Page 46 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

NIX

Charlotte’s backyard looks like a classy wedding planner’s vision board mated with a honky-tonk, but somehow it works.

String lights zigzag between the oak trees, but instead of those dainty fairy things you see at fancy weddings, these are big Edison bulbs that actually put out light.

Burlap table runners pair nicely with expensive-looking linen, mason jars in all the colors of the rainbow wait lined up beside the beer kegs, and the photo booth props are a fun mix of vintage costume pieces, cowboy hats, and fake moustaches.

A three-piece band is set up near the back fence—steel guitar, fiddle, and a drummer who’s definitely seen some shit—playing old country covers that have even Blue, the most stoic man I’ve ever met, tapping his feet.

Makena’s new food truck is parked outside the gate like a beacon of grease and glory, her new employees dishing out plates that smell like heaven.

I’ve already demolished six brisket ball thingies and am about to dig into my seventh, when Parker sidles up next to me, his “stupid in love” grin plastered across his face.

“You’re going to eat yourself into a coma. Here, let me help you out,” he says, snagging my final ball and popping it into his mouth before I can protest.

“What an asshole you are,” I say, nudging him in the ribs before laying a hand on my belly with a sigh. “But you’re right. I have to stop if I’m going to have room for dessert.”

“You have to save room for dessert,” Parker says around his mouthful of brisket. “The chocolate cake is going to blow your fucking mind.” He nods toward the party, swallowing before he asks, “You okay? Having fun? You’ve been over here in the corner for a while.”

“Yeah, totally, just a little tired tonight,” I lie, pretending I haven’t been deliberately lying low, hiding from the party’s hostess.

But I should have known better.

Parker and Makena both know too much about my history with Charlotte to believe I’m playing wallflower at their engagement party because training camp kicked my ass this week.

“You sure?” Parker presses. “You don’t have to hide from Charlotte. We checked to make sure she was okay with having you here before we invited you to the party. She’s cool with you. No worries.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie again before hurrying to change the subject. “And the party’s great. You two look happy.”

“So happy, man. You have no idea.” His grin goes soft as he shifts his gaze Makena’s way.

She’s dancing with Elly, Grammercy’s wife, and some of their other friends over by the band.

She twirls in the grass, wearing a white sundress and flowers in her hair that make her look like a hippy bride on her wedding day.

“I can’t wait to marry the shit out of that woman.

We’re thinking December, winter wedding somewhere on Bourbon Street. You in to be a groomsman?”

“Yeah, man,” I say, touched. “I’d be honored. Thanks.”

He knocks his shoulder against mine. “Cool. And don’t worry about the disciplinary meeting next week, okay? Grammercy’s already said he’s willing to go to bat for you. I can put in a good word, too, if they want?—”

“Nope.” I cut him off before he can finish. “We’re not talking about my shit tonight. This is your party.”

It is, and he deserves a chance to celebrate.

Not just the engagement, but his comeback from an injury that would have permanently sidelined a lot of athletes.

Or at least had them benched for a season.

But just three and a half months after his injury, Parker’s damned near as good as new.

The brace is off, he’s added skating into his PT program, and the team doc cleared him for full practice next week.

He should be back in the game-play rotation by the opening game.

I’m happy for him. I really am.

I just hope I’m still on the ice with him next month and not benched myself for being a fucking hothead.

But I can’t control what the universe dishes out, only how I respond to it. Though I probably should have responded with a little more self-control last weekend, when I put a wife-beating piece of shit in the hospital after I caught him punching a woman half his size behind the club…

But at least his wife seemed grateful. She sent me a thank-you card and a photo from her new apartment via social media. She finally worked up the strength to leave the bastard while he was in the emergency room, being treated for internal bleeding.

The Voodoo PR department, however, is much less appreciative of my efforts to stand up for the underdog.

I’m still lurking in the corner, mulling over the likelihood that I’ll be benched (or worse) long after Parker has rejoined Makena on the dance floor.

I eat chocolate cake, drink a coffee porter that pairs amazingly well with sweets, and am about to hit the road when Charlotte suddenly materializes from the door behind me.

She’s changed out of the white pantsuit thing she was wearing earlier, into a short black cotton dress with a deep V in the front that makes my mouth go dry. Her strawberry blond hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she looks flushed.

Nearly as flushed as the night I made her come in Parker’s garden under a full moon…

I swallow and push the thoughts away, refusing to let the fact that I’m still horny as fuck for this woman show on my face.

“Hey,” I say as she sways to a stop beside me. “Great party.”

“Thanks. But hotter than I expected. I had to pop inside to change. And well, I…” She trails off as she glances down at the grass. When she looks up, anxiety tightens her usually composed features. “And I wanted to talk to you, so I snuck up on you from behind. I hope that’s okay.”

I smile. “It’s just fine.”

She nods over her shoulder. “Up for a chat in my laundry room? Where we won’t be stared at by Parker or Makena or…anyone else?”

