Page 32 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Come on! Just open the door!” The voice outside is frantic now. “Please!”
“Coming,” Parker and I shout in unison, abandoning all pretense that there’s only one of us in here.
She’s about to find out the truth anyway.
I help a cussing Parker to his feet, giggling as quietly as possible. By the time we’ve got his crutches back in his pits and hobble to the exit, we’re both sniggering beneath our breath.
I throw open the door to reveal a woman holding a stinky toddler with golden curls a shade lighter than mine. The little girl looks very proud of the disaster she’s made in her pants.
Meanwhile, her mother’s eyes go wide as her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ of disapproval.
“Sorry,” I mumble, sidling past her. “All yours.”
Parker follows me, also muttering his amends.
We make it exactly three steps before a tiny voice pipes up. “Squirrel!”
I glance back to see the toddler pointing right at me.
“No, honey,” her mother says, her voice dripping with disdain. “That’s something else that starts with S.”
My jaw drops.
No way, she didn’t just…
The woman swoops into the bathroom, slamming the door with prejudice and a side of slut shaming.
Parker and I stand frozen for a beat.
Then he snorts. “Pretty sure she called you a ho.”
“I know,” I say, fighting a smile. “I’d be offended but… Well, Iwasjust jerking a guy off in a public bathroom.”
He snorts again. “You sure were, babe.” He takes my hand, giving it a squeeze as he adds in a paternal way, “And I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, elbowing him in the ribs as we stumble back toward the bar, giggling like we got away with the prank of the century. My body still hums from his touch, still aches for more, but the absurdity of our exit from the loo has taken the edge off.
For the moment anyway, but I know that won’t last long.
“We should go home,” I say. “Now.”
“So fast,” he agrees. “Grab your purse and call a car. I’ll pay the tab and meet you by the door.”
“Roger that.”
We split up—him to the bar, me to our booth to gather our things. My new phone screen lights up with a few missed texts as I tug my cell from my pocket again, but I ignore them, pulling up the rideshare app instead.
My hands are still shaking a little. But from laughter, adrenaline, or how desperate I was to come five minutes ago, I’m not sure.
Probably all three.
When I’m done, I turn to see Parker finishing up at the bar. His hair is a disaster—my fault. His shirt is still mostly unbuttoned—also my fault. But he’s hauling serious ass on those crutches as he heads toward me, somehow managing to look graceful and powerful, even when accommodating an injury.
God, he’s gorgeous.
And funny.
And really nice to me.
