Page 79 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Obviously.”
Inside, Granny Jezebel’s Attic smells like mothballs and dust with a side of moldering literature, courtesy of the used booksection along the back wall. Makena abandons me immediately for a corner full of ancient kitchen stuff, running her fingers over a cast-iron pan with seven round indentations like it’s made of gold.
“Oh my god, a Griswold aebleskiver pan,” she breathes. “This is old. Like, really old.”
The price tag says three hundred dollars. For something that looks like a torture device for golf balls. “We should get it.”
She snorts. “With what money?”
“My money. Our money. Whatever.”
“No, Parker.” She traces one of the round wells with her finger. “We’re not having the money talk when we’re actively being hunted by cursed dolls.”
I know she’s kidding, but I can’t help glancing over my shoulder, reassuring myself that the dolls are still in the window where we left them.
When I turn back, she’s grinning, clearly pleased with herself.
“You’re such a brat,” I whisper, pinching her hip through her dress.
She giggles.
“So, when are we having the money talk, then?” I press, not ready to let the subject go. I know she won’t let me buy her a food truck or anything extravagant, but I’m in the position to drop money on supplies without thinking twice.
“I don’t know. When I have an actual income again?” But she’s still fondling the pan with enough lust to make me a little jealous. “This would actually be a great idea for a food truck menu, though. I could have the batters pre-made and do small batches of sweetandsavory things. Beignet balls without the deep fryer. Shrimp and grit balls on a bed of lettuce with remoulade.”
“And you could name the truck Eat My Balls.”
She snorts. “Makena’s Got Balls.”
“Ballin’ Dirty on the Bayou.”
“Actually, Bayou Balls isn’t the worst—” She stops herself, holding up a hand in the air, fingers spread. “I’m not going to name a food truck after one item on the menu. And three hundred dollars is crazy. Especially considering I have to replace my entire copper skillet set. Moving on.”
“Makena, seriously, I’m happy to?—”
“Nope,” she cuts in, wandering away. “We’ll talk about it when we get home.”
The way she says ‘home’ like it’s ours makes my chest fill with a warm, hopeful ache.
Fuck, is it finally happening? Is she finally done fighting how meant-to-be it is with us? After eight months of chasing this woman, it’s hard to relax my guard.
A part of me wants to ask, flat out, if she’ll move in for good.
Instead, I pick up a ceramic cat with human teeth. “Should I get this for Nix? As a warning to keep his clothes on in my hot tub, or the demon cat will bite his junk off?”
She laughs, that bright, holding-nothing-back sound that hits me right in the solar plexus. “God, that’s disturbing. And yes, you absolutely should. Twelve dollars is a bargain for a gag gift of that caliber.”
We wander the rest of the store, making up stories about the artifacts. The hand mirror that has a ghost trapped inside. The desk where a pharmacist cut cocaine with baby powder during Prohibition. Then Makena finds an old tin sign, rust bleeding through red letters that spell “Café.”
She traces the letters with one finger. “Do I really have it in me to do this again? To build something from the ground up with no idea what I’m doing?”
“You know what you’re doing,” I assure her. “You just have to learn how to do it on wheels, and the hungry people will come running.”
She looks up at me, her gaze soft. Vulnerable. “You really think so?”
“I know so. You’re Makena fucking DeWitt. You’re going to have lines around the block. No doubt in my mind.”
Something cracks open in her expression, and before I know it, she’s kissing me—right here, between the murder dolls and dusty spoons.
