Page 17 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

My father has never forgiven me for going to culinary school instead of college.

He’s been making his frustration with my choices known for the past decade, leading to fewer and fewer shared family holidays or summer BBQs on his back porch.

The last time I went home, we shouted at each other over Aunt Fran’s Easter ham for a good twenty minutes, giving everyone indigestion.

We’ve barely texted at all the past two months.

Still, if he finds out I was in Saint Magnus and didn’t swing by to say “hi,” he’ll be upset. Since the flood, he’s been blowing up my phone, begging me to move into my childhood bedroom so he can “help me get back on my feet.”

But I know what that really means.

He wants to help me get back on the feet, he thinks I should be on.

At this point, I would rather live on the street than with my father.

If I were forced to move in with one of my parents, it would be Mom—even though she lives in a tiny home in Maui, with barely enough room for her and her three golden retrievers.

Still, she has a “guest room” in her loft and has made it clear that I’m welcome to move in and stay as long as I need.

My mother is a lovely, free-spirited person who lets me be me.

She also gave Dad full custody when I was ten years old without a fight.

He insisted the schools were superior in Saint Magnus.

She agreed that the education system on Maui, where she’d grown up, wasn’t ideal, and…

that was that. I saw her every summer, but it wasn’t even close to the same.

Living alone with Dad wasn’t easy, even back when I was still a relatively compliant preteen. And I just…missed my mom. A lot.

I could probably benefit from some therapy to get over my lingering resentment for my mother and my active resentment for my father.

And the suspicion, deep down in the hidden places I don’t look at too much, that I’m a deeply flawed disaster of a person, and that’s why one parent left me and the other was unhappy with me all the time.

But fuck…who has the time or money for that much therapy?

Especially when there’s a much more logical explanation for why it feels like my life is cursed. “Did I ever tell you what my name means in Hawaiian?”

Parker glances over. “No, what?”

“Abundance,” I say. “Or happy one. It’s my mom’s favorite Hawaiian word and her favorite beach.”

“Aw, that’s nice,” he says. “And it fits. You’re a happy one. I mean, usually. Not this morning, but…”

I shoot him a wry smile. “Thanks, but it’s probably the reason everything I touch turns to shit. I’m a white woman with a native name. A lot of Hawaiians will tell you that’s just asking for bad juju.”

Parker hums beneath his breath. “But your mom grew up on Maui, right? I’d say you’ve got enough island girl cred to carry your name without bad luck. And you were born there before you moved to New Orleans when you were a baby, right?”

My brows lift. “How did you remember that?”

“I have an excellent memory,” he says, taking the Saint Magnus exit as he adds, “and decent table manners, not to mention a giant cock and fantastic dirty-talking skills. I’m the whole package, really. An abundant, happy one could do a lot worse.”

Fighting a smile, I say, “You’re right, but I’m not ready to discuss that yet. I’m kind of too busy stressing out to have a serious discussion right now.”

“Discussion? Who’s suggesting a discussion? I’m certainly not. Just making a random observation.” He nods toward the road ahead. “So, do you want backup in there? Or are you flying solo?”

I let out a shaky breath, my smile fading as downtown comes into view. “Solo. But thanks for driving. Even if I’d had a car, I think I would have been too shaky to drive.”

“No problem. And remember, there are always other paths forward. Even if this guy is a huge dickweed, he’s not the last word. It’s a big company. You can keep moving this up the chain of command.”

I nod, hoping he’s right, even as I pray that I won’t have to worry about the chain of command.

Please, just let this guy have mercy on me.

Please, just let something go right this time…

The Pelican State Insurance building squats in the middle of downtown like an architectural depression.

The beige brick, tiny windows, and general soggy cardboard box vibes are a sharp contrast to the manufactured cuteness of the rest of the “historic” area, making me wonder why it hasn’t been torn down by now.

The people of Saint Magnus usually have a low tolerance for disappointing people and architecture.

Inside, I check in with Mitzy—who is even more perky in person, dressed entirely in pink, and instantly makes it her mission in life to fluff her boobs Parker’s way every time she takes a phone call—and settle onto the stiff couch in the waiting area.

To his credit, Parker doesn’t give the fluffing a moment’s notice.

He’s too busy pretending to be interested in an article about tying your own flies in Trout World Monthly and whispering motivational slogans to me beneath his breath.

