Smart man.
I want to bang him so freaking bad.
I swing the door closed with a quiet thud, pressing my back against it, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free from my chest.
Holy shit.
The more I see him the worse it is.
Get it together, Poppy.
I hurry into some real clothes—athletic shorts. A loose sweatshirt.
French braid my hair into two braids running down each side of my head. By the time I twist the second braid tight and secure it with an elastic, my nerves are thrumming so loud I almost can’t hear anything else.
You’re fine. They’re your roommates, and Turner is not thinking about your stupid hair or your stupid sweatshirt or the way your shorts barely cover your ass.
But it sure would be great if he was.
Me: Cash is back—finally get to meet him. Wish me luck.
Nova: You don’t need luck. He’s a chill dude and his dog is a retriever. Nugget loves literally everyone.
I crack my bedroom door open; hear voices—Turner’s deep rumble, and an unfamiliar bellow. Louder. More obnoxious laughter—and the clatter of a pan being set on the stove. Nugget’s nails scratch-scratch-scratching the hardwood again like he’s doing laps. Or has the zoomies…
The moment I pad into the kitchen the dog predictably goes bananas, scampering across the floor and jumping up to put his paws on my thighs like he’s been waiting his whole life to greet me.
“Hi, buddy!” I scratch behind his floppy ears, bending to kiss the top of his fuzzy head.
His tail wags so hard his whole body wiggles.
“Jesus, Nugget—off!” Cash’s voice rumbles from the other side of the kitchen island. “That’s no way to say hello to your new friend.”
I glance up—and boom.
There he is.
Cash Hennessy, in all his six-foot-four, tattooed, backward-hat-wearing glory, leaning back against the counter like he owns the damn universe. A cocky grin hooks his mouth, and he tilts his chin in greeting.
“You must be Poppy,” he says. “Roommate numero three. The final Avenger.”
I laugh, nerves slipping into the sound. “Guilty.”
I glance at Turner out of the corner of my eye. He’s busy shoveling eggs onto a plate, jaw tight, avoiding eye contact like it’s his new job.
Interesting.
Cash strolls over, reaching out to me for a handshake. His palm is big and warm, engulfing mine completely, pumping it up and down. “Welcome to the asylum. You’ve met Turner, the responsible one.”
Turner snorts under his breath.
“And I’m the fun one,” Cash finishes, winking at me.
If this his attempt at being charming—or flirting—he’s got the wrong girl.
“Oh, awesome,” I say dryly. “So we’ve got ‘Responsible Dad’ and ‘Fun Uncle.’”
“Exactly!” Cash whoops, slapping the counter and beginning to build himself a plate of eggs and bacon. “She gets it!”
