mile High Club resides seventy stories up, with overpriced cocktails, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the most romantic, mind-blowing view I’ve ever seen in my entire, fucking life.
The Uber driver snickers as we get out. “Have fun, kids.”
Not kids.
Not a couple.
Not dating.
I slide out of the car, turning to reach a hand back toward Poppy so she can use me as leverage and slide out easy. “Here—careful, there’s a curb.”
She stares at my outstretched palm before she slips her fingers into my hand.
A simple gesture. But my brain doesn’t care.
Zip.
Zap.
Her skin is warm. Her grip is delicate. Petite. And I feel a quick shiver, wondering if it’s me imagining it, or if it’s her.
“Thanks.”
I clear my throat. “Ready?”
She nods, letting go of my hand and smoothing down her top with a breath. “Yeah.”
Inside the lobby, we’re greeted by the spa like smell of eucalyptus and a sleek glass elevator. A few other patrons pile in with us—two women in cocktail dresses, a guy in a blazer wearing a backwards baseball cap, another guy wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun has set.
Suddenly, we’re back in a box made for sardines.
I let Poppy step in first and stuff myself in beside her, our bodies pressing together again.
This. Elevator. Is. Miniscule.
The doors close.
The floor vibrates.
And thank fucking god, we begin our ascent.
Poppy stares at the number above the door, exhaling slowly, probably counting the floors. Sixty…
Sixty-four…
Sixty-eight.
Her hip bumps mine with every subtle sway of the elevator.
Seventy floors feels like a thousand.
poppy
. . .
“My body is on fire,” I whisper into Nova’s ear the second she pulls me into her arms, hugging me like I haven’t spent the last fifteen minutes in a confined space with her fiancé’s very hot former roommate. “I could kill you.”
“Is that so?” She laughs into my hair, arms wrapped around my shoulders. “What did I do now?”
“Turner,” I whisper like it’s a curse and a confession all at once. “He’s so…”
Hot.
Sexy.
Built like a damn Greek god with a jawline carved by angels. A walking, talking sin.
I throw my hands up in defeat because language has officially left the building. “I’m moving out.”
There. I said it. Let the record reflect that I was brave! That I fought the good fight! That I lasted a whole twenty-four hours before the sexual tension became a health hazard.
Ugh!
Nova snorts. “You’re being so dramatic.”
“False. I’m being self-preserving,” I argue, pointing a very serious finger at her. “I cannot live under the same roof as that man. I had my hand on his thigh on the way here and it was rock hard.”
She laughs and I follow her to the bar, weaving through the rooftop crowd until we find a small standing table.
“So soon? It’s been thirty-six hours.” She hands me a drink that the bartender has already prepared. “Tell Mama Nova everything.”
I take a long sip of whatever pink cocktail she ordered for me and press the chilled glass to my cheek hoping to cool the hormonal wildfire raging inside me.
I fan my face dramatically. “We were stacked on top of each other in the Uber here. There was no room to breathe. None. At one point I literally put my hand on his leg. My hand was on his knee. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Whoa.” Nova’s eyebrows shoot up. “On purpose?”
“Of course not on purpose!” I whisper-shriek, scandalized. “Do I look like someone who plans to grope their hot-ass roommate in the back seat of a moving vehicle? I had to grab onto something and that something just happened to be his very firm, very muscular quad.”
Damn does he have great legs.
Nova takes a slow, dramatic sip from her cocktail, lips pursed around the little black straw. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you right now? Because I don’t.”
“I blacked out for thirty full seconds.” I hold up my hand like it’s contaminated. “I can still feel his thigh through my palm. It’s like a ghost imprint. A phantom quad.”
She snorts at me. “Please.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” I wail, dragging my fingers down my face. “How am I supposed to sleep knowing that his bedroom is six feet from mine? That those legs—those thighs—are just on the other side of the drywall?”
Nova contorts her face. “Um… like a baby?”
I groan and chug what’s left of my drink. “You are zero percent helpful.”
We both glance across the rooftop, past strings of twinkling Edison bulbs and clusters of beautiful, overdressed twenty-somethings all here to flirt, pose for Instagram stories, or find someone who looks good naked.
And then there’s them.
The guys.
Luca. Turner. The rest of their alarmingly athletic crew, loitering like they’re about to shoot a craft beer commercial. Each of them is tall, broad, and built like the reason your ex still stalks your Instagram stories. They’re laughing, sipping whiskey, throwing back their heads like life has never hurt them. They look unfairly good.