Page 34 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Twenty

MAKENA

O ur audiobook for the drive is killer. David Sedaris is a genius, and by the time we reach the part about his evil Parisian French teacher, I’m laughing so hard my ribs hurt.

Parker glances over at me with a satisfied smile, as if my giggles are a personal victory.

“The teacher called someone a ‘dirty toilet’? Really?” I gasp.

“In front of the whole class,” Parker confirms, grinning as he takes the exit for Oxford. “But don’t worry, David gets vengeance. Eventually.”

I wipe tears from my eyes, catching my breath.

“And I thought my French teacher in high school was awful. At least she never called me a dirty toilet.” I huff again.

“Though, honestly, my French was so bad, she could have, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Thank God my pastry courses in Paris were taught in English.

” I shrug. “And butter and sugar are a universal language.”

“They sure are,” Parker agrees. “Speaking of, pass me another gas station gluten-free donut.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Ew.”

“Stop judging me,” he says as I pass the bag over. “If you’re too snobby to eat them, someone has to do it.”

“Do they?” I ask, arching a judgy brow.

But he just grins and tears into a stale old-fashioned with the enthusiasm of a man who appears to be able to eat all the junk food he wants without gaining a pound. Nope. His body is a temple to physical perfection…and I can’t wait to worship at it again tonight.

I sigh, grinning at the flat, Mississippi landscape zipping by outside.

We’ve been on the road for hours, and I haven’t thought about insurance claims or flood damage or even the increasingly exciting prospect of opening my own food truck once. The day has just been this—Parker’s smile, stories so funny they make us wheeze, and the easy rhythm we’ve found.

“Okay, audiobook break for real-life story time,” Parker says, reaching over to turn off the stereo as he takes the exit for Oxford. “I need to prepare you for Nana.”

My chin tucks back into my neck. “Prepare me? Why? What kind of preparation does your grandmother require? I thought this was the family member you actually like.”

“I do. She’s the best,” he says. “She’s just absolutely and completely full of shit. Eighty-two, but acts twenty-two. Never met a raunchy joke she wouldn’t tell you. Twice. Specializes in nosy questions. Has zero patience for dumb rules or dumb people or anyone getting in the way of the fun.”

I hum beneath my breath. “Interesting. Sounds like someone else I know.”

He winks. “Well, at least you know I came by it honestly. Just don’t expect some sweet Southern lady with good manners. Even her crochet is obscene.” At the edge of downtown, he turns onto a tree-lined street, where the houses are old and grand and dripping with Southern Gothic charm.

“Obscene crochet?” I ask.

“She crochets penis cozies.”

I blink. “She what now?”

“Dick cozies. Cock socks. Willy warmers.” His grin widens at my no doubt stunned expression. “She sells them at craft fairs. Says old ladies need hobbies that make young people uncomfortable.”

“I already love her,” I say, grinning.

“Yeah, you will.” He reaches over, giving my thigh an affectionate squeeze. “She’s going to love you, too.”

We pull into a driveway bordered by azaleas gone wild, the house rising before us like a Victorian fever dream—purple and green, with peeling golden accents.

Dozens of wind chimes made from forks and spoons tinkle from the wraparound porch.

A sign by the door reads “Ring Bell and Run Like Hell,” and there’s a statue in the front yard that could be a woman’s silhouette or a middle finger.

It’s hard to tell, and I’m pretty sure that’s the point.

I pull in a breath, suddenly wondering if I’m going to be cool enough for this woman.

“Welcome to Nana’s house.” Parker cuts the engine. “Ready?”

Before I can answer, the front door flies open. A tiny woman in paint-splattered overalls and combat boots emerges, white hair piled in a messy bun secured with chopsticks. Or…paintbrushes?

“Leo Parker, my baby boy!” she hollers. “Get your ass up here and hug your Nana before I die of old age!”

The joy on Parker’s face makes my chest ache. Aw, he really loves his grandma, and it’s maybe the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. He’s out of the truck and up the steps faster than a man in a knee brace should move, catching her in a hug that lifts her off her feet.

“Careful with the goods,” she squawks, but she’s clinging to him like she’s never going to let go. “These bones are vintage.”

I climb out more slowly, wanting to give them some privacy for their reunion. But when Nana’s eyes land on me over Parker’s shoulder, her face lights up for me the same way Parker’s did for her.