Like—“You’re a DeWitt. You’re going to DeWinn this, no problem.”

And—“Remember, you make the best grilled cheese in the tri-state area. No matter what happens, no one can take that from you. Cheese will always rise again.”

And—“Let the rage at this flood-related injustice fill you. That’s right. Embrace the rage. Come to the dark side.”

I finally break on the last one, laughing beneath my breath as I elbow him in the ribs. “Stop,” I whisper. “I can’t go Darth Vader on this guy. I have to embrace ‘cute, scrappy, but helpless female he should make an exception for’ energy. Old Southern guys don’t like angry women.”

Parker grunts. “I don’t like how long we’ve been waiting. There’s no one else here. What’s this guy doing back there?”

I nibble the inside of my lip. “I don’t know. But I don’t have an official appointment, so I can’t really complain.” I can squirm, however.

And I do, until finally, forty minutes later, Gerald, the supervisor, finally calls me into his office.

He is indeed an old Southern guy, with a big belly straining the front of his blue, short-sleeve button-down shirt and an accent so thick he makes Aunt Fran sound like she’s a Yankee.

He’s also tired, annoyed, and seemingly invulnerable to the appeals of a tiny blonde with big blue eyes and a yellow sundress that shows exactly the right amount of cleavage.

“Please,” I beg, giving the desperate eyelash batting one more try.

“I know I should have read the policy closer, sir, but it’s twenty pages long.

And written in a way that’s really hard for normal people to understand.

And I never missed a payment or let my policy lapse.

I really didn’t have that much equipment.

Covering it won’t break Pelican State, but not having it covered means I’ll be out of business.

” I swallow and will my voice not to wobble as I add, “I’ve worked so hard, sir.

I sacrificed so much for my restaurant, and it was doing really well.

It was in the black within the first year.

You know how rare that is for food service? ”

“Sorry, darlin’, but there’s nothin’ I can do.” He slides my policy back across his desk with the casual hand of a man who doesn’t care about killing dreams. “Contents coverage is separate. It’s clear as a bell on page twelve. Halfway down. Here, I’ll highlight it for you…”

The words swim on the page as he drags a yellow line through the tiny print. I blink hard, refusing to cry in front of this jerk.

“Then why did you take my money for so long?” I whisper. “If you knew it was pointless coverage for someone who hadn’t made changes to the landlord’s unit or bolted down her tables?”

His voice is harder, more pointed as he says, “Due diligence is your job, ma’am, not mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of paperwork to get through today.”

Back in the lobby, Parker reads my face like an open book.

I’m sure it isn’t hard.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this…shattered.

So shattered, Mitzy’s bright, “Have a great day!” as we head for the door actually makes me flinch.

“I’m sorry, Mack.” Parker’s hand finds my elbow as we step into sunlight that’s also way too bright.

“It’s fine,” I force out, though it’s not fine.

At all.

Downtown is doing its Saturday morning thing—couples sharing pastries outside the bakery, kids dragging their parents to the toy store, folks of all ages out walking dogs and sipping coffee—like the world hasn’t been broken beyond repair.

But Saint Magnus is on higher ground. Almost no one lost anything up here, just a few people by the lake and those were all vacation homes, not places where people lived or worked their asses off to make their dreams come true.

My throat closes.

Still, the first sob catches me by surprise, like a hiccup made of broken glass.

“I know, babe,” Parker says softly. “This fucking sucks. Come on, let’s find somewhere to?—”

“I told you I’m fine,” I croak, but I’m already folding into sad origami on the curb, hands coming to cover my face as I fight to keep the tears from pouring.

A minute later, a nice couple with a bag of pastries stops to ask Parker if I’m okay.

I’m about to lift my head and promise that “I’m fine,” for a third time, when a familiar voice says, “Makena?”

I freeze, sucking in a breath that lodges in my chest.

Shit.

Not now.

I can’t handle a paternal confrontation right now.

But when I glance up, there he is—my dad—coming out of Bean There Done That, with the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm. As usual, even his casual wear is pressed—khakis with a crease sharp enough to cut, polo in a lawyerly shade of blue.

My stomach sinks, even as a part of me, that little girl who used to run to him with bee stings and kid problems, aches for a hug from her daddy.

And for once, it seems like my dad gets the message, without me having to say a word. “Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”