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)
He lingers by the truck for a second, keys in hand, eyes on me. My heart does a stupid, fluttery little thing in my chest. But then he clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck, and nods toward the house.
“Well. Thanks for, uh…”
“Sure,” I cut in quickly. “No problem.”
Cash is nowhere to be seen when we walk through the laundry room door, thank god. I’m not in the mood for his obnoxious grin or his crude jokes or the way he’s probably going to notice that Turner and I are both walking a little closer than usual, a little slower, like we’re not ready to split off just yet.
But we do.
Turner veers left toward his bedroom without another word, and I go right, into mine. My room feels heavy and stifling, the bed unmade and the blinds half-open, letting in slashes of afternoon light that cut across the floor.
I drop my purse onto the dresser, then stand there—bored and lonely already, wanting to spend more time with him.
What is wrong with me?
He’s your roommate, Poppy.
That wasn’t a date. You weren’t spending quality time together.
He wanted company and you were a warm body.
You need to start work. That’s what you need—a distraction. It can’t come soon enough.
I grab the remote and turn on the new TV in my room, determined to steer my mind away from my loins.
Ha ha.
The screen flickers to life, filling the room with bright, cheery colors and the overly enthusiastic host of some mindless home renovation show.
Perfect. Exactly what I need—people tearing down walls and fixing foundations. Fixing things that are broken.
I sink back against the pillows, hugging one to my chest as the host babbles on about open floor plans and rustic farmhouse sinks. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.
My phone pings with a familiar notification.
The dating app.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and open the app. Instantly, the screen fills with the grinning faces of men holding fish or flexing in gym mirrors or posing with a dog that’s probably not even theirs.
Perfect.
Exactly what I need. Men who are not Turner with their generic bios and their overused pick-up lines.
I swipe right. Swipe left. Another left. Right, just because he mentioned liking pineapple pizza and I am in the mood to be charitable…
My phone pings again.
A new message.
It’s from a guy named Evan, whose profile says he’s a chef, and his first message is: “What’s your favorite thing to eat in bed?”
“Get out of here, Evan!” Delete. “Have some damn respect.”
Men are exhausting.
I blow out a frustrated breath and pick up my phone again, determined to just swipe for the mindless distraction and not overthink every man’s terrible attempts at flirting.
Left.
Left.
Right.
Left until my thumb has carpal tunnel.
Until—
I freeze.
There, staring back at me from the screen, is Turner.
When I helped him tweak his profile, I was the one who said, “Use that picture.” And, of course, the photo of him in the plaid button-down—he’s holding a glass of whiskey. So sexy, although I would never have the courage to say that to his face. But I’m admiring that face now.
The strong jawline and bright smile I’ve come to know so well.
I scroll through his photos, each one more annoyingly attractive than the last. The hoodie and bedhead. The post-workout, sweaty and shirtless. The one of him with Nugget, when the dog was a puppy.
Turner, 27. Perpetual hockey bro. Own my own laundry basket. Will buy you coffee and listen to your podcast recommendations without judgment. Six foot something. Can reach the top shelf and carry your emotional baggage.
I reread that bio three times, thumb hovering over the red dot. Green dot.
Swipe right or left.
What would he do? How would he react? The guy who already thinks I’m weird for running, screaming into his room because I thought Cash was a murderer. What would the harm be in swiping on him to get a reaction? It’s not like I haven’t already humiliated myself in front of him at least a dozen times since moving in. What’s one more awkward encounter?
Left to keep pretending that the tension isn’t there, that I don’t notice the way his eyes linger on my mouth when I talk.
Right to find out if he swiped right on me first.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and swipe. Seconds go by. One minute, then another…
My phone pings. A new match. A new message.
Turner.
I jolt so hard I almost drop the phone.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
Turner: Did you seriously swipe right on me?
My heart slams against my ribs, and I bite down on my bottom lip, fighting a grin. He had to have swiped right to know it was a match.
I can play this game.
Me: Did YOU seriously swipe right on ME?
Three dots. Then nothing.
I can practically feel him stewing, pacing around his room, running a hand through that stupidly perfect hair, trying to decide how to respond.