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. “Ofcourseit’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 gotneeds.”
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 meansdeeply unhinged,and retreats quickly.
Georgia plucks a piece of bread, smirking. “Anyway, if you everdoget 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.”
