Page 65 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“He’s got it, sugar,” I say, keeping a straight face as I add, “he’s my sugar daddy.”
Parker chokes on his water, but Dotty doesn’t miss a beat.
“Good for you, sugar. Hard to find a man these days who pays.” She winks at me before shuffling off to the kitchen.
“Sugar daddy?” Parker wheezes when he can breathe again.
“Would you prefer glucose guardian?”
“I’m six years younger than you, brat,” he says, reaching down to swat my thigh beneath the table.
“Details, details,” I murmur, thoughts spiraling back to the way he swatted my ass in The Brass Monkey’s bathroom. And how much I want him to do it again.
Maybe tonight…
The promise of what’s to come lingers in the air between us, making every innocent touch feel electric.
The food arrives on plates so full they require careful navigation. I moan over the fried oysters—crispy outside, briny inside, with a kick-ass house-made remoulade. Parker moans over the gumbo—rich and dark with a complex flavor that proves no steps were skipped in its execution.
The couple at the next table shifts uncomfortably, the woman clearing her throat as we exchange bites, moaning anew in appreciation.
“We should probably keep it down,” I whisper, leaning across the cracked vinyl booth.
“Never,” Parker whispers back. “I refuse to be moan-shamed. We should order the pie, too. Any excuse to put off getting back on the road. Whose idea was it to do a seven-hour drive after camping?”
“That was your idea,” I remind him. “You said you didn’t want to stop too close to home because, and I quote, it felt stupid and dumb.”
He grunts. “Yeah, that sounds like me.”
“But I could drive for a while if that helps,” I offer. “And we could try to find a place to stop and stretch our legs before we get there.”
“Smart and intelligent,” he says, pointing his spoon my way. “Which is the opposite of stupid and dumb.”
“So, I’ve heard,” I tease, pulling out my phone to search for tourist-y stuff close to the highway.
We decide on a fancy estate built by some Coca-Cola baron in the 1920s and hit the road, but not before mouth orgasming over a shared piece of peach pie.
Bellingrath Gardens is the kind of place I would usually make fun of. Every blade of grass is manicured within an inch of its life, and you can’t walk three feet without encountering a plaque explaining a flower like it’s a historical figure.
“This rose is called Sexy Rexy,” Parker reads in his tour guide voice. “Known for being sexy. And distantly related to the T-rex.”
“You lie.”
“About the T-Rex, yes. But that’s actually its name.”
I lean over, seeing he’s right. “Huh, a compact bush,” I read, “originally cultivated in New Zealand.”
“You’re a compact bush,” Parker observes, earning a snort from me.
“Thanks. I guess?”
“You’re welcome,” he says, taking my hand as we wander on, under oaks draped with Spanish moss. We decide to skip the tour of the home itself in the name of getting back on the road. If we’re going to make it to Mobile in time to check in and get down to the beach for the “crab yeeting” watch party later, we need to make tracks.
Back in the truck, blessed AC washing over us, I realize just how relaxed my shoulders feel. I can’t remember the last time something in my neck or upper arms didn’t ache—usually fromthe stress of running a solo operation, not the actual labor of cooking all day.
It makes me wonder if maybe the flood was a blessing in disguise. Running a food truck would be a lot less work than keeping up a big counter-service location. And the more I think about it, the more the idea of being mobile feels exciting.
“You’re quiet,” Parker observes a few minutes later.
