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)
IT’S HIS HOODIE! I want to shout.
I force a smile so brittle it might crack my face. “Sounds like you two are close.”
She beams. “Oh yeah. He’s my favorite person in the whole world.”
I nod again.
Stiff.
Controlled.
Trying not to combust.
Turner rounds the corner, barefoot, hair tousled like he’s been running a hand through it, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips and no shirt in sight. Just bare chest, tan skin, and a bandage wrapped around one hand like it’s no big deal.
My eyes flick to the gauze, then back up to his face, trying to read… something. Anything.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me.
“Oh, hey,” he says, as if he forgot we might both exist in the same room. “Poppy. You’re home.”
There’s a pause.
I arch a brow, my face a picture of pleasant neutrality. “Apparently.”
His jaw tics. “Uh—this is Georgia.”
The girl on the couch waves. “Hi again!”
I smile, sharp and shiny. “You two seem...cozy.”
Turner opens his mouth, then—bless him—closes it again, brow furrowing like he’s choosing his words carefully as not to make things worse.
“Georgia is my little sister. Remember, I told you about her before?”
Silence.
Then—
“Your what?”
He had told me about her once before. Georgia is the sister in college, Stella is the sister with two children. And I. Am. A. Moron.
I wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. Preferably while I’m still clutching my dignity. But beggars can’t be choosers and so I’m forced to stand here and be embarrassed.
“Georgia, this is Poppy. My roommate.”
His sister rises from the couch, mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Roommate. Right.” I know bullshit when I see it.
Georgia’s smile is all sunshine and little sister mischief. “I missed my big brother,” she says, casually tugging the sleeve of Turner’s hoodie like she’s known him her whole life—which, of course, she has. “So I made him promise to take me to dinner. Something with real napkins.”
“You said you’d settle for a restaurant that had French fries.”
She ignores him. “You should come with us!”
“Me?” I blink.
“Yeah, come! Please?” she begs. “You’re his roommate and I want to get to know you.” She bounces on the balls of her feet as only a younger person can and still look cute. “It’ll be fun. We’ll mock Turner relentlessly and harp on his dating life—it’ll be a bonding exercise.”
I glance at Turner.
Zero expression either way. He’s not encouraging me to come, but he’s also not protesting.
Shit.
My head shakes. “I don’t want to intrude—”
Georgia waves me off. “Girl, you live here. If anyone’s intruding, it’s me. Come on,” she adds, flashing me a megawatt smile like she’s selling me a timeshare and not dragging me into a possibly awkward family dinner. “It’s just dinner. And dessert. And maybe emotional blackmail. You can sit across from me and tell me all of Turner’s weird habits. Like if he sings in the shower or leaves beard hair in the sink.”
Turner groans. “This is already a disaster.”
His sister clearly isn’t taking no for an answer.
“What time?” I say, because I am nothing if not susceptible to peer pressure and internal chaos.
“Six.”
That’s in forty minutes. “Can I wear jeans?”
He nods. “Obviously.”
I nod slowly. “A girl could eat. And I never pass up a free meal.”
Georgia pumps her fist in the air as if she’s just secured tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. “Dinner squad locked in.”
Turner raises a brow. “Dinner squad?”
“That’s what we are now,” she says breezily, plopping back onto the couch and swinging her legs over the arms. “Fair warning—if there’s a breadbasket, I will fight you both for the last one.”
I glance between them as I head toward the hallway. “Noted. You’re violent and competitive. I’ll bring a fork to defend myself.”
I swear I can feel Turner’s gaze on me as I retreat to my room.
Inside, I lean against the closed door and exhale, pressing the heel of my hand to my chest like that’s going to help regulate the full-blown thump of my heart.
Honestly? It’s not just the surprise sibling visit.
It’s the weird tightness in my chest when I walked in and saw Georgia in his hoodie before I knew who she was.
It’s the way I wanted him to introduce me as something more than his roommate—even though I am just his roommate. Technically. Occasionally naked and emotionally confused, but still.
Roomies.
“What to wear, what to wear…” I mutter to myself, standing in the middle of my closet. It’s now organized to perfection, by color, easy to see exactly how many emotionally-driven, questionably-priced online retail shopping sprees I’ve been on this year. Spoiler: a lot.
Too many.
I skim past the dresses that looked better online, and tops that scream WE BE CLUBBIN—landing on something that might be appropriate; as if I hadn’t seduced Georgia’s brother in the pool this weekend.
Black, black, maroon.
“No,” I say aloud, flinging a sequined jumpsuit across the bar. “This is dinner. Not the Met Gala.”