Page 55 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
We make our way off the stage, Makena first, me slightly slower, as I navigate the steep stairs with my brace. But the second I’m on solid ground, her arms are back around me. “Take me back to the truck and do bad things to me. Now?”
It’s what I’ve been waiting to hear for days. Months.
But she’s had four beers. So have I, but I’m a much larger person and had a more solid biscuit base coat to start with.
And to be honest, I’m tired of this play, the “push me away until she’s had a little to drink and her guard is down” drill. I don’t want to be a weakness she indulges when she’s drunk. I want to be a choice she makes with her eyes wide open, one that doesn’t get second-guessed the second the sun comes up.
“Dance with me first,” I say, taking her hand in mine.
She blinks. “What?”
“Dance with me.” I nod toward the main stage and the dance floor beside it.
“What about your knee?” she asks, as I start across the trampled grass.
“We’ll dance slow and easy.”
“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not.”
“So, you just…don’t want to? Is that it?”
I stop dead and drag her back against me. I kiss her harder this time, deeper, until she’s clinging to my shirt and making these breathy, hungry sounds that drive me insane.
When I pull back, she looks vaguely shell-shocked.
“Let’s dance,” I insist. “And talk. Real talk.”
She narrows her eyes like she’s figured out my game. But I don’t have a game. I’m done playing games. That’s why we have to talk. Even if it means I end up snuggling up to the separation pillow tonight instead of this woman who drives me crazy.
“Fine,” she whispers. “But I don’t have any answers. I really don’t.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “Maybe we can just agree on the questions. That’s a good place to start.”
I take her hand again, leading her to the edge of the dance floor, farthest from the stage. And there, under the twinkling fairy lights, surrounded by the smell of the grilled corn stand nearby and the beer sweat of our neighbors, I prepare to lay my heart on the line.
Chapter
Thirteen
MAKENA
The band is playing something slow and swampy, all accordion and heartache. Parker’s arms are around me in the sunset light like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he loosens his grip.
He’s not totally wrong.
My crawfish crown keeps sliding sideways, the plastic legs tickling my cheek. His is missing an antenna now—it must have fallen off during our victory kiss—and there’s a smudge of something that might be hot sauce on his “I’ll Be Your Crawdaddy” t-shirt.
We look like we’ve been “rode hard and put up wet,” as my aunt Fran would say.
We barely move as we dance, a slow, unexpectedly romantic rotation that accommodates his knee brace. Every few beats, he shifts his weight, favoring his good leg, but his hands never leave my waist. Around us, couples are attempting actual dance moves—two-steps and swing-outs and something that might be zydeco if you squint. A woman in a sequined crawfish costume twirls by, doing her own solo thing, nearly taking an old man out with her tail.
We’re the lamest people on the dance floor, but it’s hard to care when Parker smells so good. Even after a day in the Louisiana sun and a strong whiff of eau de beer and fried food about him, the scent underneath is pure Parker. That clean, earthy, sexy smell that makes me want to press my face into his chest and breathe until I’m lulled into a Zen state by his hormones.
That’s the wild thing about Parker. Yes, he makes me tingle, but he also makes it feel safe to relax my guard.
Just sharing space with him lowers my blood pressure.
