Page 3 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Two

MAKENA

I ’m an idiot.

A soaking wet, mascara-streaked, nipples-still-hard-from-kissing-Parker idiot.

The cab drops me at the curb outside my building, and I splash through ankle-deep water in my kitten heels to get to the door, cursing beneath my breath.

This rain is really getting excessive. It was hot when Parker and I were kissing in it, but now it’s just wet and cold and making my toes slimy in my shoes.

Fuck.

I kissed Parker.

Again.

In the rain.

And it was crazy hot, and his cock felt like something truly special through his tuxedo pants, and he saw my nipple, and I wanted him to see a lot more. But I can’t sleep with a kid I used to babysit! That would be too weird, even for me, a person who enjoys weird.

But not that kind of weird.

Not dating people, I knew when they were children weird.

Even if he’s definitely not a child anymore…

Nope, he’s six feet of muscle and mischief wrapped in a rain-soaked shirt that clung to his abs in ways that should be illegal.

I fumble with my keys at the door, hands shaking from more than the cool rain.

I can’t remember the last time I was this horny. Probably the last time I made out with Leo Parker, dammit . I hate him. And I want him. And I hate how much I want him. It’s a sneaky lust-and-loathing spiral I never should have allowed to get started again.

I finally get the heavy, office-building door open and stumble into the lobby, which I share with a dry cleaner and a coffee shop that makes god-awful coffee, but solid banana bread.

(But not as good as mine, so I stopped making banana bread in the name of supporting another small business owner, even if Allan does have terrible taste in dark roast.)

The dim after-hours lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a shade of yellowed-tooth despair that always makes me long for daylight.

My restaurant, Hot Dish & Cheese, is dark behind the gate, all the tables and chairs stacked neatly against one wall, the counter clean and quiet in the shadows.

You’d never guess someone is squatting in the back.

I was careful to make sure the light I leave on until I head to bed is invisible from the outside, though the security cameras must have caught me rolling in at odd hours by now.

I never imagined I’d be able to pull off living in my storage area for this long.

Maybe the security team is just really bad at their job.

Or maybe they know how hard it is to launch a business these days and are turning a blind eye out of compassion.

Either way, this is home sweet home. All five hundred square feet of it—including the small seating area, the counter, the kitchen, and the corner where I sleep on a gymnastics mat tucked under the dry goods like some kind of culinary Cinderella.

Except instead of a fairy godmother, I have ten grand left to pay on my business loan and not even close to enough in savings to make an offer on a condo.

Even if the business continues to thrive, I’m looking at another six months of showering at the building gym at six a.m. on weekdays and doing without on the weekends, hiding my personal belongings in storage bins in the bathroom, and racing to toss my sleeping mat into the alley if I catch wind of a health inspector in the area.

I would be lying if I said I was looking forward to any of that, but I’m determined to claw my way back to where I was before my ex wrecked my finances, even if I have to sleep in a van down by the river.

And this is much better than a van…even if the workaholic investment people on the fifth floor show up at eight most mornings, forcing me to get up even earlier to shower and have breakfast sandwiches ready for them to snag on their way up to win at capitalism.

I unlock the padlock and lift the grate protecting my baby, leaving it open for once. It’s not like anyone’s coming into work on a Sunday in this weather. I’ll have plenty of time to shut things up tomorrow, and it will be nice to sleep without feeling like a caged animal.

As soon as I clear the counter and duck into the kitchen, I strip my dress over my head. There are no security cameras back here, and I can’t get out of this cursed object fast enough.

It’s beautiful and elegant, and I should be thankful Elly picked out a lovely bridesmaid dress that can double as a night out frock in the future.

Instead, I find myself a tiny bit irritated at my bestie for picking peach, a color she knows damned well brings out the blue of my eyes and the flush in my cheeks.

It’s almost like she was trying to ensure that Parker noticed me, and I noticed Parker in that sexy tux, and we ended up making out in an alley, even though I’ve told her multiple times that I’m firmly against dating Leo and was never going to kiss him again, not ever, not even if his were the last pair of lips on earth.

“Promises, promises.” I sigh, tossing the soggy satin and chiffon into the corner, promising myself I’ll figure out how to clean it in the morning.

