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 smirk, dragging out the suspense to watch her squirm. “It’s a star.”
She blinks. “A star?”
I nod, leaning back against the headboard. “Tiny one. Right here.” I lift up the hem of my T-shirt enough to show the ink low on my rib cage—small, clean.
Barely visible.
Her eyes stare at my flesh. “What’s the story? That looks feminine.”
Because it is.
My shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “It’s for my little sister.”
Her whole face seems to fall. “Oh.”
“She used to say I was her ‘north star,’ back when we were kids and she was scared of everything. Thunderstorms. First days of school. Dad’s scary-ass driving.” I chuckle under my breath. “So when I turned eighteen, I got it. Just something small. Just for her.”
There’s a beat of silence, the air between us shifting—thicker now. Softer.
“That’s…” Poppy presses her lips together like she’s physically restraining the swoon. “Did your sister…”
Her voice trails off as if she’s afraid to say the words.
“My sister is in college. Alive and well and a giant pain in my ass.”
“Oh!” Poppy exhales a soft laugh, the tension melting away. “That’s good.” She smiles—and holy hell, it knocks the breath out of me.
I bump her knee with mine again, this time a little harder.
Playful.
I give her more information about my family. “I have two sisters—Georgia is younger and in college. Stella is thirty and single with two kids. She’s dating too, and as a matter of fact, I helped write her bio. Crazy, eh? She’s having better luck than I am.”
Poppy’s eyes light up. “You helped write your sister’s dating bio?”
“Damn right I did.” I lean back on my hands, smirking. “It’s a masterpiece. She’s the hottest mom on Bumble.”
“That’s so sweet. Maybe I should let you see mine,” she says shyly, fiddling with the corner of my pillow. “I need all the help I can get.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?”
She nods, cheeks pink.
“Don’t judge me—and don’t start swiping on people. I’m handing you my phone strictly so you can give me any pointers.”
Noted.
I take it carefully, like she’s handed me something breakable. Because it is breakable—her trust, her pride—and the last thing I want to do is crush it.
I scroll through her profile.
Immediately—and I mean immediately—I feel my nostrils flare.
Because holy hell.
If she thinks she needs help, she’s out of her damn mind!
Poppy, 26. Tech.
Part-time monster, full-time nerd.
Will absolutely steal your hoodie and your last French fry. Okay at Spanish but fluent in making bad decisions look adorable. Swipe right if you can tolerate competitive board games and unsolicited photos of my breakfast.
Then I shift my focus to the photos; the first is her. Smiling. No make-up. Hair messy. Standing on a dock in a giant, white sweatshirt and cut-offs jean shorts, looking effortless and so beautiful it physically has my heart fluttering.
The second picture is worse—or better—depending on how you look at it.
Poppy in a neon pink bikini riding a wake board, behind a boat. Wet hair. Tan skin.
I swipe again.
Ugh. Her in plaid pajamas with a cocker spaniel puppy on her lap. I LOVE PLAID PAJAMAS AND PUPPIES ON LAPS! I wonder whose dog it is, but don’t want to ask on the off chance she says it belongs to some dude.
A picture of her holding a giant cinnamon roll the size of her face, eyes lit up with mischief like it’s the greatest discovery of her life.
God help me.
I’m falling and I haven’t even left this stupid bed.
I hand her phone back without saying a word.
She clutches it to her chest, looking at me warily. “That bad?”
“That good,” I say quietly.
Our eyes lock, the air stretching tight between us, crackling like a live wire.
Suddenly, the fact that we’re sitting here—cross-legged on my bed, both in pajamas, hearts on full display—feels dangerously intimate.
Poppy’s lips part. “Wait—you’re not going to roast me? No notes? No savage critique?”
“Nope.” I shake my head, grinning. “Only note I have is that if I saw this profile, I’d swipe right so hard I’d sprain my damn thumb.”
She lets out a shaky little laugh, cheeks practically glowing.
“Really?”
“You’re the whole package, Poppy. Anyone with half a brain would see it.”
"Are you just saying that because I live in the room next door and you have to see me every day?" she teases, sneaking a glance at me through her lashes.
"Nope." I stretch my long legs out beside hers, our knees brushing, and cross my arms because I no longer know what to do with my limbs. "I’m saying it because it’s true."
The air shifts again—thicker, heavier. Like we’re both too aware of the inches between us.
“You haven’t seen me with PMS yet.” Poppy laughs. "But I will admit, you’re really good for my ego. Maybe I’ll hang around for a while.”
Hang around for a while? “What do you mean?”
“I was going to start searching for apartments. Living in your spare bedroom was only short term.”