Page 7 of The No Touch Roommate Rule (That Steamy Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter

Four

MAKENA

C ome six a.m., I’m in Parker’s giant kitchen looting, pillaging, and dirtying every pan in his collection.

Maybe I should feel weird about that, but after what Dream Parker did to me in my sleep last night, I’m practically obligated to make myself at home.

And to banish that dream from my brain meat before my new roomie wakes up…

I whisk the ricotta with more aggression than necessary, doing my best to beat the lingering lust out of my system.

But every whip of the whisk makes my breasts bob lightly beneath my borrowed t-shirt, reminding me of the way Dream Parker cupped them in his hands as he pressed me up against this very counter…

“Do other people realize what a perverted chef you are?” he’d asked, his chest solid against my back as his thumbs teased lightly across my nipples. “I can tell you’re thinking filthy things about those eggs.”

“Who says I’m thinking about eggs?” I’d asked, pressing back against the thick ridge in his pajama pants. “Maybe I’m thinking about…French toast.”

He hummed low in his throat as one strong arm banded around my waist. “Your French toast is really good. Especially with the homemade lemon curd.”

I bit back a moan as his free hand slid from my breast down to my ribs, my fluttering stomach, the waistband of my sleep shorts… “It’s hard to make sexy banter about lemon curd. Curd isn’t a sexy word.”

“Sure, it is,” he whispered against my neck. “Turn off the stove, Makena. Right now.”

I reached out, twisting the knob with a trembling hand.

“Good curd,” he added, making me laugh.

“No,” I said as he shifted us both to the left, away from the still-hot burner. “That isn’t working.”

“Sure, it is.” He dragged my shorts and panties down, sending fresh heat rushing between my legs as he bared my pussy to the warm kitchen air. “Now be a good curd and spread your thighs. I need to fuck you from behind until you ? —”

“Nope!” I announce to the empty kitchen, dropping the whisk with a clatter.

I prop my hands on my hips, pulling in bracing breaths.

“Absolutely not,” I continue in a mutter.

“No more sexy replays. You can’t help what you think when you’re asleep.

But you are not asleep. You’re awake, and you’re wearing Mrs. Parker’s pajamas.

The same Mrs. Parker who used to give you forty bucks for watching her baby boy every Friday night. ”

The ricotta stares back at me, unmoved by my perverted confessions.

But ricotta is a notoriously scandalous cheese. Any cheese that can go savory or sweet as easily as it can isn’t one you want to leave alone with your husband.

Or your wife.

“I wish I were gay,” I tell the cheese. “Or at least bi. Being straight is the worst.”

Quit complaining and start the crepes, the ricotta says. And don’t add any more lemon juice. I’m starting to curdle.

“Bullshit. I didn’t use juice — I used zest,” I mutter, calling the ricotta on its lies as I set the filling bowl aside and fetch the gluten-free crepe mix I made earlier. “This isn’t my first time at the filling rodeo.”

Or your first time at the hetero-fatalism rodeo, it claps back. Not all straight men are awful, and there are plenty of asshole lesbians out there.

“I’m not a hetero-fatalist,” I say. “I’m a realist. If ninety percent of the men I’ve dated have been awful, chances are the next one will be, too.

That’s just statistics, and I don’t have the energy to deal with a romantic meltdown right now.

Especially not with a completely inappropriate person.

It would be a tragic waste of time. Not to mention super depressing.

Some random guy letting you down is bad enough.

It’s way worse when it’s a man you thought was a sweetheart. ”

And who basically saved your life, the ricotta agrees, finally seeing the light.

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.” I pour the batter into the pan.

The crepe sizzles. I take a breath.

Center myself.

Remember why I’m here.

I’m here because my restaurant/home is underwater.

My phone also went to a watery grave, and I own exactly one bra, one pair of panties, zero shoes, and the pair of fancy earrings I forgot to take off when I stripped out of my bridesmaid’s dress last night.

I’m homeless, jobless, and wearing clothes that smell vaguely of Parker’s mom’s perfume.

And despite all that, I’m weirdly…happy?

Looking forward to Parker waking up and walking through that door?

Because I’ve been crushing on him for months, and I’m thrilled to the tips of my tits about the chance to shack up with him for a few weeks/months/as long as he’ll have me?

No. I’m just grateful to be alive. That’s all. This is post-traumatic euphoria—a documented neurological response to surviving a life-threatening event—nothing to be taken seriously.

“Get it together, DeWitt,” I tell myself. “You’re not a Disney princess shacking up with Prince Charming. You’re the nanny from Peter Pan. You should be upset that the kids are flying out the window, not thinking about how cute John looks in his top hat.”

