Page 34 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Poor bastard.
As much as I hate the thought of another night alone with my hand, I can’t tell if the tension on her face is sexual tension or tension tension. Shedidlook a little nervous as we were leaving the bar.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid. Whatever she’s still worried about, we can handle it.
Age gap? Who cares. Different long-term goals? We’ll find a compromise. Different short-term goals? Harder, since I’m locked into a two-year contract with the Voodoo, but still totally doable.
This is doable.
Weare doable.
Andsheis so fucking doable that getting her naked and under me is pretty much all I can think about.
I squeeze her leg again, just above her knee, and she squeezes back, just like we did in the bar before she?—
The car drifts slightly into the other lane. I jerk my gaze to the front in time to see our driver’s head doing a slow-motion bob that makes me suspect he’s fighting a losing battle with consciousness.
“Hey, buddy.” I lean forward, ready to grab his shoulder—or the wheel—if I have to. “You okay up there?”
His chin snaps up at the urgency in my voice. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Sorry, brother.” He sucks in a breath and gives his head a shake. “Shit, just a long day.”
Makena’s hand tightens on mine. When I glance back at her, she looks as worried as I feel. Yeah, screw death by fiery carcrash. I didn’t survive a flood and get this close to fucking the woman of my dreams to die ten miles from the finish line.
“Maybe pull over for a second?” I suggest keeping my voice easy. “Grab some fresh air? We’re not in a rush. Hell, we could run around the car a few times with you, if you want.”
“I could go for some fresh air,” Makena agrees. “Sounds great, actually.”
“You sure?” The man glances at us in the rearview mirror, and Christ, he looks exhausted. Not just tired, but a bone-deep, soul-sucking level of exhaustion I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced—not even that time my fourteen-hour flight to South Korea to teach an Olympic camp somehow became a thirty-two-hour flight, thanks to general airline incompetence.
“Yeah, totally!”
“No problem at all,” Makena and I trip over each other in our rush to assure him.
Meanwhile, I’m already making plans to ask him to let me drive.
Or hell, just call another car and wait at that gas station up ahead until it shows up.
“All right, then. Thanks a lot, I really appreciate it.” He signals, pulling into the gas station. “Just give me a minute to walk around and pound the rest of my coffee, and I’ll be ready to go. I swear.”
Once we’re parked, he opens the door, letting in the muggy evening air. The overheads flood the car—harsh and unforgiving. Luis—our driver’s name, according to the license taped to his dashboard—looks even worse in the light. Dark circles under his eyes, three-day stubble, and a yellowish tinge to his skin that isn’t doing him any favors.
Still, he looks like a strong, youngish guy, maybe mid-thirties, and in good shape. He’s just fucking beat.
“How long you been driving today?” Makena asks gently.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “Since four. This morning,” he adds with a humorless laugh.
Makena sits up straighter. “This morning? That’s what? Almost seventeen, eighteen hours?”
“Give or take,” Luis admits. “But the surge pricing’s been really good since the flood, so…”
Makena and I exchange a look.
Nearly a full day of driving? What the actual fuck? How is this guy still upright?
“That’s not safe, Luis,” Makena finally says, in a gentle, non-judgmental way that makes me proud of her. Personally, I’d still like to strangle Luis a little for nearly killing us, but there must be a reason he’s pushing so hard.
Probably a pretty intense one.
