Page 54 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
But Makena…
Damn.
She struts to center stage like she owns it, hair fluffed into a wild halo and overall straps off both shoulders, held up by nothing but the grace of God and the t-shirt underneath. She makes eye contact with the judges—three old men in John Deere caps, who look like they can’t decide if they should be afraid of this woman or fall instantly, completely in love.
I know which one I’d choose. Every time.
Then she starts.
With Mack, a mating call is a whole body experience. She chatters with her teeth, pops with her tongue, adding in these little chirps and whistles that shouldn’t be sexy but somehoware. She shimmies and swirls, doing this thing with her hips that makes me wish we weren’t in public.
I want her to be my private crawfish dancer.
Maybe she’s right, maybe I do have a crustacean kink.
But maybe she does, too. She commits so hard, the women who came before her look like pathetic pretenders to the crown.
“Holy shit, man,” the guy next to me mutters. “Your girl’s really going for it.”
My girl.
I don’t correct him. I just nod and say, “She always does.”
By the time she’s done, the crowd is losing their fucking minds. People are cheering and throwing foam claws at the stage, celebrating like she’s their hometown girl who just made it to the finals on American Idol.
When she finally stops, taking a bow that nearly sends her overalls to her ankles, the judges don’t even confer. They just point at her in unison, and the crowd goes wild.
And me? Well, I’m cheering loudest of all.
The male division is a sadder affair, making me wonder who thought letting the girls go first was a good idea. The ladies should have closed this out, no doubt. The men before me stick to grunting and thrusting, with the occasional roar and display of a flexed biceps, which feels more like construction work than seduction. When it’s my turn, I catch Makena’s eye off to the corner of the stage. She’s grinning, glowing, and looking at me like she believes in me. Like she already knows I’m not going to let her down.
And I don’t intend to.
I take the stage with the same unhinged confidence she did, and proceed to channel every nature documentary I’ve ever seen. I click, whistle, grunt, groan, and warble, while doing the best interpretive crawdaddy dance a man can pull off with his knee in a giant brace. It’s mostly arm and neck action with a littlebit of ab rippling. I’m sure I look like I’m having a stroke, but the crowd is with me.
There’s a hell of a lot more laughing than when Makena was up here, but they’re with me, and I finish to another unanimous “he’s the winner” vote.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC shouts as Makena’s urged up onto the stage beside me. “Your Seventy-Fifth Anniversary Crawlick Mudbug Mayhem Mating Call Champions. Give these wild ones a round of applause!”
The MC’s assistant smashes stuffed crowns onto our heads that look like someone ripped the head off a giant crawfish, with spindly legs dangling down into our faces. Mine’s missing an eye. Makena’s has a lump on one side that looks like it should be checked out by a doctor.
And I don’t think either of us has ever laughed this hard.
She throws her arms around me, hugging me as she shouts to be heard over the crowd, “You were so good! Oh my God, Parker. That was the best thing you’ve ever done. Ever.”
“I learned from the best, woman,” I say, wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her close.
And then, suddenly, everyone’s chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!”
So, after a beat of hesitation—a beat in which I look deep into her gaze and promise her this isn’t the last kiss of the night, and she silently agrees it’s time to stop pretending this chemistry can be denied—we do.
I’m vaguely aware of cheering, of someone taking pictures, of the MC saying something about the next band appearing on the main stage.
But mostly I’m aware of her. The way she tastes—like Cajun spice and beer and a sweet, honeyed BBQ sauce. The way she sighs into my mouth and melts against me. The little noise she makes when I nip at her bottom lip, promising naughtier things to come.
When we break apart, she’s breathing hard.
So am I.
