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)
Cute but casual.
I slip on some sneakers, swipe a little mascara on to make it look like I’m a functional human being, and try not to overthink it.
When I step back into the living room, Turner’s already waiting by the door. He’s in a plain gray T-shirt that stretches nicely across his shoulders, a pair of dark jeans that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still damp, sticking up in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive.
“You ready?” he asks, tossing me a set of keys.
As I’ll ever be…
turner
. . .
The truck is too damn quiet, but I’m scared to turn on the radio. Or a podcast.
Or speak.
I got this stupidly massive, fully-loaded, shiny new truck three months ago and it’s like driving a living room on wheels. Suddenly I’m hyper aware that it’s high off the ground, shiny, and technology centric. It feels like a spaceship.
It makes me look like a fucking douche.
Not that Poppy’s said anything, but her neck cranes as she looks around. Front seat, back. Taking it all in. The leather seats. The massive touchscreen. The sleek dashboard that lights up like the Fourth of July any time I do something as basic as hit the brakes.
WARNING. WARNING!
So obnoxious.
“Nice truck,” she says at last.
“Thanks.”
She leans forward, pressing her finger to the entertainment center. “Is this an espresso machine?”
My head jerks around. “Huh? No.”
My roommate giggles. “I’m teasing. With all these buttons, I figured it could be.” She pauses. “Mind if we stop for one? Would you pull over for me?”
Of course I’d pull over for her, she’s fucking adorable.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out a little too eager. “Sure. Coffee. Totally.”
“Thanks,” Poppy says, leaning back against the headrest, her eyes closing like she’s already mentally sipping that first hit of caffeine.
I try not to stare at her throat. Or her legs. Or the way her shorts ride up when she shifts in her seat.
Focus.
When we eventually roll into the coffee shop drive-through, and I squint at the menu like it’s written in hieroglyphics. I almost never stop, preferring smoothies or pressed juice in the morning, having never developed a taste for caffeine.
“What do you want?” I ask, dragging a hand through my hair.
She leans forward so she can see the menu and get closer to the speaker, boobs pressing into my arm.
I stop breathing.
Literally forget how my lungs work.
I’m not even sure if I’m blinking. Because now her hair is brushing my cheek, and she smells like some kind of vanilla-sugar-cookie-fucking-witchcraft, and I want to bury my face in her neck then get down between her—
“Can I get a brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso?” she says, voice all sweet and polite as she settles back in her seat. “Grande. But in a venti cup with extra ice.”
“Anything else?” I ask, eyes on her mouth. Wondering what she’d do if I leaned over and planted one on her.
“Nope.”
Okay. Cool.
I lean forward toward the speaker as the barista inside says I can give her my order whenever I’m ready and clear my throat.
“Yeah. Hi. Can I get a brown oat. Uh.”
I forgot.
Poppy bites her lip, her eyes twinkling. “Brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso.”
“Oat milk shaken espresso,” I yell at the speaker as if I’ve never been through a goddamn drive-through before.
“Brown sugar. Grande,” Poppy whispers, still brushing against me. “But in a venti cup. Extra ice.”
Right. “But in a venti cup with ice,” I shout.
I’m such an idiot.
If her order is correct it will be a bloody miracle.
The speaker crackles with a long, heavy pause. “Got it!” the cheery voice tells me. “Anything else we can get for you today?”
Maybe I should get something, too—strictly so I have something to do with myself other than stare at her bare fucking legs.
But my brain blanks. What do I drink? Water? Air? Protein shakes with gravel in them?
“Uh…” I scramble, eyes darting to Poppy like she’s got the answer to a test I forgot to study for. “I’ll get the same thing she got.”
Poppy blinks at me, eyebrows shooting up. “You want a brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso?”
“Yup,” I say, as if this is a perfectly normal decision for me. “In a venti cup. Extra ice.”
Then my roommate leans over farther. “Can you draw a smiling face and heart on his? He loves a cute doodle!” she yells with a giggle, as if she said the funniest thing.
“Got it.” The speaker crackles some more before the voice says, “Two venti brown sugar oat milk shaken espressos with extra ice. Your total is $14.90. See you at the window!”
Right.
I pull forward, the truck lurching like I just learned how to drive five seconds ago, easing around the tight corner while praying I don’t scratch the paint job on the cement retaining wall on the path leading to the window.