Page 36 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Twenty-One

PARKER

T he Oxford Sausage Festival hits different when you’re stupid in love.

I’ve been coming to this thing since I was a kid, back when my parents’ marriage was held together by passive aggression and spite.

It was always one of the highlights of the summer, but I’ve never noticed how the morning light turns the whole town square golden.

How the smell of grilled meat, apple fritters, and magnolia blossoms combine to create an irresistible perfume, or the genuine warmth between neighbors calling out to each other as they flood the streets.

It’s nice, sharing this with Makena, seeing it through her eyes.

But then, everything is more fun with her around.

Her eyes go wide as we turn the corner, and the town square comes fully into view. “Holy shit, Parker. You didn’t tell me it would be this…”

“Insane?” I supply, as she takes in the chaos. There are food and merch booths everywhere, local bands warming up on the stages, and approximately seventeen thousand sausage-themed decorations bobbing in the breeze.

Most of them are inflatable.

“Magnificent,” she breathes, pointing to a twenty-foot inflatable bratwurst. “Reminds me of you.”

I laugh, she beams up at me, and my chest squeezes tight. It’s like my ribs are trying to lock my heart down before it leaps from my chest, but it’s too late. It’s already yeeted itself to the ground at her feet like a suicidal crab.

“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. “Let’s get you properly introduced to Oxford’s finest meats.”

“Pretty sure I already met that last night, but please do,” she murmurs, her commitment to making jokes about my cock proving we’re meant to be.

We dive into the crowd, her fingers laced tight with mine.

The festival’s already in full swing. Old men man their grills in aprons that say things like “Grill Sergeant” and “Sausage King,” and Nana’s art friends hold court near the mimosa tent, already hard at work getting three sheets to the wind.

“Parker!” A familiar face in a tie-dyed muumuu waves from a table at the edge of the tent’s seating area. “Leo Parker, you gorgeous thing! Chaz said you were in town. Glad you’re here. Been too long, honey. And who’s this with you?”

“Hey, Miss Eugenia,” I call back, nodding Mack’s way. “This is Makena, my girlfriend.”

The word still feels new in my mouth.

New and electric and perfect.

Makena waves hello, and Miss Eugenia clutches her chest dramatically. “Lord. The two of you. It’s too much pretty at once. Welcome to Oxford, Makena. You two take good care of each other today, okay? Don’t let Chastity get you in any trouble.”

“Will do, Miss Eugenia,” I promise, as we walk on.

“Chastity?” Makena hisses. “Chaz is short for Chastity?”

I laugh. “Right? Talk about irony.”

“But kind of great, too,” she says as we move deeper into the festival. “It adds to the legend of Nana.”

We stop at the first booth—Big Jim’s Fried Pies—and I watch Makena’s face as she takes her first bite. Her eyes flutter closed, a moan escaping that threatens to make my cock twitch despite the public, family-friendly setting.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “That’s obscene. What’s in this?”

“Family secret,” Big Jim says, grinning wide enough to show his gold tooth. “But it involves sweet potato, bourbon, a dangerous amount of cinnamon, and my special vanilla syrup.”

The filling’s still molten, and Makena’s doing this thing with her tongue to avoid burning it, that’s making me want to kiss her.

But then, what doesn’t?

“I need at least two more,” she announces, already reaching for her daisy-print fanny pack.

“Slow down, F.C.,” I say, catching her hand. “We have ten more booths to hit. Minimum. You gotta pace yourself.”

She pouts, her lips pushing into a puffy little pillow, and that’s it. I have no choice but to kiss her. Right there, in front of Big Jim and the shadow of the twenty-foot bratwurst.

“Keep it in your pants, children,” a familiar voice says. We break apart to find Nana beside us in her red skirt, a shirt that says “I Put the SASS in SAUSAGE,” and rhinestone-studded sunglasses.

“Well, well,” I tease. “Someone’s finally up and at ‘em.”

“I’ll wake up early when I’m dead,” she says. “But good thing I got here when I did. There was only one place left on the sign-up list, and clearly, you two are destined for greatness in the kissing contest.”

“Kissing contest?” Makena asks, as warning bells go off in my head.

“Nana, you didn’t,” I say, experiencing a flashback to the time she and Dorothy put on quite a show at the kissing contest when I was ten. Way too much grandma tongue on display that day.

Pretty sure I’ve never blushed that hard, before or since.

Her grin turns wicked. “You ever know me to lie about something as important as a contest with a commemorative t-shirt as a prize?”