“Sure.” I nod, warning my libido not to get his hopes up. This woman shut me down in June and refused to let Makena give me her number at least twice. Whatever this is about, it’s probably not good news.

But if it is…

Well, I’m not even going to pretend that I won’t be jumping into Charlotte’s bed at the first invitation. This woman does things to my pride. Namely, she makes it evaporate. I’m pretty sure I’d do any number of embarrassing things for the chance to be inside her again.

She turns, climbing the four concrete steps to the door. I join her in a small, but efficiently designed laundry room. It smells like lavender detergent, a hint of bleach, and Charlotte, and I’m suddenly tempted to lean in and lick the salt from her sweat-damp throat.

It’s her pheromones. They must be superpowered or something. There’s no other explanation for why this woman drives me out of my fucking mind in a way no woman has in years.

She leans against the dryer, looking determined, but not in a sexy way.

I’m still trying to read the vibes when she blurts out, “I have no idea how to say this, so I’ll just say it.

Flat out. I heard you were in trouble for beating a guy up last weekend.

And facing suspension if you can’t convince the higher-ups that you’re on the straight and narrow from now on. Is that right?”

My jaw tightens. “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. But I don’t regret what I did. That asshole had it coming.”

“Sounds like it,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t be punished for it. People get punished for doing the right thing all the time.”

I shrug. “But virtue for virtue’s sake, right? At least that’s what Aristotle said.”

Her lips hook up on one side. “Aristotle also said virtue calls for judgment. I’m not saying you made an error in judgment, but I have a feeling the Voodoo management might have a different opinion…” She pulls in a breath and crosses her arms. “So, I have a proposition for you."

I nod, pretending the fact that she knows Aristotle doesn’t turn me on like nothing else. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“You need to rehabilitate your image. Show the world you’re not some loose cannon who solves problems with his fists.

And I need a date for my ex’s wedding in two weeks.

Someone who will make him regret every stupid decision he’s ever made.

I wasn’t going to worry about revenge, but things have escalated recently and…

” She lets out a sharp laugh. “Well, I feel like being petty. Really petty. And me showing up to his wedding with my gorgeous hockey player boyfriend is the kind of petty that will drive Theodore fucking nuts.”

Forcing my ego to ignore the “gorgeous” part of that, I home in on the meat of her proposal. “Boyfriend, huh? So, this would be more than a wedding date kind of thing?”

“It would have to be in order to convince the team that you’re a stable, settled man in a long-term relationship with a boring older woman. One who will keep you home doing reno projects on your nights off, so you won’t get into trouble on Bourbon Street.”

I nod slowly, my brain mulling her offer, but my body’s already made its decision.

My body, which knows absolutely nothing about Charlotte is “boring.”

“How long are we talking?” I ask.

“Six weeks? Two months? Long enough that your PR team decides you’re not a problem anymore and moves on?”

“That’s a lot of investment on your part,” I say. “Seems kind of unfair. A couple of months of work for me in exchange for one night for you.”

Her smile turns sharp. “But it will be one hell of a night. His wife-to-be was also a friend. My protégée, actually. I want to rub her nose in my superior happiness, too. Make it clear she didn’t take anything I wasn’t done with a long time ago.

” She shrugs. “You’re significantly better looking than Theodore.

Probably smarter, too, which I know will really chap his ass, so… ”

“You think I’m smart?” I ask, stepping closer.

Her cheeks flush. “You know you’re smart.”

“Yeah, but a lot of women don’t notice,” I say. “I like that you do. And I like that you know Aristotle.”

“Aristotle was a very smart man,” she whispers, tipping her lips closer to mine.

Suddenly, the air in the tiny room feels too warm.

Charlotte’s looking at me like she’s thinking about having her way with me up against the washing machine, and every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea—pretending to be this woman’s lover is a good way to keep pining for her for a damned long time.

But the rest of me?

The rest of me is already imagining how much fun we could have during those “boring” weekends, with nothing to do but grab brunch, wander through the park, and fuck each other senseless in that big sexy garden in her backyard.

It’s even bigger than Parker’s, with a lot more room between the eggplant and the rhubarb…

Surely, she’ll see we’re much better off making that part of our “pretend” the real deal. Right?

“Okay, then, sounds good,” I say, my voice huskier than it was before. “When do we start?”

She shrugs again, a breezy lift of her bare shoulder. “I don’t know. I mean, tonight could work. Think about it, and let me know. I’ll be on the dance floor.”

She’s halfway out the door when I call after her. “Charlotte.”

She turns, her brows lifted.

“How far do you want this to go?” I ask. “Are we holding hands in public and calling it good? Or are we really selling it?”

She studies me for a beat, that dangerous smile from our night in the hot tub spreading across her face. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left standing in her laundry room, blood pumping faster, wondering what the hell I just signed up for.