Page 27 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

“I can’t, I’m looking for signs.”

“Signs?”

“The universe will tell us what kind of day we’re going to have through music. Like yesterday. Willie Nelson foretold safe road-tripping and success in eating crawdaddies and drinking beer.”

Parker grins. “He really did. Yesterday was fun.”

“It was,” I agree, pulse spiking as I finally find a classic rock station, just as Journey kicks in. “But today might be even better! ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ is an excellent sign!”

“Hell yeah, it is,” he says, thumb tapping on the wheel. “Turn it up.”

I do, and we sing along, Parker belting out the chorus in a very decent baritone, while I wail in Suffering-Animal-Alto, as usual, but he doesn’t seem to care. He barely winces as I draw “feelin’” out into half a dozen notes that end in a bizarre squeaking sound.

Yep, he might really be The One.

How wild.

And unexpected.

And…right?

A couple of hours in, we stop for gas, then get back on the highway, the road stretching out before us, blacktop shimmering in the heat.

We play Twenty Questions, but keep forgetting what number we’re on.

Parker points out weird billboards—there’s an alarming number about the need to repent in advance of the impending apocalypse—and I praise the weird names of the tiny towns we zip past on our way south.

The truck’s cab feels like our own little world, cool and easy, separate from the heat outside and the complicated things waiting for us back home.

We stop for lunch at a place that looks like it might give us food poisoning but smells like heaven. The building lists slightly to the left, and paint peels off the sign in thick ribbons, but the parking lot’s full of semi-trucks, which is always a good sign.

Inside, the waitress is approximately a thousand years old, moving with the careful dignity of someone who’s been pouring coffee since Moses was in diapers. Her name tag says “Dotty,” and she calls us both “sugar” every other sentence.

“Y’all want separate checks, sugar?” she asks after we’ve ordered, her pen poised over her pad.

“Nah, I got it,” Parker says, his knee bumping mine under the table.

“He’s got it, sugar,” I say, keeping a straight face as I add, “he’s my sugar daddy.”

Parker chokes on his water, but Dotty doesn’t miss a beat.

“Good for you, sugar. Hard to find a man these days who pays.” She winks at me before shuffling off to the kitchen.

“Sugar daddy?” Parker wheezes when he can breathe again.

“Would you prefer glucose guardian?”

“I’m six years younger than you, brat,” he says, reaching down to swat my thigh beneath the table.

“Details, details,” I murmur, thoughts spiraling back to the way he swatted my ass in The Brass Monkey’s bathroom. And how much I want him to do it again.

Maybe tonight…

The promise of what’s to come lingers in the air between us, making every innocent touch feel electric.

The food arrives on plates so full they require careful navigation. I moan over the fried oysters—crispy outside, briny inside, with a kick-ass house-made remoulade. Parker moans over the gumbo—rich and dark with a complex flavor that proves no steps were skipped in its execution.

The couple at the next table shifts uncomfortably, the woman clearing her throat as we exchange bites, moaning anew in appreciation.

“We should probably keep it down,” I whisper, leaning across the cracked vinyl booth.

“Never,” Parker whispers back. “I refuse to be moan-shamed. We should order the pie, too. Any excuse to put off getting back on the road. Whose idea was it to do a seven-hour drive after camping?”

“That was your idea,” I remind him. “You said you didn’t want to stop too close to home because, and I quote, it felt stupid and dumb.”

He grunts. “Yeah, that sounds like me.”

“But I could drive for a while if that helps,” I offer. “And we could try to find a place to stop and stretch our legs before we get there.”

“Smart and intelligent,” he says, pointing his spoon my way. “Which is the opposite of stupid and dumb.”

“So, I’ve heard,” I tease, pulling out my phone to search for tourist-y stuff close to the highway.

We decide on a fancy estate built by some Coca-Cola baron in the 1920s and hit the road, but not before mouth orgasming over a shared piece of peach pie.

Bellingrath Gardens is the kind of place I would usually make fun of. Every blade of grass is manicured within an inch of its life, and you can’t walk three feet without encountering a plaque explaining a flower like it’s a historical figure.

“This rose is called Sexy Rexy,” Parker reads in his tour guide voice. “Known for being sexy. And distantly related to the T-rex.”

“You lie.”

“About the T-Rex, yes. But that’s actually its name.”

I lean over, seeing he’s right. “Huh, a compact bush,” I read, “originally cultivated in New Zealand.”

“You’re a compact bush,” Parker observes, earning a snort from me.

“Thanks. I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” he says, taking my hand as we wander on, under oaks draped with Spanish moss.

We decide to skip the tour of the home itself in the name of getting back on the road.

If we’re going to make it to Mobile in time to check in and get down to the beach for the “crab yeeting” watch party later, we need to make tracks.

Back in the truck, blessed AC washing over us, I realize just how relaxed my shoulders feel. I can’t remember the last time something in my neck or upper arms didn’t ache—usually from the stress of running a solo operation, not the actual labor of cooking all day.