Wasn’t the nanny a dog? the ricotta pipes up.

“Yes, but you know what I meant,” I say, flipping the crepe with the flair that got me through culinary school on scholarship after my father refused to release a dime of my college fund for training for a “dead-end job.”

Fuck.

Dad…

I’m sure he’s going to have plenty to say once he learns every dime of my investment is underwater.

And yes, I have insurance, and it covers floods, but I’m going back to square one.

Dad’s going to get to say “I told you so,” all over again, the way he did after Christian drained our joint savings and left me with five grand in credit card debt that wasn’t even mine.

“Fuck,” I mutter aloud, fighting tears as I flop the crepe onto a waiting plate. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Are my pans that bad?” Parker rumbles from the doorway. “The lady at the store said they were decent, but I never cook, so…”

I turn and there he is, my white knight, propped against the doorframe, looking like a cautionary tale about what happens when you give one human being too many gifts. No guy should be this hot and funny and hot and good-looking and talented and hot, all at the same time.

You said hot at least twice, the ricotta says in a smug voice that makes me wish I’d used lemon juice, after all.

Maybe a little curdling would have encouraged it to keep its mouth shut.

“No, they’re fine, I’m just…” I trail off with a shrug. “Just thinking post-flood thoughts.” My gaze drifts down, landing below the hem of his basketball shorts. I wince. “Ow. Your knee still looks bad.”

He glances down, as if just remembering that he has knees. “This old thing? It’s fine. Just embracing the eggplant aesthetic. I’ll be right as rain in no time.” He starts across the room, his limp worse than it was last night.

“Parker, you can barely walk.”

“I wonder where that phrase came from?” he continues, ignoring me. “There was nothing right about the rain last night. That rain was fucked up. I think I hate rain now, actually. I used to like it. Especially a rainy Sunday on the couch watching movies, but now, I’m anti-rain.”

“Sit.” I point at the kitchen table with my spatula. “Now.”

“Only if you’re planning on feeding me,” he says as he eases into the closest chair. “I’m hungry.”

“Of course, I’m planning to feed you. What kind of lame-ass guest do you take me for? How’s a lemon ricotta crepe with blackberries sound?”

“Sounds fan-fucking-tastic,” he says with a grin. “I’ll have two, please.”

“Two?” I arch a brow as I turn back to the stove. “Are you sure? They’re not small.”

“Two,” he maintains. “I’m a growing boy.”

I snort and pour another batch of batter into the pan. “Fine, but you’ll have to wait a few minutes. I only have one ready.”

“I’m fine with waiting. That’ll give us time to talk about rules for cohabitation. We’ve already established no boning, but there’s a lot more to a successful roomie experience than exerting the Herculean willpower needed to keep from jumping my bones, Makena.”

I grunt. “Herculean. That’s a big word for a sporty boy.”

“Thank you—I can read,” he says. “I can also cook, but I hate it. So, ground rule number one: If we share a meal, you do the cooking and I’ll do clean-up.”

“How about I do both?” I offer, flipping the crepe. “At least until you’re back on your feet? I don’t mind. I’d like to do both, honestly. My small way of paying you back for all the help.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll take you up on that, thanks. I have a maid who comes in once a week, so we don’t need to worry about other chore stuff. But I would ask that you avoid blowing your nose on my hand towels or clipping your toenails at the kitchen table.”

I whirl around, my upper lip curled. “Oh, come on! Be serious, Parker.”

“I am being serious,” he insists, but his eyes are dancing as he adds, “you refused to date me, woman. That shows a disturbing lack of judgment. I don’t know how deep that goes, so… Figured I was better off safe than sorry.”

Fighting a grin, I say, “Fine. Anything else?”

“Yes, I would like to request that we both keep shirts and pants on in common areas,” he adds as I turn back to start the final crepe. “And that hugging procedures only be instigated while fully clothed.”

“Hugging procedures?” I echo. “And why would we need to be hugging?”

He huffs like I’ve suggested we both stop breathing. “Because I’m a hugger? Because hugs lower cortisol and boost heart health? Because denying yourself physical connection with other human beings is torture, and I’m not about that torture life?”

“You’re dramatic before coffee.” I flip off the burner and start plating, quickly putting together a large serving for him and a smaller one for me.

“I’m dramatic all the time. You should know that by now. So, are you on board or not?”

I turn, plates in hand. “Fine. But only before five o’clock and when we’re both stone cold sober.”

He arches a brow. “What am I? A gremlin?”