Page 24 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Thirteen

MAKENA

T he band is playing something slow and swampy, all accordion and heartache. Parker’s arms are around me in the sunset light like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he loosens his grip.

He’s not totally wrong.

My crawfish crown keeps sliding sideways, the plastic legs tickling my cheek. His is missing an antenna now—it must have fallen off during our victory kiss—and there’s a smudge of something that might be hot sauce on his “I’ll Be Your Crawdaddy” t-shirt.

We look like we’ve been “rode hard and put up wet,” as my aunt Fran would say.

We barely move as we dance, a slow, unexpectedly romantic rotation that accommodates his knee brace.

Every few beats, he shifts his weight, favoring his good leg, but his hands never leave my waist. Around us, couples are attempting actual dance moves—two-steps and swing-outs and something that might be zydeco if you squint.

A woman in a sequined crawfish costume twirls by, doing her own solo thing, nearly taking an old man out with her tail.

We’re the lamest people on the dance floor, but it’s hard to care when Parker smells so good.

Even after a day in the Louisiana sun and a strong whiff of eau de beer and fried food about him, the scent underneath is pure Parker.

That clean, earthy, sexy smell that makes me want to press my face into his chest and breathe until I’m lulled into a Zen state by his hormones.

That’s the wild thing about Parker. Yes, he makes me tingle, but he also makes it feel safe to relax my guard.

Just sharing space with him lowers my blood pressure.

“So,” he says, his voice a soft rumble in my ear. “Real talk.”

“Do we have to?” I know I’m whining, but I can’t help it. “Can’t we just dance and pretend we’re two normal people who met at a crawfish festival and are going to have uncomplicated truck sex?”

“Is that what you want? Uncomplicated truck sex?”

I pull back to look at him. The fairy lights strung around the dance floor are reflected in his eyes, making them look almost amber instead of their usual blue. His expression makes my chest tight. His usual patience is there, but it’s mixed with a healthy dose of “it’s time to cut the bullshit.”

And he’s right.

“I don’t know what I want,” I confess, which is both the truth and a lie.

I want him. That’s not complicated. What’s complicated is everything that comes after wanting.

“Okay.” He pulls me closer again, his hand spread wide on my lower back. “Then let’s start with what you don’t want.”

“Parker—”

“Humor me. As your Crawdad Mating Call king, I think you owe me that much.”

I grin. “Your mating dance is going to live rent-free in my head for a long time. That’s for sure.”

“That hot?”

I laugh. “Something like that.” He’d looked like he was having a seizure, actually. But that level of “not giving a fuck” in front of a hundred strangers is hot in its own way. “Fine,” I say. “I don’t want something…complicated.”

“Complicated how? How am I complicated?”

“You know…” I trail off, trying to organize my thoughts. Which is hard after four beers, and with his thumb rubbing little circles on my back through my t-shirt. “You’re only twenty-seven. You’re in the prime of your career. You’ve got groupies and?—”

“I don’t have groupies.”

“You have options,” I counter. “Lots of them. Young, perky options who haven’t been divorced, don’t have daddy issues, and haven’t lost everything. Twice.”

He shifts, moving to the left, out of the path of a couple making out so vigorously they have no idea where they’re going.

“That could have been us,” I whisper, nodding their way. “Doesn’t that look like more fun than talking?”

“That looks…damp,” he says, curling a lip at the gropers. “We’re way hotter than that.”

“Agreed. We should show these people how a public make-out session is really done.”

“And maybe we will,” he says, his lips curving as he glances back at me.

“As soon as I assure you that everyone has daddy issues. It’s basically a generational requirement at this point.

Mine stem from the fact that I’m pretty sure my dad’s been cheating on my mom since I was four.

And he kind of hates me. Sometimes. Depending on his mood.

” His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers tangling gently in my hair.

“Additionally, I’m not interested in options.

Who needs options when they’re with the coolest girl at the party? ”

I sigh. “You say that now, but?—”

“I’ve been saying it for nearly eight months.”

“Because you haven’t had me yet. Men always want what they can’t have.” The words come out sharper than intended. But hell, in my experience, they’re true. “Chuck thought I was a goddess, too, until I finally agreed to be his girlfriend. Then, as soon as he had me locked down, he lost interest.”

Parker stops dancing to glare down at me, looking truly offended. “Did you just compare me to Chuck? I hope by now it’s pretty fucking clear that I’m nothing like your douchebag, mullet-loving ex, Makena.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re just making assumptions.” He starts moving again, but his grip on me is different now. Firmer. Like he’d like to shake some sense into me. Behind him, the band launches into something that sounds like “Sweet Caroline” meets a funeral dirge, making me wonder how many beers they’ve had.

Probably too many.

And the crawfish lady is spinning back this way.

“I think we should find a place to sit to finish this talk,” I say. “Before someone knocks into your knee and you’re back on crutches again.”

“You know what I think? I think you’ve forgotten how to stop pushing people away.”

I wrinkle my nose, but what’s the point in denying it? Parker’s gotten to know me pretty well the past week or so.

But I’ve gotten to know him, too. “And I think you like that. I think you love a challenge. You love proving you’ll always come out on top, no matter how the cards are stacked against you. Which, unfortunately, makes you more like Chuck than you think.”

“Unfair,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Deeply unfair.”

“Is it? How much of this is about me, Parker? And how much of this is about needing to prove you can get any girl you want? Because you’re actually amazing and irresistible, and your parents shouldn’t have ignored you the way they did.

You should have been the main character from the beginning, and dammit, you’re going to prove it by making that babysitter who turned you down fall in love with you. ”

His brows slide up his forehead.

My throat goes tight, but I force out, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a dick.”

“I know you’re not,” he says. “You’re trying to protect yourself.

