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)
Technically.
For now.
The coast is clear.
No Turner.
I scurry into my own bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind me before grabbing my phone off the nightstand.
Unlock.
Open texts.
Me: I slept in Turner’s BED!!!!
I send it before I can chicken out, dropping the phone onto the mattress like it’s a live grenade.
It buzzes back within seconds.
Of course it does. This is my bestie, and she knows an emergency when she sees one.
NOVA: EXCUSE ME??????????????????
Me: It wasn’t like THAT. We just… talked. A lot. About everything. Then fell asleep.
Another buzz.
NOVA: You FELL ASLEEP next to a hot hockey player in PAJAMAS and you want me to believe it was innocent???
Okay, when she says it like that, it sounds less innocent and a lot more reckless.
I type back, biting my lip:
Me: It WAS innocent. But also I wanted to kiss him so bad I thought I might die. I swear, my vagina was begging for it.
There’s a long pause as if Nova doesn’t know how to properly react to that.
Then—
NOVA: First of all, R.I.P. to your self-control. 2nd, this is not normal roommate behavior. 3rd, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO??????
Me: I don’t know. Probably start looking for apartments. Or a condo. Or…
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I don’t know how I’ll pretend I don’t want to curl into him every night. Strip him naked. Let him touch me.
Have him fuck me…
Me: No fucking idea.
I roll onto my back, holding my phone above me, thumbs poised to type out something self-deprecating and dramatic—
When there’s a soft knock at my door.
I squeak, nearly flinging my phone across the room like it’s a piece of radioactive evidence.
The door cracks open. Turner leans against the frame, one arm braced above his head. His voice rumbles low, sleep-rough, like gravel and honey.
“Poppy?”
Sweet Jesus.
“Y-yeah?” I croak, scrambling to sit up, shoving my phone under the blanket, smoothing my hair like that’ll somehow erase the chaos of five seconds ago.
“Cash is home, if you, uh, want to…” He clears his throat, glancing back down the hall before meeting my gaze again. “I made eggs if you want to come meet him. And the dog.”
I hear the clickety-click of nails scratching across the hardwood floors in the other room.
Nugget.
“Sure. Let me put on some actual clothes.”
My roommate’s gaze skims down the front of my top. The short, white sleep shorts. Heat flickers behind his eyes—so quick and so potent it almost knocks the breath out of me.
He catches himself, dragging a hand through his messy hair, muttering, “No rush.”
Then he backs away from the door like it’s physically dangerous to stay a second longer.
Smart man.
I want to bang him so freaking bad.
I swing the door closed with a quiet thud, pressing my back against it, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free from my chest.
Holy shit.
The more I see him the worse it is.
Get it together, Poppy.
I hurry into some real clothes—athletic shorts. A loose sweatshirt.
French braid my hair into two braids running down each side of my head. By the time I twist the second braid tight and secure it with an elastic, my nerves are thrumming so loud I almost can’t hear anything else.
You’re fine. They’re your roommates, and Turner is not thinking about your stupid hair or your stupid sweatshirt or the way your shorts barely cover your ass.
But it sure would be great if he was.
Me: Cash is back—finally get to meet him. Wish me luck.
Nova: You don’t need luck. He’s a chill dude and his dog is a retriever. Nugget loves literally everyone.
I crack my bedroom door open; hear voices—Turner’s deep rumble, and an unfamiliar bellow. Louder. More obnoxious laughter—and the clatter of a pan being set on the stove. Nugget’s nails scratch-scratch-scratching the hardwood again like he’s doing laps. Or has the zoomies…
The moment I pad into the kitchen the dog predictably goes bananas, scampering across the floor and jumping up to put his paws on my thighs like he’s been waiting his whole life to greet me.
“Hi, buddy!” I scratch behind his floppy ears, bending to kiss the top of his fuzzy head.
His tail wags so hard his whole body wiggles.
“Jesus, Nugget—off!” Cash’s voice rumbles from the other side of the kitchen island. “That’s no way to say hello to your new friend.”
I glance up—and boom.
There he is.
Cash Hennessy, in all his six-foot-four, tattooed, backward-hat-wearing glory, leaning back against the counter like he owns the damn universe. A cocky grin hooks his mouth, and he tilts his chin in greeting.
“You must be Poppy,” he says. “Roommate numero three. The final Avenger.”
I laugh, nerves slipping into the sound. “Guilty.”
I glance at Turner out of the corner of my eye. He’s busy shoveling eggs onto a plate, jaw tight, avoiding eye contact like it’s his new job.
Interesting.
Cash strolls over, reaching out to me for a handshake. His palm is big and warm, engulfing mine completely, pumping it up and down. “Welcome to the asylum. You’ve met Turner, the responsible one.”