“Makena! Welcome!” She extracts herself from her grandson’s arms and marches down the steps with surprising speed. “Christ on a cracker, you’re even prettier than Parker said you were. Come here, honey, and get yourself a hug. I’m Chaz, Parker’s nana.”

She pulls me into a hug that smells like linseed oil and vanilla. I return the tight embrace, earning a chuckle of approval. “Atta girl,” she murmurs against my ear. “Love a woman who doesn’t hold back in a hug.”

When she pulls back, her eyes—the same blue as Parker’s—study my face for a long beat. Whatever she sees makes her nod.

“Yep. This’ll do nicely.” She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward the house. “Come on, babies. Let’s get you fed. Parker, go grab y’alls bags. I’ll see how many embarrassing things I can tell Makena about you before you get back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, shooting me a look that says told you so and you okay? at the same time.

I nod, letting Nana lead me up the steps. And there, draped over the porch railing like the world’s most inappropriate welcome mat: a massive, rainbow-colored crocheted penis.

“That’s Herbert,” Nana says conversationally. “He usually lives on the wood stove in the summer, but I like to air him out every now and then.”

I nod. “Of course you do.”

“See?” She pats my hand. “I knew you’d fit right in.”

The inside of the house is even better. Walls painted colors that shouldn’t work together but do—coral and turquoise, butter yellow and plum.

Art everywhere: sculptures made from more kitchen utensils, paintings of nude women eating cake that I instantly want for my food truck, and a mobile constructed entirely from vintage bras.

“So, Parker said you were a chef?” Nana says, leading me through a living room where every surface holds something strange and wonderful. “Thank goodness. Maybe you’ll finally get that boy to eat a vegetable.”

“He’s very open to vegetables,” I say, still taking it all in. A papier maché armadillo wearing a tutu stares at me from a bookshelf, and I decide I might need one of those, too. “He has a garden in his backyard, my friend Charlotte is watering for us while we’re gone and everything.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear. Good to hear.” We enter the kitchen—olive green cabinets, checkered floor, herbs growing in mismatched pots along every windowsill. “Now, pimento cheese sandwiches. You know how to make a proper one?”

“I’m from New Orleans, too,” I say. “We know our way around mayonnaise.”

She cackles. “Oh, I like you. Parker, get over here and grab the good cheese from the fridge. We’ll whip up something tasty to take the edge off before supper.”

What follows is one of the best cooking sessions of my life.

I’m not usually a fan of sharing a kitchen, but we move around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times, chatting and laughing, blending ingredients like magic.

It’s warm and easy, and the tomato Nana grabbed from her own garden this morning smells like a spicy piece of heaven.

“Out to the porch,” she commands once our sandwiches are assembled. “It’s too nice to eat inside. Makena, grab that pitcher of sweet tea. Parker, the bourbon’s in the sideboard.”

“Bourbon with lunch?” I tease.

“Honey, I’m eighty-two. I’ll have bourbon with my cereal if I please.”

The porch wraps around three sides of the house, furnished with mismatched wicker. We settle around a circular table with vintage erotica shellacked onto the surface, and I fall a little deeper in love.

“Now then,” Nana says, splashing bourbon into our tea. “Tell me how you two finally got together.”

Parker launches into the story about the wedding, the flood, the rescue, and the decision to be roommates. “And then I charmed her panties off,” he finishes with a wink my way that makes me blush.

I laugh. “He did. I was helpless to resist.”

“As you should be.” Nana takes a bite of her sandwich, humming her approval. “Though I have to say, it took you long enough. He’s been mooning over you since October.”

“Hush,” Parker says.

“What? It’s true,” she huffs.

“Thankfully, I came to my senses in the nick of time,” I cut in, saving Parker from further embarrassment.

After that, the conversation flows like bourbon-spiked tea—loose and easy and occasionally wild.

Nana tells us about the time she hit a handsy sculpture professor with a stale baguette (“Gave him a lump the size of my fist. They don’t make bread like they used to.

”) Parker shares some of our stories from the road, including our brave, witching hour battle with Crawford the crawfish.

Then, I tell Nana about the restaurant, the issue with my flood insurance, and my mixture of excitement and terror at the thought of starting over.

She listens with her whole body before reaching over to pat my hand. “Starting over’s not the worst thing. Did it myself in my fifties. That’s when I met Dorothy.”

“Nana’s second marriage,” Parker supplies. “After my grandpa passed.”

“Oh, yeah?” I fight to hide my surprise, but my brows must have slid up a little.