Page 22 of The Temporary Roomie: Extended Edition

I mash the brakes. “No!Oh my gosh, Lucy, I’m fine. Don’t you dare text Drew!” I can barely manage to stay five feet away from him without coming unglued. Imagine if he were right next to me . . . checking my heart rate with his fingers on my neck or wrist . . .nope.Just nope.

Her eyes go round. “Geez, look at those cheeks. I could fry bacon on them. Mrs. Ellis, do they look like they’re getting worse to you?”

“Oh, honey, yes. Go home and let that doctor check you out.”Not the most ideal choice of words, Mrs. Ellis.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m leaving because you two hens are fussing over me way too much. And Lucy”—I look over my shoulder as I head out the door—“do not text Drew or you will be dead to me.”

Traffic was exceptionally brutal today, which is only adding to my agitation. As I step out of my car and storm my way into the house, I do start to worry about my blood pressure a little. I don’t know why I’m so worked up. It was one tiny little glimpse of Drew’s abdomen a few days ago, and suddenly I can’t get it—or him—out of my head. He’s so obnoxious. And prickly. And unthoughtful.Yeah, that’s good, Jessie.Focus on all of that.

Bottom line, I enter that house looking for a fight. I’m feeling strongly attracted to Drew, and I need to squash that desire. At least it’s just physical. All I need is one good argument with the man to remember each of the reasons I want to handcuff him and send him off on a boat to the Bermuda Triangle.

I storm inside the house, throw my purse on the couch all willy-nilly, not even worrying that half the contents have fallen out (extra points because that will annoy the snot out of Drew), and then I stop dead in my tracks. Everything looks clean. Gray, white, and black. Where’s all the color?Where is all my stuff?

I’m going to kill him.

“Andy? Are you here?” I peek my head around corners like I’m afraid he’s going to jump out with a boogeyman mask on. Actually, I file that idea away for a rainy day. “WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ALL MY STUFF?” I yell out. When he doesn’t respond, I’m convinced he’s not here. My fight will have to wait—but I swear, if he packed up all my things and gave them away, I’m going to ruin him.

I stomp my way up the stairs, taking out all my aggression on the carpet and really letting my feet drive my frustration home. When I make it to the top of the steps, I’m out of breath and exhausted. I just need a little predinner nap and then I’ll be ready to—

What the hell? Why won’t my bedroom door open? It’s unlocked and I’m able to turn the handle, but it’s like there’s something on the other side pushing against the door.

I lean my shoulder into it, and finally it gives way . . .

. . . to my bedroom, stuffed to the brim with all my boxes.

My jaw drops and my blood boils to the surface of my skin and out through my pores as I take in the room, packed completely full of boxes I can only assume contain all the stuff Iunpacked over the weekend. They are stacked one on top of the other and lined all around my room, covering my bed and any usable surface. I don’t even bother going inside because Drew has made sure to stack them in such a way that I can’t even walk around if I want to. Definitely can’t get to my bed. Definitely going to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze.

What was he thinking! I know I sort of started this little prank war, but seriously, Drew?! I’m pregnant! I’m like really,reallypregnant! I need a place to lie down and rest. Growing a human here, no big deal.

The sound of a door slamming downstairs makes my head tic toward the stairs like an angry killer robot—target set and ready for brutal combat. With newfound energy, I stomp my way down the steps just like I did on the way up, except now I’m rewarded with knowing Drew gets to hear it. I sound like a herd of elephants.

“ANDREW MARSHALL!” I yell down the stairs as I descend to battle.

“Jessica, get down here!” he bellows back.

Just as I make it to the bottom of the stairs, he steps into view (wearing lavender scrubs that I have to try very hard not to laugh at). His face is cut into stern lines and his pupils are two punctuation marks at the end of a sentence that reads,Not even if you were the last woman alive.The way he looks only fuels my volcanic anger. I’m certain I look nothing like his suave, stoic tyranny. My cheeks feel like I could lay them onto a shirt and iron out all the wrinkles. My eyes are bugging out. I’m a rabid dog you really don’t want to get stuck in an alley with.

“Come sit down.”

“No.You moved all my—” He takes my arm and pulls me along with him to the living room. “Ow!Let go—you’re hurting me!”

“I’ve held newborn babies tighter than I’m holding you.” It’s true. His touch is gentle as a breeze, but I refuse to dwell on it.

“It’s your scales—they chafe my angelic skin.” I can only see the back of his head, and I’m frustrated by it. I want to see if my quip earned a grin or not.

He doesn’t let go until we make it to the living room, where he plops me down in an armchair.

“You can’t put me in timeout. I’m too old for it. I’ll just get up.”

Drew drops down to one knee beside me, the square lines of his jaw still cut into sharp, serious angles like he’s completely ignoring me. He’s a member of the Queen’s Guard, and he won’t pay attention to me even if I snap my fingers in front of his face. Even if I stick my tongue out and dance around shaking my butt. He’s focused on my face, my neck, my fingers . . . why is he holding up my fingers? Why is he pressing on them like that? Why are his calloused hands so pleasant to be touched by? I figured Drew’s hands would feel soft and buttery from how often he has to wear gloves, but they’re not. Maybe he gets these calluses from the gym? I know he goes every morning before work, because that’s what he’s done the last two mornings.

I’m mesmerized now. I don’t know what he’s doing, but whatever it is, he’s so intense about it. I don’t think my face has ever been this close to Drew’s before. Our moment in the kitchen when we were fighting over Frosty the Snowman was the closest, but this is so much closer. I can see where each of his eyelashes connects with his lid, where his smile lines would appear, and the flecks of black floating in his deep blue irises.

I’m completely silent as Drew takes my arm, his hands tenderly moving across my skin as he adjusts my arm to lay it across the side of the chair. I’m convinced Drew could have a full beard if he wanted, because every day around this time he lookslike he could use a shave. Like if I ran my hand over his jaw right now it would scratch me.

Now Drew is dipping into a bag beside the chair and pulling something out. Wait, not just something . . . a blood pressure cuff!

Lucy and I are so over.

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