Page 84 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
I wipe tears from my eyes, catching my breath. “And I thoughtmyFrench teacher in high school was awful. At least she never called me a dirty toilet.” I huff again. “Though, honestly, my French was so bad, she could have, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Thank God my pastry courses in Paris were taught in English.” I shrug. “And butter and sugar are a universal language.”
“They sure are,” Parker agrees. “Speaking of, pass me another gas station gluten-free donut.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew.”
“Stop judging me,” he says as I pass the bag over. “If you’re too snobby to eat them, someone has to do it.”
“Do they?” I ask, arching a judgy brow.
But he just grins and tears into a stale old-fashioned with the enthusiasm of a man who appears to be able to eat all the junk food he wants without gaining a pound. Nope. His body is a temple to physical perfection…and I can’t wait to worship at it again tonight.
I sigh, grinning at the flat, Mississippi landscape zipping by outside.
We’ve been on the road for hours, and I haven’t thought about insurance claims or flood damage or even the increasingly exciting prospect of opening my own food truck once. The day has just been this—Parker’s smile, stories so funny they make us wheeze, and the easy rhythm we’ve found.
“Okay, audiobook break for real-life story time,” Parker says, reaching over to turn off the stereo as he takes the exit for Oxford. “I need to prepare you for Nana.”
My chin tucks back into my neck. “Prepare me? Why? What kind of preparation does your grandmother require? I thought this was the family member you actually like.”
“I do. She’s the best,” he says. “She’s just absolutely and completely full of shit. Eighty-two, but acts twenty-two. Never met a raunchy joke she wouldn’t tell you. Twice. Specializes in nosy questions. Has zero patience for dumb rules or dumb people or anyone getting in the way of the fun.”
I hum beneath my breath. “Interesting. Sounds like someone else I know.”
He winks. “Well, at least you know I came by it honestly. Just don’t expect some sweet Southern lady with good manners. Even her crochet is obscene.” At the edge of downtown, he turns onto a tree-lined street, where the houses are old and grand and dripping with Southern Gothic charm.
“Obscene crochet?” I ask.
“She crochets penis cozies.”
I blink. “She what now?”
“Dick cozies. Cock socks. Willy warmers.” His grin widens at my no doubt stunned expression. “She sells them at craft fairs. Says old ladies need hobbies that make young people uncomfortable.”
“I already love her,” I say, grinning.
“Yeah, you will.” He reaches over, giving my thigh an affectionate squeeze. “She’s going to love you, too.”
We pull into a driveway bordered by azaleas gone wild, the house rising before us like a Victorian fever dream—purple and green, with peeling golden accents. Dozens of wind chimes made from forks and spoons tinkle from the wraparound porch. A sign by the door reads “Ring Bell and Run Like Hell,” and there’s a statue in the front yard that could be a woman’s silhouette or a middle finger.
It’s hard to tell, and I’m pretty sure that’s the point.
I pull in a breath, suddenly wondering if I’m going to be cool enough for this woman.
“Welcome to Nana’s house.” Parker cuts the engine. “Ready?”
Before I can answer, the front door flies open. A tiny woman in paint-splattered overalls and combat boots emerges, white hair piled in a messy bun secured with chopsticks. Or…paintbrushes?
“Leo Parker, my baby boy!” she hollers. “Get your ass up here and hug your Nana before I die of old age!”
The joy on Parker’s face makes my chest ache. Aw, he really loves his grandma, and it’s maybe the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. He’s out of the truck and up the steps faster than a man in a knee brace should move, catching her in a hug that lifts her off her feet.
“Careful with the goods,” she squawks, but she’s clinging to him like she’s never going to let go. “These bones are vintage.”
I climb out more slowly, wanting to give them some privacy for their reunion. But when Nana’s eyes land on me over Parker’s shoulder, her face lights up for me the same way Parker’s did for her.
“Makena! Welcome!” She extracts herself from her grandson’s arms and marches down the steps with surprising speed. “Christ on a cracker, you’re even prettier than Parker said you were. Come here, honey, and get yourself a hug. I’m Chaz, Parker’s nana.”
She pulls me into a hug that smells like linseed oil and vanilla. I return the tight embrace, earning a chuckle of approval. “Atta girl,” she murmurs against my ear. “Love a woman who doesn’t hold back in a hug.”
