Page 66 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Usually,” I agree with a laugh. “But not this time. I’m actually feeling…good. Hopeful. My condo fund would probably be enough to buy a food truck flat out. And I’m used to sleeping in small spaces. I could camp in the cab until I was able to build up my housing fund again. And the next time it looks like it might flood, I can just hop in the truck and drive my business out of danger.”
“Or you could just keep living with your best friend, Parker,” he says, casually. “And park your sexy food truck in his big ass driveway.”
“What if the food truck isn’t sexy?” I ask.
“Then you have to pay to park it,” he says seriously, without missing a beat. “Those are the rules. Only sexy trucks get to park for free. But I know you—it’ll be sexy. Like one of those curvy vintage-style trucks. You have excellent taste.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling as I slide lower in my seat. “Yours isn’t bad, either. Our hotel tonight looks swanky.”
“I just hope the shower pressure is fierce,” he says. “Campground showers leave me feeling dirty. I need a real shower with real tile and no need to wear flip-flops while I’m washing up.”
“Agreed,” I say, doing my best not to think about how we’ll be showering.
Separately?
Together?
How serious was he about the hot tub, then the chaise lounge, then the bed?
I guess I’m about to find out…
Mobile’s skyline rises from the haze like Oz, all glass and promise. My stomach does a little flutter that has nothing to do with the side effects of all those fried oysters and everything to do with the conversation we’ve been dancing around since we left the campground.
A right turn and a couple of lefts toward the ocean later, the hotel materializes from behind a screen of palm trees. The valet who takes the truck is too professional to comment on my “spent last night battling a crawfish in one-hundred percent humidity” hair, but I catch him glancing at the thinly controlled chaos in the truck bed.
Parker tips him well enough to ensure amnesia, and we carry our own bags inside a lobby that smells of perfumed luxury and a hint of grilled seafood. It’s only four-thirty, but the old folks eat early, and there are plenty of old folks puttering through the lobby or on their way in from the golf course.
All of them look less like refugees from the Land of the Lost than Parker and I do with our fuzzy hair and wrinkled clothes.
“We should tidy up before we go looking for dinner,” I mutter as we join the check-in line. “Do you think they’ll let us in? I’ve never stayed anywhere this fancy before.”
He grins. “I have a credit card and a reservation. They’ll let us in.”
They do. The desk clerk’s smile doesn’t even flicker at our disheveled state. She hands over key cards in a little envelope, wishes us a pleasant stay, and we’re on our way to the elevator.
To potentially the last elevator I will ever ride before I’ve also ridden Parker’s cock.
My pulse spikes at the thought.
Shit.I really don’t want to mess this up, and sometimes sex messes things up. The first time with a new partner can be awkward. Especially stone cold sober, in the bright light of a summer afternoon, with nowhere to hide from the fact that you’re doing the damn thing.
Parker takes my hand.
His palm is a little sweaty.
Somehow, that helps.
“Don’t be nervous,” he whispers.
“I’m not,” I lie. “But if you are, we can wait until later. When it’s dark and we’ve had mixed drinks at the crab party. Like normal people.”
“I don’t want to be normal,” he murmurs. “I want to be with you, weirdo.”
I arch a brow at him, fighting a smile. “I’m touched.”
