Page 32 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Nineteen

PARKER

I slide my phone back into my pocket, suddenly uneasy. The way Makena’s watching me after my dramatic reading makes my chest tight.

Maybe I should have kept the part about the vegetable sex to myself…

“But seriously,” I assure her, “you don’t have to ask her. Nix is a pain in the ass who goes home with a different woman every weekend. Sometimes two. At the same time.”

“Yeah, but this sounds different,” she says, clearly fighting a smile as she adds, “there was zucchini involved. What is zucchini if not the vegetable of love?”

I snort. “I don’t know. I’m not a veggies-in-the-bedroom kind of guy.”

Makena nods seriously. “Not surprising. Considering how fussy you are about your ass.”

I nudge her shoulder with mine as we start toward the downtown tourist center exit, tickets to another crab party in hand. “Hey, stop. Don’t tease me about my butt boundaries. I’m still kinky and sexy.”

She laughs. “You are. And I’m really wishing I’d let Elly give you my number when you first asked, so…let me text Charlotte later. I’ll see if she’s okay with me sharing her details.” She casts a warning glance my way. “But no promises.”

“Fair enough. Nix will survive if she says no.” I take her hand, lacing our fingers together like I’ve been doing it forever—natural as breathing.

“Obviously,” she says, “but Charlotte’s been avoiding second dates for a while now.

It might be good for her to have a two or three-night stand, ease her way back into the relationship pool.

She’s too awesome to give up on finding love forever.

” She sighs as we push through the door, “So, where to next?”

As we step outside, the heat hits like a wall.

Makena’s sundress, the yellow one with the fluffy skirt that makes her look like walking sunshine, immediately starts to cling.

I try not to stare at the way it outlines her breasts, but considering I watched her get dressed this morning, and know for a fact that she isn’t wearing a bra…

Well, I’ll probably be thinking about her breasts all day.

And I’m fine with that.

I’m over the moon about it, actually—because at the end of the day, I’m going to get to rip that dress off her hot little body and show her boobs just how much I missed them.

“I don’t know. I’m up for whatever.” I smile to myself as I pull her into the shade on the other side of the cute pedestrian area downtown.

I watched Makena get dressed this morning.

It still feels too good to be true. I would pinch myself, but I’m too busy holding her hand.

“That antique shop looks terrifying,” I add, nodding toward a window display of dolls that definitely eat children.

She hums appreciatively. “Sure does. Want to go get cursed?”

“Obviously.”

Inside, Granny Jezebel’s Attic smells like mothballs and dust with a side of moldering literature, courtesy of the used book section along the back wall.

Makena abandons me immediately for a corner full of ancient kitchen stuff, running her fingers over a cast-iron pan with seven round indentations like it’s made of gold.

“Oh my god, a Griswold aebleskiver pan,” she breathes. “This is old. Like, really old.”

The price tag says three hundred dollars. For something that looks like a torture device for golf balls. “We should get it.”

She snorts. “With what money?”

“My money. Our money. Whatever.”

“No, Parker.” She traces one of the round wells with her finger. “We’re not having the money talk when we’re actively being hunted by cursed dolls.”

I know she’s kidding, but I can’t help glancing over my shoulder, reassuring myself that the dolls are still in the window where we left them.

When I turn back, she’s grinning, clearly pleased with herself.

“You’re such a brat,” I whisper, pinching her hip through her dress.

She giggles.

“So, when are we having the money talk, then?” I press, not ready to let the subject go. I know she won’t let me buy her a food truck or anything extravagant, but I’m in the position to drop money on supplies without thinking twice.

“I don’t know. When I have an actual income again?

” But she’s still fondling the pan with enough lust to make me a little jealous.

“This would actually be a great idea for a food truck menu, though. I could have the batters pre-made and do small batches of sweet and savory things. Beignet balls without the deep fryer. Shrimp and grit balls on a bed of lettuce with remoulade.”

“And you could name the truck Eat My Balls.”

She snorts. “Makena’s Got Balls.”

“Ballin’ Dirty on the Bayou.”

“Actually, Bayou Balls isn’t the worst—” She stops herself, holding up a hand in the air, fingers spread. “I’m not going to name a food truck after one item on the menu. And three hundred dollars is crazy. Especially considering I have to replace my entire copper skillet set. Moving on.”

“Makena, seriously, I’m happy to?—”

“Nope,” she cuts in, wandering away. “We’ll talk about it when we get home.”

The way she says ‘home’ like it’s ours makes my chest fill with a warm, hopeful ache.