As I move, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the darkened bathroom, a drowned rat of a woman in fancy underwear she had no business putting on if she truly intended to keep her clothes on.

“You’re an agent of chaos,” I mutter. “You were finally starting to forget about that first kiss, and then you had to go and kiss him again . It’s like you’re determined to make your life harder.”

My reflection doesn’t argue. She just stands there looking like a woman who makes excellent food and terrible decisions, especially when it comes to men.

First, I let my Probably Mr. Perfect For Me get away.

Then I married Christian, the sexy asshole who emptied my bank account, before divorcing him and going on to date every loser in the greater New Orleans area.

Now, I’m seriously thinking about grabbing my vibrator and fantasizing about the man I used to babysit before heading to bed.

I’m weak. Pathetic. And on the verge of fetching Mr. Buzzy from the bottom bin in the bathroom when I hear it…

A weird sloshing sound from the lobby.

It’s a wet, wrong sound, like something from a horror film. The sound the gloppy alien blob creature makes as it oozes across the tile on its way to make a meal of the dumb heroine prancing around in her underwear, thinking about boys…

Pulse spiking, I grab the nearest weapon—the mop still drying in the utility sink—and tiptoe toward the counter, wondering how the hell someone got in. The door locks automatically, and I would swear I pulled it closed behind me.

Slorsh. Slorsh…

The sound gets louder as I near the front. Then, I step out into the service area to see that it isn’t an alien blob creature oozing around in the building, after all.

It’s something much, much worse.

“Fuck my life,” I mutter, stomach sinking as I take in the water pouring in under the main doors and spreading out to fill the lobby.

It’s already several inches deep and rising fast. I stagger forward, jaw dropping as I get a better look outside. The street isn’t a street anymore. It’s a river, a literal river where twenty minutes ago a car pulled up to drop me off.

Cheesus Forking Christ, this is escalating quickly.

At this rate, there will be water in the restaurant in minutes.

In the restaurant, aka my home, the place where everything I own is currently stored…

“Shit!” Dropping the mop, I race into the back again, adrenaline spiking hard enough to banish the last of the three a.m. exhaustion.

My fancy knives from Paris! My grandmother’s recipe box!

The vintage vinyl record collection I just got back from my stupid ex-boyfriend, Chuck, two weeks ago!

The photo of me and my father at a daddy-daughter barbeque competition in third grade, before he decided my obsession with cooking was an embarrassment and a waste of the good grades I should have used to become a lawyer like him.

I grab a milk crate and start throwing things in, but it’s barely half full when water starts leaking into the kitchen.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, grabbing the bins with my clothes from the bathroom and using my stepladder to shove them atop the storage unit as fast as I can.

At this point in my life, I can’t afford to buy a completely new wardrobe. Or a new vibrator. Or new anything else, for that matter.

I get all three bins up, but by the time I step back to the floor after the third, the water is up to my ankles.

How is this happening so fast? At this rate, I’m going to have to run out of here wearing nothing but La Perla underwear bought at a time when my finances weren’t in the shitter.

I briefly consider heading back up the ladder to fetch something decent to wear and change, but fuck that.

My records are more important than my dignity.

“Not today, Satan,” I mutter, hefting the crate containing Joni Mitchell, The Doobie Brothers, and all my other precious vinyl goodies onto the highest shelf.

Next, I fill a larger crate with pots, pans, and my specialty spices.

My arms shake as I hoist it up, and I nearly tumble backward as the heavy weight leaves my hands.

I reach out to catch myself on the shelf.

It wobbles, I wobble, and for a split second, I think it’s over for both of us.

Thank God, it rocks back into place a beat later, but me and my shelf aren’t out of the woods yet.

The water is still rising—fast. By the time I get the box with all my legal documents shoved in beside everything else, it’s up to my waist, and I’m trembling all over from a mixture of cold and adrenaline.

It’s time.

Time to get the fuck out of here.

I wade toward the counter again, planning to exit the building and head up the stairs on the left side toward higher ground.

There’s a little terrace up there, where the smokers hang out after lunch.

I’m not sure if there’s a way to get out of downtown from there, but I should at least be safe from the floodwater while I call for help.

Call for help…