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)
She takes another sip of wine. Licks her glossy bottom lip. Smiles at me.
I nearly black out.
I’m sitting here pretending to care about entrees and steak temperature while my blood pressure is somewhere between "mild stroke" and "erupting volcano."
She’s so goddamn hot.
“Poppy does not need your help getting laid,” I push out, frustrated and glaring at the menu, embarrassment and guilt and lust coursing through my veins. I seriously wish she would change the subject but she’s like a dog with a damn bone.
“Everyone needs help getting laid.” My sister laughs. “Including you.” She leans toward my roommate. “Did you know he was basically a virgin until he was in college?”
“Not true,” I grind out. “I just wasn’t telling my baby sister about my sex life.”
“Oh? I need to hear more about this!” Poppy enthuses, eyes wide and too gleeful for someone I wanted to fuck in my pool.
“No,” I say firmly.
“Yes,” she counters, matching my tone like this is a formal debate and not the worst dinner of my life.
Georgia grins like the little gremlin she is. “Okay, so he was seventeen, braces, shaggy hair—like, actual Bieber hair.”
“I didn’t have braces,” I snap. “And I did not look like Justin Bieber—what the hell is wrong with you?”
She’s being so annoying and embarrassing. She’s definitely doing this shit on purpose.
Poppy chokes on her wine, giggling at my sister.
I drop my head into my hands. “Stop.”
“I’m just saying,” Georgia continues. “Poor dude didn’t peak until, like, college. And even then, it was very much a slow build.”
“How the hell do you know?” I counter. “You were sixteen when I left.”
Once again, my sister ignores me. “He had this one hoodie he wore everywhere. Like, weddings. It had grease stains down the front to it.”
“It was sentimental,” I snap.
“It was disgusting,” she says, looking at Poppy, then leaning in close. “In the time you’ve lived at the house, have you seen him do anything other than build LEGOs?”
Our eyes meet.
“No,” she confesses slowly, lips twitching like she knows I’m dying inside. “But he folds laundry with a level of precision I find deeply erotic.”
I stop breathing.
Georgia cackles. “I’m sorry, what?”
Poppy shrugs, casual as hell, sipping her wine like she didn’t just set my entire internal system on fire. “I walked past the laundry room the other day and found him sorting his clothes. There’s just something about a man who knows how to do mundane household chores...”
Georgia thinks she’s hilarious, giggling like we’re at a damn comedy club—at my expense, by the way. “Folding socks is hot now?”
“Yes,” Poppy says emphatically. “And loading the dishwasher.” She fully leaning into the bit—or maybe not a bit at all—eyes locked on mine, mouth twitching like she’s having the time of her damn life. “I’ve never seen anyone load a utensil basket with such purpose.”
My dick twitches at the sight of her glossy lips and I force my eyes to stay on her face—and not stray to her tits.
“You are done,” I tell her.
My sister twitters. “Well. I know I speak for Stella and myself when I say we would love to see him settle down. If you have any friends who might make a good match—send them his way.”
After that dinner goes downhill.
I spend the remaining meal fending off the server’s advances, and at the same time listening to my sister and my roommate commiserate about love, dating, and sex. AS IF I WERE NOT SITTING HERE.
I can’t wait to get them in the car.
Can’t wait to get them inside the house.
We finally get the check—thank god—and I pay before Georgia can even pretend to reach for her wallet.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath.
“For the meal or the trauma?” Poppy asks sweetly.
“Both,” I grumble.
The drive home is mostly quiet, save for Georgia humming along to some overly dramatic breakup ballad on the radio, and Poppy occasionally giggling to herself like she’s replaying the greatest hits of my emotional collapse.
By the time we walk into the house, I feel like I’ve aged three years.
I lock the door behind us, kick off my shoes, and mutter, “Okay. Georgia, you taking the couch or the couch?”
She blinks at me. “Hard no.”
I pause. “Excuse me?”
She shrugs, dropping her bag onto the armchair like she owns the place. “I’m stealing your room. You have the perfect mattress, and the couch has no lumbar support. I’ve been driving all day, Turner. Be serious.”
She stretches with a yawn.
I stare at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Poppy makes a strangled sound that could be a cough or a laugh. Possibly both.
“You want me to sleep where exactly?” I ask. In my own house.
“Couch,” Georgia says simply. “Or your roommate’s bed. You two seem cozy, I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.” She raises her eyebrows in a challenge and I’m suddenly terrified of this little monster.