I take one last deep breath, blow it out slowly, and swing open the door.
The hallway feels longer than usual, like it’s stretched out to mess with me. My feet drag against the hardwood as I make my way to the kitchen, every step echoing in my ears.
I hear them before I see them—Cash’s loud, obnoxious laugh and Turner’s lower, quieter chuckle. The sound sends a bolt of nerves straight to my stomach.
Just a girl walking into her own kitchen, yup that’s me!
No big deal.
Definitely not internally combusting because I spent all night fantasizing about Turner pinning me against a wall and doing things to me that would make a porn star blush.
Not me!
Ha!
Their deep voices drift toward me—low, lazy laughter, the clinking of a spoon against a bowl.
Both of them together becausegod hates me…
I force myself to keep walking, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to turn around and hide under the covers forever. But then I step into the kitchen, and there they are.
Both of them eating cereal.
Cash is leaning back in a chair, legs sprawled out, spoon hanging out of his mouth—no manners with that one.
Turner’s across from him, slouched in his seat, a bowl of cereal in hand, hair a tousled mess, jaw shadowed with morning scruff that really shouldn’t look as good as it does. He glances up, and our eyes meet for one horrible, searing second.
“Morning,” he says, his voice infuriatingly casual, like he didn’t just star in my filthy fantasies, my pulse spiking as I force a smile, moving to the fridge.
“Morning.”
I yank open the fridge a little too hard and stare blankly inside, pretending to look for something. Except all I see is a half-eaten container of leftover rice and a sad, wilted bag of lettuce.
Behind me, Cash is yapping on and on, voice booming and ignorant considering it’s eleven in the morning.
“… I’m telling you, man, it’s rigged. There is no fuckin way Baltimore purposely took McHenry in the draft.”
Turner makes a noise of agreement, spoon clinking against the bowl. “Yeah. Totally.”
His voice is smooth, casual.
No crack in the façade.
Meanwhile, I’m gripping the refrigerator door handle like it’s the only thing keeping me standing upright.
I feel so…
So…
Self-conscious.
I grab the orange juice and busy myself by pouring a glass. My hand shakes a little as I lift it to my mouth, taking a long, steadying gulp.
Turn toward the guys as Cash is saying, “Fuckin A right?”
He shoves another spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “So anyway.” He shifts his attention to me. “’Sup, Poppy? You got any plans today, or are you hanging around?”
I hesitate, my mind scrambling for something—anything—that sounds remotely productive or interesting.