Before I can tell her what a pain in the ass she is sometimes, a man’s voice booms across the square, “Leo Parker and Makena DeWitt to the main stage, please. Leo and Makena to the main stage for the Sausage and Sizzle Challenge.”

“Get going,” Nana says, pushing us in that direction. “And do me proud. I want to see tongue. And don’t be afraid to get a little handsy, the crowd loves that.”

Makena’s laughing as we’re herded through the press of people already gathering for the show. “So, we just take turns kissing? Is that all?”

“You’ll see,” Nana says as we reach the stairs.

I take Mack’s hand, silently apologizing as we climb the stage to join the ten couples already assembled behind the MC, a man in lederhosen who goes by “Hubba Bubba” and takes his festival duties very seriously.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hubba booms, “welcome to the Sausage and Sizzle Challenge! Now, for any of you newcomers, who might not know how this works…”

He gestures to a table laden with sausages on sticks.

“First, our couples will feed each other a selection of our town’s finest sausages, earning points for speed, technique, and entertainment value. Then…” He pauses dramatically. “We’ll move on to the kiss-off. Best overall in both divisions wins the grand prize!”

The crowd cheers. Nana shouts something about getting handsy again, that makes me roll my eyes as I turn to Makena, “You okay with this?” I murmur. “If not, we can bail.”

She looks up at me, her eyes shining. “Are you kidding? I get to feed you sausage on a stick and then make out with you? Sounds like a good time to me.”

God, I love this woman.

I do. I really do.

“Couples, take your positions!” Hubba announces as the background track begins to play, a rollicking polka that adds to the absurdity.

We line up with the others. To our left are an unusually uptight-looking pair in khakis and short-sleeve shirts buttoned all the way to the top, who look like they might practice synchronized kissing. To our right are two teenagers who definitely snuck beer before noon and can’t stop giggling.

So far, I’m liking our chances of taking this thing home.

“And…begin!” Hubba blasts his air horn, and Makena grabs an andouille on a stick with a determination that’s arousing.

And a little scary.

“Open up, baby, and take this gorgeous sausage down,” she says, loud enough for the front few rows of people to hear.

The crowd loses it.

I open my mouth, maintaining eye contact as she feeds me. It’s ridiculous. And juvenile. And weirdly hot.

Kind of like us.

When I’m done, we switch up, and I feed her a chorizo. Then, she feeds me kielbasa, both of us playing it up for the crowd, but also just enjoying each other. Though when her lips close around the salami with a moan, I confess I start to sweat a little.

“End of round one!” Frank calls in the nick of time. “Clear the sausage tables! It’s time for the main event! All right, couples, get ready to show your honey how much you love ‘em.”

The khaki couple assumes what can only be described as a pole-up-the-ass kissing stance—rigid, proper, like they’re about to perform vertical CPR.

“How do you want to play this?” Makena asks, stepping close.

“Like everything else,” I say, sliding my hand into her hair. “All in. My big ass balls to the wall.”

She grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“Couples ready?” Hubba blasts his air horn again as he shouts, “And kiss!”

Makena’s arms twine around my neck, and we crash into each other, laughing hard enough that our teeth knock together.

Then, her mouth opens beneath mine, and she starts kissing me like she means it.

Like we’ve got nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.

Her tongue slides against mine, and the noise of the crowd disappears.

I tighten my grip in her hair, and she makes a soft, eager sound—half breath, half moan—that lights up every nerve in my body.

Soon, we’re veering into Not Safe for Work territory, her fingers digging into the back of my neck as I glue her curvy body to mine.

My heart slams in my chest, and I don’t care that everyone’s watching.

I don’t care about anything but the way she’s kissing me back—hungry, happy, and all the way in.

Eventually, somebody whistles.

Nana shouts, “Get it, babies! Never been prouder!”

And then the air horn screams out the end of the second round.

Makena grins against my mouth, and I kiss her again, because I can.

“And we have a winner!” Hubba’s voice breaks through the cheers and whistles, pulling us from our kiss-drunk haze.

“Leo Parker and Makena DeWitt are this year’s Sausage and Sizzle champions.

By unanimous agreement from the crowd…and the fact that everyone else stopped kissing a full minute ago.

Come up for air, kids. You’re making the sausage blush. ”

We finally break apart, laughing and breathing hard. As we turn to wave at the crowd, they go feral, cheering loud enough to make my eardrums ring.

“Holy shit,” Makena breathes. “First crawdad mating call champions and now this? Can this road trip get any better?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t think it can.”