Page 31 of The Temporary Roomie: Extended Edition

“Do you feel nauseous?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go get you some Sprite.”

As I turn, he catches my wrist gently and pulls me back, tugging me down until I sit on the edge of the mattress beside him. “What is happening right now?”

I look everywhere besides his face. “I’m making you rest and take care of yourself because clearly you’re one of those doctors who saves lives but is incapable of basic self-care.”

“I don’t . . . that’s not what I’m doing.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open because of the pain, Andrew, and you were unloading the dishwasher.”

His jaw flexes and he shuts his eyes tight for a second because of what I’m sure is a flash of severe pain. “Why help me though? Especially after last night?”

I choose my words very carefully. Both for his sake and my own. “It’s purely selfish. It doesn’t feel right picking on someone when they’re hurting. I’d rather nurse you back to health quickly so I can return to pissing you off as soon as possible.”

He hums lightly and I realize he hasn’t let go of my wrist yet. In fact, his hold has sunk a little lower to where it’s almost as if he’s holding my hand. “Who knew you were so noble?”

“Do you always get migraines?”

“No. Only occasionally when my sleep and stress line up in just the right unbalanced proportion.” He sounds defeated by this. Like he’s offended by his own body for being human.

“And instead of lying down at the first sign of it and reducing your pain, you decide to tick some household chores off your to-do list?”

He puts his fingers to his temples and rubs. “I don’t like feeling helpless. Or relying on anyone to take care of me. The dishwasher needed unloading, so I was unloading it.”

My brain is telling me to get up and leave him be. But my heart, for some reason, has me glued in place. “Have you ever considered that maybe some people like to feel helpful, though? And by pretending you’ve got it all together you’re depriving them of the joy of helping you?”

He cracks an eye open. “Is that how you feel?”

“Oh no, not me. Remember, I’m only helping so I can return you to the battlefield.”

When a few seconds go by without his response, I shift my weight so I can stand, but this time Drew’s hand darts out and lies across the top of my thigh like a seatbelt. “Stay a minute.”

The rush of sparks that hits my stomach at the feel of his hand against my thigh is so intense I’m afraid he can see them.What am I doing? Why am I here? And why do I care if he’s hurting or uncomfortable?

Drew’s eyes remain shut, but his hand never leaves my thigh as he asks, “Why was your day long?”

“You should sleep.”

“I get bored easily. If you don’t distract me, I’ll be tempted to get up and vacuum the living room. Or superglue the doors to your car shut.”

I’m glad his eyes are closed so he doesn’t see me smile. “I couldn’t make anyone happy today. Everything that could go wrong did.”

He hums quietly. “Some days are just like that. I’m . . . sorry it was a rough day.”

I’m watching in silent awe, wondering what this thing is that’s sparking between us, when Drew hisses through his teeth and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. I tip forward and move the icepack from the back of his head to the front, and then, because I’m apparently out of my mind, I trail my hand from his forehead to his temple, down the side of his face to the tense muscles in the back of his neck. I knead my fingers there, hoping to bring him some relief. But the longer I touch him, feeling the heat of his skin and watching the way his body relaxes under my touch ever so slightly, the more aware I become of my breath picking up. Of desire gathering in a corner of my body that I should not be gathering for this man!

And that’s why I abruptly pull my hand back and stand.

Drew’s eyes fly open, and I don’t see pain in them—I see the same shocking desire I just felt reflected back at me. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t try to stop me again as I make my way to his door. He does, however, say something that’s going to have me tossing and turning in my bed all night long.

“Jessie. Thank you for helping me. Also, there’s a milkshake in the fridge for you.”

I glance sharply at him over my shoulder and blink.

“I got one earlier . . . and . . . they were having a buy-one-get-one-free sale,” he says awkwardly.

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