What to do when the sexy hockey player you've been avoiding suddenly becomes your roommate? Make "no touch" rules. Obviously.

I've spent months dodging Leo Parker's attempts to score a second date. Yes, he's gorgeous. Yes, he plays for the Louisiana Voodoo. Yes, he kisses like it's an Olympic sport. But he's also six years younger than I am and—plot twist—I used to babysit him when he was twelve.

But when a hurricane destroys my restaurant (and the storage closet I've been sleeping in), Parker swoops in with the perfect solution. Move in with him. Temporarily. With RULES:

But living with Parker means watching him do everything without a shirt on. Hearing him moan over my cooking like it's foreplay. And discovering he's not just a pretty face—he's funny, generous, and seems to like me...just the way I am.

Soon we're roadtripping to food festivals, winning crawfish mating-call contests (don't ask), and breaking every rule. Repeatedly. I'm starting to think this sweet, sexy man might be My One.

There's just one problem: When it comes to men, I'm cursed. And a blast from the past is about to remind us why falling for each other might be the worst rule we've broken yet.

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