“Bet we could get a discount on this walking balloon. It only has one arm.”
“A dragon cannot be a lizard,” Turner mutters, the muscles flexing beneath his shirt.
Yum.
I watch the way his fingers slide over his skin, the way his forearms tense, the veins there prominent and distracting. Focus, Poppy.
We’re here for a child’s birthday party.This is not sexy time. This is go time.
“Okay,” I say, pulling in a breath. “So, if we can’t find the lizard, what’s your backup plan?”
Turner rubs at his jaw, glancing around like he’s about to spot the mythical Smash Lizard hiding behind a display of plastic tiaras. “I don’t know. My nephew specifically asked for that one.”
“Okay, well…” Then I don’t know what to tell you. “If you put a rush on it—you could order one.”
He turns to look down at me. “You think so?”
“For sure.”
“Or,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “We just go to another store.”
“Oh, you want to keep hanging out with me?” I tease, bumping his hip with mine.
Turner’s eyes flick to my mouth. “Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “I do.”
I clear my throat, flashing him a grin. “Okay then. Let’s go find your monster lizard.”
Get it? Monster lizard?
Dick?!
Real mature, Poppy…
We head back to the truck, and when we’re settled inside, he cranks the AC up to full blast. The cool air whips my hair around, sending a few strands into my lip gloss. I swipe them away, glancing sideways at him.
“Where to now, cowboy?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt.
“Uh… there’s that giant party warehouse down by the freeway,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. “We can try there.”
My eyes flick to that hand. Big. Strong. The kind of hand that knows how to hold on and when to let go…
“So you know I have two sisters,” he says, breaking the silence we’ve been sitting in since we left Party Ville. “You close with your family?”
“Uh, yes.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I have one older brother—Jack. He has me beat by two years. Huge pain in the ass. Mom and Dad are still together. They’re great, just a little intense.”
“Intense how?”
I snort. “Think helicopter parents who never figured out how to land. They still call me every Sunday to make sure I’m alive.”
Turner chuckles, his thumb tapping against the steering wheel. “My mom is the same way. I get a text every morning: what are you doing?”
I laugh, the sound rolling out easily. “What does she think you’re doing, robbing banks?”
“I guess so,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Either that or sleeping in. Which I haven’t done since I was nine.”
Turner laughs at the idea that he would sleep late, and the sound is so warm and so deep, it curls through the cab of the truck and settles in my stomach like warm honey.
Ooey.
