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)
Poppy leans back against the passenger seat, sighing on a giggle.
“You know what this reminded me of? A caveman ordering at Starbucks for the first time. You’re like a bear wandering into a coffee shop from the woods and trying to order a treat.”
I am insulted.
At the window, I pay (although my roomie offers) and take both drinks, handing Poppy hers—and putting mine in the cupholder.
“Have a great day!” the barista chirps, practically bouncing on her toes.
Poppy waves at her from the passenger seat as we drive away.
I take a sip, the cold liquid hitting my tongue. It’s…
Sweet. And smooth. And kind of really good?
Poppy is watching me like she’s just handed me a glass of poison, waiting to see how long it takes for it to kick in and kill me.
“Well?”
“I like it.” I lick my lips, taking another sip. “It’s good.”
“You like it?”
I nod, taking another long sip to prove it. “Yeah. What, you think I couldn’t handle a fancy coffee?”
Her grin spreads slowly, dangerously. “Oh, I knew you could handle it. I just didn’t think you’d actually enjoy it.”
“Well, it’s good,” I repeat, because I really, really like it. The sweetness, the coldness, the way it makes me feel like maybe I could get used to this.
Yummy. Froo froo.
Poppy is watching me, grin as wide as the goddamn Grand Canyon. “Should I make you a playlist to go with it? Maybe something like ‘Songs to Sip Your Brown Sugar Oat Milk Shaken Espresso To.’”
I roll my eyes, setting the cup down in the cupholder and trying not to laugh. “You’re cute.”
She is.
My eyes stray to her smooth legs, crossed at the knee, bare and bronzed and sexy as hell. The shorts she’s wearing barely cover the tops of her thighs, and the way she’s leaned back casually makes her look like she belongs.
Comfortable.
Unlike me, who can’t stop thinking about my dream.
About the way she tasted. The way she sounded. The way she looked up at me with those wide, dark eyes while she…
“Turner?”
My head snaps up. “Huh?”
“You just drove past the party store.”
Did I?
Shit.
“You okay there, buddy? You seem… distracted,” she says, voice dripping with fake concern.
I grip the steering wheel, jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
“Right,” she says, dragging out the word. “Because the giant, bright red flailing wobbly thing flapping in the breeze is impossible to miss.”
Touche.
I hang the next right. Make another right into the parking lot.
She’s not wrong. Plus, there’s a giant inflatable gorilla clutching what has to be two dozen balloons whipping in the wind, one of its big arms half-deflated and limp.
We step out, and the wind immediately slaps us in the face with a wall of heat. The kind that makes the asphalt shimmer and my shirt stick to my back. Poppy’s hair whips around her shoulders, a few strands catching on her lip gloss. She brushes them away, squinting at the store’s front entrance.
“Monster Smash cut-out, here we come,” she says, her tone deadpan.
“Right. Let’s do this.”
Inside, it’s like a sensory overload. Balloons in every color of the rainbow. Confetti falling from some invisible source. And is that a karaoke, instrumental version of “It’s Raining Men” playing over the speakers?
I glance around, eyes darting to the inflatable unicorns, disco ball piñatas, and a life-size cardboard cutout of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson wearing a birthday hat.
He’s standing next to a T-Rex, a life-size Woody, from Toy Story—and Freddy Krueger.
Jeez.
“This place is bonkers,” Poppy says, her gaze trailing over the rows of costumes and novelty wigs. She plucks up a pink one and eases it on over her hair, fluffing it like she’s getting ready for a night out at the club. “What do you think?”
“I think you look like cotton candy.”
Good enough to eat.
Poppy grins, does a little hair flip, and strikes a pose in front of the cowboy cutout. “What do you think? Wanna be my boyfriend?”
The cowboy, unsurprisingly, says nothing.
Poppy bats her lashes dramatically, fanning her face with her hand. “Oh, stahp—you’re making me blush. Stop it.”
Before I can respond, she yanks a silver cowboy hat off a nearby shelf and plops it onto my head.
“There,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “Now you look like a real Texan.”
I glance in a fun-house style mirror at my reflection. The cowboy hat sparkles like a disco ball under the fluorescent lights, making me look like the world’s least intimidating party sheriff.
“Howdy, ma’am,” I say in a deep, southern drawl, tipping my hat. “I reckon you best take that wig off before I have to carry you off into the sunset.”
Her eyes go wide.
Poppy swallows, her eyes locking on mine, and for a second, the air between us goes heavy. Charged. Like we’re both thinking the exact same thing because we probably are.
Dicks.
Come.
Blow jobs.
Tits, ass, pussy.
“Oh my god—look!” She removes the wig from her head and darts to a display of colorful candy.