Page 18 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“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.”
“Iambeing 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 hearthealth? 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?”
“No,” I say, setting his crepes down in front of him. “I’m totally open to feeding you after midnight, just not hugging you.”
“Because you’re afraid you’ll have a moment of weakness and beg me to kiss you again?” he asks as I slide into the seat next to his. “Please say yes. My knee hurts, and knowing you’re struggling to resist my sexy bod will make it feel better.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Fine. Yes. Whatever. Now eat up before they get cold.”
We eat in silence for a moment. But only amomentbefore Parker starts grunting.
And moaning.
And making other sexually charged eating sounds that have my nipples tingling again, long before his plate is clean.
“Fuck, those were incredible, Mack,” he says, finally using his words. “Like, change-your-religion good. Seriously.”
“Thanks. I suspected you might be enjoying them,” I say dryly. “What with all the grunting…”
“Don’t even try to grunt shame me,” he says cheerfully. “I grunt when my mouth is happy. Can’t stop, won’t stop. So, what’s your plan for today?”