It makes me wonder if maybe the flood was a blessing in disguise. Running a food truck would be a lot less work than keeping up a big counter-service location. And the more I think about it, the more the idea of being mobile feels exciting.

“You’re quiet,” Parker observes a few minutes later.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Usually,” I agree with a laugh. “But not this time. I’m actually feeling…

good. Hopeful. My condo fund would probably be enough to buy a food truck flat out.

And I’m used to sleeping in small spaces.

I could camp in the cab until I was able to build up my housing fund again.

And the next time it looks like it might flood, I can just hop in the truck and drive my business out of danger. ”

“Or you could just keep living with your best friend, Parker,” he says, casually. “And park your sexy food truck in his big ass driveway.”

“What if the food truck isn’t sexy?” I ask.

“Then you have to pay to park it,” he says seriously, without missing a beat. “Those are the rules. Only sexy trucks get to park for free. But I know you—it’ll be sexy. Like one of those curvy vintage-style trucks. You have excellent taste.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling as I slide lower in my seat. “Yours isn’t bad, either. Our hotel tonight looks swanky.”

“I just hope the shower pressure is fierce,” he says. “Campground showers leave me feeling dirty. I need a real shower with real tile and no need to wear flip-flops while I’m washing up.”

“Agreed,” I say, doing my best not to think about how we’ll be showering.

Separately?

Together?

How serious was he about the hot tub, then the chaise lounge, then the bed?

I guess I’m about to find out…

Mobile’s skyline rises from the haze like Oz, all glass and promise. My stomach does a little flutter that has nothing to do with the side effects of all those fried oysters and everything to do with the conversation we’ve been dancing around since we left the campground.

A right turn and a couple of lefts toward the ocean later, the hotel materializes from behind a screen of palm trees.

The valet who takes the truck is too professional to comment on my “spent last night battling a crawfish in one-hundred percent humidity” hair, but I catch him glancing at the thinly controlled chaos in the truck bed.

Parker tips him well enough to ensure amnesia, and we carry our own bags inside a lobby that smells of perfumed luxury and a hint of grilled seafood.

It’s only four-thirty, but the old folks eat early, and there are plenty of old folks puttering through the lobby or on their way in from the golf course.

All of them look less like refugees from the Land of the Lost than Parker and I do with our fuzzy hair and wrinkled clothes.

“We should tidy up before we go looking for dinner,” I mutter as we join the check-in line. “Do you think they’ll let us in? I’ve never stayed anywhere this fancy before.”

He grins. “I have a credit card and a reservation. They’ll let us in.”

They do. The desk clerk’s smile doesn’t even flicker at our disheveled state. She hands over key cards in a little envelope, wishes us a pleasant stay, and we’re on our way to the elevator.

To potentially the last elevator I will ever ride before I’ve also ridden Parker’s cock.

My pulse spikes at the thought.

Shit. I really don’t want to mess this up, and sometimes sex messes things up. The first time with a new partner can be awkward. Especially stone cold sober, in the bright light of a summer afternoon, with nowhere to hide from the fact that you’re doing the damn thing.

Parker takes my hand.

His palm is a little sweaty.

Somehow, that helps.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispers.

“I’m not,” I lie. “But if you are, we can wait until later. When it’s dark and we’ve had mixed drinks at the crab party. Like normal people.”

“I don’t want to be normal,” he murmurs. “I want to be with you, weirdo.”

I arch a brow at him, fighting a smile. “I’m touched.”

“You should be,” he says as we step off the elevator on the tenth floor. A few steps later, we’re pushing into one of the suites and…wow.

Our room is fucking amazing.

A massive bed dominates the space, big enough to require its own GPS. The bathroom door stands open, revealing a tub that could double as a small pool. And yes, through the sliding doors is our balcony—with that jacuzzi I’ve been thinking about for the past hundred miles.

Late afternoon sun streams in, making everything glow.

I drop my suitcase and turn, my heart in my throat. “So, I?—”

Before I can finish, his mouth is on mine, cutting me off with a kiss. His lips are rough and wild and certain, as if all his patience is finally gone, evaporated in the heat between us. His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as he devours me like he’s been starving for this.

Starved for me .

His tongue strokes against mine, setting me on fire.

“Shower,” he says against my lips, one hand sliding down beneath the hem of my dress, brushing hot over my thigh. “I need you in that shower. Now.”

“Parker—”

“I’ve been good.” His teeth graze my neck, making me gasp. “So, fucking good. I don’t want to be good anymore, do you?”

“Hell no,” I say, fingers fumbling with his belt.

Before I can get him loose, I’m airborne, his hands cupped under my ass as he lifts me into the air, guiding my legs around his waist. My thigh brushes against his brace as he spins toward the bathroom—a reminder of everything we’ve been through, of just how far he was willing to go to be there for me.

And now, I’m finally ready to be there, too.

For him, with him—ready for the fire and the fall and however this cookie crumbles.