Page 82 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“And what if I want to take care of you?” I smooth her hair from her forehead. “And have you take care of me? What if that sounds like living the dream to me?”
Her lips twitch at the edges. “Well, when you put it like that…” She sighs. “Let’s not worry about it now. I just wanted to warn you.”
“Consider me warned. And not at all worried.”
“Good.” She kisses my chest, right over my heart. “We should get ready. The crabs await.”
“Or we could skip it. Stay here. Order room service again. See how many times I can make you come before checkout tomorrow.”
She laughs, but she’s already sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. “We paid forty dollars for those tickets. Twice. We’re going to the crab party.” She backs away across the carpet, a naughty gleam in her eye. “But if you hurry, we should still have time to do dirty things in the shower before we get clean.”
I jump out of bed with a speed that isn’t wise for a man in a leg brace, but it makes her laugh.
So…totally worth it.
By the timewe arrive at the crab watch just after seven, the party is already popping off. Kids bounce on mini-trampolines or dash through a maze made of hay bales, swing dancers reel on a platform closer to the beach, and someone’s built a bonfire despite the heat still rising off the sand.
“No crabs yet,” the attendant tells us cheerfully, handing us each a plastic cup. “But the beer’s cold, there’s plenty of food, and karaoke starts in an hour!”
“Oh, good!” Makena enthuses.
“God save us all,” I mutter, making her laugh.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers as we pause to consider our food options just inside the entrance. “No karaoke for me tonight. My throat is too sore from all the screaming in the shower.”
I grin and hug her closer. “I love making you scream in the shower. But you can karaoke if you want. I was just kidding.”
“I know, but I’d rather just be with you tonight,” she says, sending that increasingly familiar warm feeling spreading through my chest.
We find a table by the concrete path that runs along the beach—better for my knee than walking around too much in the sand—and settle in with beers and shrimp baskets. We eat, watch the sunset, and listen to the waves crash—close enough to feel the party vibe, but still have our own separate peace.
“This is nice,” she says, leaning into my side. “I’m glad we came.”
“Even if the yeeting crabs are a no-show?”
“Hush, don’t jinx us. The yeeting could start any minute.” She steals my last shrimp. “But yeah. You want peach cobbler?”
“Do they have ice cream for on top?”
“Looks like it.”
“Then, hell yes.” I start to get up, but she presses a hand to my shoulder.
“No, let me get it. Rest your knee. You did a lot of walking today.”
“Okay, thanks, baby,” I say as she sashays away toward the cobbler line, feeling cared for.
And horny.
Again.
But that’s her fault for wearing those tiny jean shorts.
An hour passes. No jumping crabs. No leaping shrimp. Not so much as a depressed cod flopping itself onto the sand in an existential cry for help. But the party doesn’t care. The karaoke is in full swing now—we’re currently being treated to “Margaritaville” for the third time—and kids are gleefully setting their marshmallows alight in the bonfire, sending the smell of burnt sugar drifting on the breeze.
Finally, another thirty minutes later, we give up on yeet watch, thank the organizers, and head to the exit. We take theconcrete walkway back toward the hotel, her hand in mine. The moon’s big and bright in the sky, turning the beach and Makena’s hair a pretty silver.
She’s so fucking beautiful, like a sexy elf had a baby with a 1980s movie star, one of the really cute ones with the turned-up noses.
