Page 56 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“So,” he says, his voice a soft rumble in my ear. “Real talk.”
“Do we have to?” I know I’m whining, but I can’t help it. “Can’t we just dance and pretend we’re two normal people who met at a crawfish festival and are going to have uncomplicated truck sex?”
“Is that what you want? Uncomplicated truck sex?”
I pull back to look at him. The fairy lights strung around the dance floor are reflected in his eyes, making them look almost amber instead of their usual blue. His expression makes my chest tight. His usual patience is there, but it’s mixed with a healthy dose of “it’s time to cut the bullshit.”
And he’s right.
“I don’t know what I want,” I confess, which is both the truth and a lie.
I want him. That’s not complicated. What’s complicated is everything that comes after wanting.
“Okay.” He pulls me closer again, his hand spread wide on my lower back. “Then let’s start with what youdon’twant.”
“Parker—”
“Humor me. As your Crawdad Mating Call king, I think you owe me that much.”
I grin. “Your mating dance is going to live rent-free in my head for a long time. That’s for sure.”
“That hot?”
I laugh. “Something like that.” He’d looked like he was having a seizure, actually. But that level of “not giving a fuck” in front of a hundred strangers is hot in its own way. “Fine,” I say. “Idon’twant something…complicated.”
“Complicated how? How am I complicated?”
“You know…” I trail off, trying to organize my thoughts. Which is hard after four beers, and with his thumb rubbing little circles on my back through my t-shirt. “You’re only twenty-seven. You’re in the prime of your career. You’ve got groupies and?—”
“I don’t have groupies.”
“You have options,” I counter. “Lots of them. Young, perky options who haven’t been divorced, don’t have daddy issues, and haven’t lost everything. Twice.”
He shifts, moving to the left, out of the path of a couple making out so vigorously they have no idea where they’re going.
“That could have been us,” I whisper, nodding their way. “Doesn’t that look like more fun than talking?”
“That looks…damp,” he says, curling a lip at the gropers. “We’re way hotter than that.”
“Agreed. We should show these people how a public make-out session is really done.”
“And maybe we will,” he says, his lips curving as he glances back at me. “As soon as I assure you that everyone has daddy issues. It’s basically a generational requirement at this point. Mine stem from the fact that I’m pretty sure my dad’s been cheating on my mom since I was four. And he kind of hates me. Sometimes. Depending on his mood.” His hand moves to the back of my neck, fingers tangling gently in my hair. “Additionally, I’m not interested in options. Who needs options when they’re with the coolest girl at the party?”
I sigh. “You say that now, but?—”
“I’ve been saying it for nearly eight months.”
“Because you haven’t had me yet. Men always want what they can’t have.” The words come out sharper than intended. But hell, in my experience, they’re true. “Chuck thought I was a goddess, too, until I finally agreed to be his girlfriend. Then, as soon as he had me locked down, he lost interest.”
Parker stops dancing to glare down at me, looking truly offended. “Did you just compare me to Chuck? I hope by now it’s pretty fucking clear that I’m nothing like your douchebag, mullet-loving ex, Makena.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re just making assumptions.” He starts moving again, but his grip on me is different now. Firmer. Like he’d like to shake some sense into me. Behind him, the band launches into something that sounds like “Sweet Caroline” meets a funeral dirge, making me wonder how many beers they’ve had.
Probably too many.
And the crawfish lady is spinning back this way.