Fuck, is it finally happening? Is she finally done fighting how meant-to-be it is with us? After eight months of chasing this woman, it’s hard to relax my guard.

A part of me wants to ask, flat out, if she’ll move in for good.

Instead, I pick up a ceramic cat with human teeth. “Should I get this for Nix? As a warning to keep his clothes on in my hot tub, or the demon cat will bite his junk off?”

She laughs, that bright, holding-nothing-back sound that hits me right in the solar plexus. “God, that’s disturbing. And yes, you absolutely should. Twelve dollars is a bargain for a gag gift of that caliber.”

We wander the rest of the store, making up stories about the artifacts. The hand mirror that has a ghost trapped inside. The desk where a pharmacist cut cocaine with baby powder during Prohibition. Then Makena finds an old tin sign, rust bleeding through red letters that spell “Café.”

She traces the letters with one finger. “Do I really have it in me to do this again? To build something from the ground up with no idea what I’m doing?”

“You know what you’re doing,” I assure her. “You just have to learn how to do it on wheels, and the hungry people will come running.”

She looks up at me, her gaze soft. Vulnerable. “You really think so?”

“I know so. You’re Makena fucking DeWitt. You’re going to have lines around the block. No doubt in my mind.”

Something cracks open in her expression, and before I know it, she’s kissing me—right here, between the murder dolls and dusty spoons.

When she presses closer, I feel it everywhere, a fuse lit low in my spine. Her fingers curl in my shirt, and her breath hitches against my mouth. It’s not just a kiss—it’s a confession. A question.

One I’m ready to answer.

When she pulls back, I let the words I’ve been holding in pour out, “Be my girlfriend. Live with me. Let me help you with your business. Let me let you help me help you help me learn how to be the best partner you’ve ever had. Just…let’s do it. Fuck it.”

Her eyes go wide.

“Going slow is dumb,” I add, apparently unable to shut my mouth now that I’ve opened it.

“And you said yourself that you wished you’d given me your number eight months ago.

Do you really want to be another eight months down the line, kicking yourself for missing out on all the fun and hot sex we could have had if we’d been under the same roof that entire time? ”

Her lips curve, slowly at first, but when the smile takes hold, it’s the best smile I’ve ever seen. A fearless, hopeful, “I’m falling in love with you, too” smile that’s just for me. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I ask, exhaling in a rush. “Yeah? You’re moving in for real?”

She nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

A grin bursts across my face. Still, I try to play it cool. “Well…good. That sounds good.”

“You’re funny,” she says, laughing as she sways closer.

I wrap my arms tighter around her. “Yeah? Why? I wasn’t joking. For once.”

She nods, her smile fading. “I know. Not funny ha ha . Funny like…” She trails off, cocking her head thoughtfully before she continues in a softer voice, “I like that you’re not as confident as you play it. I like that this scares you a little bit, too. It makes me feel less alone.”

“You’re not alone,” I murmur. “I think all the big things in life are a little scary. It’s how you know you’re doing something important.”

“And real,” Makena adds.

“Is it wrong that I really want to take you back to the room and wreck you before we get dressed for the party?”

Holding my gaze with a heat that makes my cock perk up and take notice, she shakes her head slowly side to side. “No, that’s not wrong. That’s the rightest thing I’ve heard in a while, actually. Why don’t you pay for that nightmare cat, and we can get out of here?”

“Fuck the nightmare cat,” I say, setting the monster back on the closest shelf and taking Mack’s hand. “Let’s go, F.C.”

The elderly owner watches us leave with an expression that says she knows exactly what we’re planning to do with our afternoon.

Back at the hotel, the elevator ride feels endless. Makena keeps touching me—fingertips on my wrist, palm against my lower back, her hip bumping mine. Each contact sends heat straight to my cock.

“Stop that,” I mutter.

“Stop what?” All innocence, but her hand’s sliding into my front pocket now, brushing against where things are already getting obscene.

“You know what.”

The doors open. Thank God.

Inside our room, she kicks off her sandals and heads straight for the bed, pulling her sundress over her head as she walks. No bra. White lace underwear. All mine.

Finally, mine.

I follow her, still not quite able to believe this is real.

When I meet her beside the bed, she reaches for me, but I catch her hands. Hold them. Feel her pulse fluttering under my thumbs.

“What?” she whispers.

“I just want you to know, I don’t plan on fucking this up.”

She sobers. “Me, either. I’m pretty committed to not fucking it up, actually.”