But you don’t have to do that with me. I have zero interest in hurting you.

And yeah, maybe you’re right, maybe my ego is more involved than I’d like to admit, but the way we are together?

How fun and easy and good it is? That’s not ego. ”

“When we’re not fighting,” I cut in.

“When you’re not fighting the vibes,” he counters.

“Maybe I just don’t understand the vibes, Parker.” The words tumble out, propelled by beer and the stress of keeping them in. “You’re funny and kind and hot and successful and literally drove through a building to save my life. You’re basically perfect, and I’m…” I shrug. “I’m me.”

“Talented? Brave? Also funny and kind and hot?”

“A hot mess,” I counter. “An almost thirty-four-year-old hot mess who’s starting over for the third time with basically nothing to show for years of working her ass off, who can’t even read an insurance policy properly.”

“Hey. You’re not a hot mess.” His hand comes up to cup my cheek. “You’re a cold mess that’s well on your way to congealing and being much easier to clean up.”

I snort, smiling despite myself. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” His hand slides down to curl around the back of my neck, sending impure thoughts dancing through my head. “You’ve had some bad luck, no doubt, but that isn’t your fault.”

“Some of it was,” I say. “I’m impatient and take chances I probably shouldn’t in the name of getting ahead.”

“Pretty sure you just described every successful entrepreneur. And I’m impatient, too. I’m not perfect, Mack. Not even close.”

My brow furrows. “I know. You used to eat Lucky Charms for breakfast.”

“Before you came along and saved me,” he agrees with a soft smile that makes my chest ache.

The song changes to something faster, but we keep swaying slowly.

Around us, drunk people are line dancing to a song that definitely isn’t meant for Boot Scootin’ Boogie, someone’s lost a shoe—it’s sitting in the middle of the floor like a sacrifice to the dance gods—and the crawfish lady has stripped down to her bra and tail.

As wild as it is, we may be the sanest people at this festival.

In honor of that accomplishment, I put on my big girl panties and confess, “You’re right. I’ve forgotten how to stop running away. And I’m scared. Scared you’ll hurt me, scared I’ll hurt you. Just…scared.”

“Maybe you will hurt me. Maybe I’ll hurt you,” he says, facing it head-on. “But as long as we don’t do it on purpose, would that be so bad? I mean, there’s a big difference between dickhead behavior and two people who gave something their best shot and just…fell short. Isn’t there?”

I press my lips together as I consider that.

I think about Christian, a lying sociopath who I’m pretty sure always had terrible things planned for me, right from the start.

I think about Chuck, who, deep down, I always knew was a dingus with the emotional maturity of a pet rock, but who I stuck with for far longer than I should have.

Mostly as a way to avoid both loneliness and the risk of a scary, long-term commitment at the same time.

And I think about Tanner, a good man whose love just happened to come along at the wrong time…

There’s pain when I think of all three, but with Tanner, the pain is bittersweet, beautiful, and precious in its own aching way.

I look up at Parker, at the second good man to want to be a part of my life.

I would be stupid to run away from this again. On some level, I realize that, but on another level…

“I think I might be stupid,” I confess. “Like, actually legitimately stupid.”

His lips hook up in a wry smile. “Because you’re thinking about telling me to hit the trail?”

“Maybe?” I squeak. “I don’t know. Just talking about this honestly has been scary. I feel like we’re in couples counseling, and we haven’t even fucked yet. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“You should get to come before you have to talk about your feelings,” he says, nodding as I hiss, “Yes!”

“Okay, then here’s what I think,” he says, pulling me close again. “I think we should sleep on it. Table any further discussion until tomorrow, when we’re sober and don’t have crustaceans on our heads.”

“I think that’s smart.”

“I have my moments.” He presses a kiss to my temple, soft and sweet.

“We’ve got that nice hotel tomorrow night.

With the hot tub on the balcony. I can make you come on my fingers in the hot tub, eat your pussy on a deck chair, and fuck you until you scream in the bed…

all before we say another word about feelings. ”

My cheeks flush hot. “Do I get to come every time?”

“Every time, or no further feelings talk required. Does that seem fair?”

“That seems very fair,” I say, fingers curling into his strong back as things low in my body begin to coil in anticipation. “Probably sexier to bang for the first time at a fancy hotel than in the back of your truck when we’re both sweaty and gross.”

“And we have to wake up and look people who have seen our truck rocking all night in the eye over bad campground coffee.”

“I brought stuff to make good coffee, but you have a point.” I nod, exhaling an easier breath. “Okay. So, we’ll put a pin in the real talk until tomorrow.”

And if I refuse to let myself come at least once tomorrow, maybe that pin lasts longer than a night…

“Until tomorrow.” He spins me in a slow circle that makes me feel even lighter. “Tonight, we’re the Mudbug Mating Call champions. And you know what that means.”

I grin. “No clue.”

“It means we have to take an obnoxious number of selfies in our sexy crowns.”

“And then ditch the crowns somewhere funny before we go to bed?” I ask. “I can’t see myself wanting to look at this monstrosity again, can you?”

“Fuck no,” he says. “Race you to the butter mudbug sculpture for selfie number one?”

I giggle. “No racing, psycho. I don’t race men in knee braces. But yeah, we’d better hurry. Before we lose the last of the daylight.”

We spend the next half hour taking progressively more unhinged selfies—in front of the butter sculpture, then by the stage where we put on our award-winning performances, then with Crawly, the giant stuffed crawfish in the beer tent.

By the time we’re done, we’re both laughing our asses off, just two idiots at a festival, goofing off and pretending tomorrow isn’t coming.

But it is.

Tomorrow always comes.

And when it does, I’ll have to decide if I’m brave enough to stop running from the one person who makes me want to stay.