Yanking open my closet, I grab the first halfway-decent outfit I can muster—a loose, cropped T-shirt and pair of high-waisted denim shorts.
Cute but casual.
I slip on some sneakers, swipe a little mascara on to make it look like I’m a functional human being, and try not to overthink it.
When I step back into the living room, Turner’s already waiting by the door. He’s in a plain gray T-shirt that stretches nicely across his shoulders, a pair of dark jeans that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still damp, sticking up in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive.
“You ready?” he asks, tossing me a set of keys.
As I’ll ever be…
turner
. . .
The truck is too damn quiet, but I’m scared to turn on the radio. Or a podcast.
Or speak.
I got this stupidly massive, fully-loaded, shiny new truck three months ago and it’s like driving a living room on wheels. Suddenly I’m hyper aware that it’s high off the ground, shiny, and technology centric. It feels like a spaceship.
It makes me look like a fucking douche.
Not that Poppy’s said anything, but her neck cranes as she looks around. Front seat, back. Taking it all in. The leather seats. The massive touchscreen. The sleek dashboard that lights up like the Fourth of July any time I do something as basic as hit the brakes.
WARNING. WARNING!
So obnoxious.
“Nice truck,” she says at last.
“Thanks.”
She leans forward, pressing her finger to the entertainment center. “Is this an espresso machine?”
My head jerks around. “Huh? No.”
My roommate giggles. “I’m teasing. With all these buttons, I figured it could be.” She pauses. “Mind if we stop for one? Would you pull over for me?”
Of course I’d pull over for her, she’s fucking adorable.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out a little too eager. “Sure. Coffee. Totally.”
“Thanks,” Poppy says, leaning back against the headrest, her eyes closing like she’s already mentally sipping that first hit of caffeine.
I try not to stare at her throat. Or her legs. Or the way her shorts ride up when she shifts in her seat.
Focus.
When we eventually roll into the coffee shop drive-through, and I squint at the menu like it’s written in hieroglyphics. I almost never stop, preferring smoothies or pressed juice in the morning, having never developed a taste for caffeine.
“What do you want?” I ask, dragging a hand through my hair.
She leans forward so she can see the menu and get closer to the speaker, boobs pressing into my arm.
I stop breathing.
Literally forget how my lungs work.
