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)
“Old fashioned, please.”
“Sweet or sour?”
“Sweet.”
Her smile widens as she lingers a second too long before turning and gliding away, probably to go flirt with some poor hedge fund manager at another table.
Georgia takes a long sip of her water and exhales loudly to get our attention. “God, I needed this. I’ve been drowning in school and social obligations and, like—life.”
Turner laughs. “So, same old, same old?”
She flips him off with a perfectly manicured finger. “Rude. But yes.”
Then she perks up, elbows hitting the table. “Anyway. I didn’t just come to visit because I missed you—which I do. Your presence is, like, seventy-five percent tolerable.”
Turner snorts. “Wow. That’s up over the sixty percent you gave me the last time you visited.”
She fidgets in her seat. “I actually came for a reason.” Pause. “I came to tell you in person… I started seeing someone.”
His posture shifts. Not possessive. Not angry. But.
BIG BROTHER MODE: activated.
He blinks at her. “Since when?”
She waves a hand around in the arm. “Since midterms. He’s in one of my econ classes.”
“You met in class?”
His sister shakes her head. “No. We met at a party.”
Turner groans.
Georgia grins. “The theme was, ‘Anything But Clothes.’ You would have been so proud of me—I wore nothing but a garbage bag and confidence.”
My eyes get wide. “You did not.”
We never had parties like that where I went to school, and I love hearing about it when people do.
A server returns to our table with our drinks, setting them in front of our place settings, letting us know our original server will be along shortly to take our orders.
Once he walks away, Turner turns his attention back to his little sister. “You wore a literal garbage bag to a frat house and now you’re dating someone from that frat?”
She sips her Moscato. “Technically, he’s not in the frat. He just parties there.”
“Great.” He looks physically pained. “Do I need to fight him?”
Georgia shrugs. “Only if you want to lose. He’s on the rugby team.”
“You don’t think I can kick a guy’s ass because he’s on the rugby team?”
She ignores his indignant tone. “Anyway, you’ll like him. He’s nice. Funny. Has great thighs.” She turns to me. “Oh my god, they’re so thick—they’re genetically engineered so he can carry women up mountains.”
Thick thighs.
Yum.
I blink. “Like—football player thick?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Think: lumberjack meets Greek god. If he stood still long enough, woodland creatures would braid flowers into his leg hair.”
Turner groans and drags a hand down his face like this is slowly becoming his villain origin story. “Please stop talking about this man’s thighs.”
Georgia smirks. “You brought it up.”
“I said nothing about thighs!”
“You asked if you needed to fight him.”
“Could you fuckin’ stop talking about it, please?”
She shrugs. “I’m just saying, don’t underestimate him. He once drank an entire beer through a funnel made out of a traffic cone and didn’t even burp.”
I lean toward her. “What’s his name?”
“Blayke.”
Turner snorts. “Of course it’s Blake.”
“He spells it with a ‘y.’”
“Blyke?!”
Georgia shrugs. “No, that would be ridiculous. It’s Blayke.”
Turner drops his head to the table. “I already need another fucking drink.”
I take a slow sip of mine, trying very hard not to enjoy this entire disaster as much as I am. But between the garbage-bag dress, emotional tank boyfriend, and Turner’s slow spiral into protective older brother madness?
So glad I’m here.
“What about you, Poppy? Are you seeing anyone?
“I just moved to town—I haven’t met many people yet.”
Georgia tilts her head, champagne glass perched near her lips. “Not even a hot neighbor? Or a sexy co-worker to go down on you just to take the edge off?”
“Georgia!” Turner exclaims, ears bright red. “Stop! That is none of your business.”
She bats her lashes at him innocently. “What? I’m just asking questions. Poppy looks like she’s got needs.”
Turner mutters something that sounds like a prayer and reaches for his drink with the desperation of a man who knows it won’t be strong enough.
“I’m fine,” I say, smiling sweetly and ignoring the way Turner’s knee is now bouncing violently under the table. “Very edge-free over here.”
The waitress swoops in again, looking mildly alarmed to be stepping into whatever this tornado of tension is, and sets down a plate of bread like it might defuse us.
“Have we decided on dinner?”
“Not yet,” Turner says, voice strained. “We were… catching up.”
“Wonderful,” the waitress replies, tone making it very clear she means deeply unhinged, and retreats quickly.
Georgia plucks a piece of bread, smirking. “Anyway, if you ever do get the urge to fool around with an asshole, but hot, I have Blayke’s cousin’s number. He’s a lawyer downtown and he’s a single dad.”
“Poppy does not need your help getting laid.”
turner
. . .
Dinner goes from bad to worse—from chill to personal, my sister has officially crossed all boundaries of propriety, and Poppy is not helping.
Not one bit.