Page 42 of The Temporary Roomie: Extended Edition

I rushed to the bathroom, and that’s where I’m still lingering, pretending to obsess about my hair, wash my hands, and reapply lipstick every time someone new walks in here. My hands are going to be shriveled-up prunes by the time Drew finally arrives.

A woman comes into the bathroom for the second time and eyes me warily, and I realize it’s time to leave my post as bathroom attendant. I swallow and look at myself in the mirror one more time, really wishing I had bought the more modest dress the online store tried to sell me instead of this one. It’s like it knew. Snooty sales attendants could somehow see me through my computer and were silently sticking up their noses, trying to thrust their gray, lifeless maternity dress into my cart. But nooooooo. I had been watchingDancing with the Starsand was feeling frisky. So I bought the slinky jet-black number with the high knee slit that appeared right next to the one a woman at my stage of gestationshouldpurchase.

I hiss when I spin to look at myself over my shoulder.When did my butt get so big?Seriously. It’s so bubbly. Like the peach emoji got implants and some dimples. The woman comes out of the stall and follows my gaze to my rear end as she washes her hands.

“Tell me straight—is my butt too big in this?”

If you’re imagining we have a moment of sisterhood, you’re dreaming. This woman looks as if I have wholly offended hergenteelsensibilities and is planning an epic snub. She rips off a length of paper towels and blots her hands before saying, “It’s definitely not a dress I would have chosen for you.”

Oh great.I’m going to cry now as Miss Demure leaves the bathroom in her ravishing gold dress, hip bones protruding from beneath the fabric, tiny firm booty twitching up and down with every step. She wasn’t offended that my dress was too provocative; she was offended that I stuffed my maternal body inside this provocative dress.

The moment I’m alone again, I pull my phone out of my clutch and FaceTime Lucy. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper impatiently as it continues to ring. I know I don’t have long until someone else walks in.

Finally, Lucy answers, and I say, “Thank God. Luce, do I look like a wanton strumpet?”

She’s sitting on her couch, snacking on popcorn and wearing her glasses. I’m so jealous. “Have you been watching a lot of BBC period dramas again?”

“Beside the point. Do I?” I spin around and give her a nice butt shot.

She whistles. “Look at that booty! You look killer! If you’re a strumpet, I want to be one too!”

“You’re lying. If I look so incredible, why do I feel like crying and hiding all my overly accentuated parts?”

“Because you have hormones raging through your body at all times. But I swear to you, Jessie, you look lovely. Has Drew seen you yet?” There’s a mischievous glint in her eye.

“No. He’s running late, which isn’t helping my nerves at all. I may look tough, but I don’t think I’ll be able to take it if he tells me I look hideous and he’s too embarrassed to be seen with me.”

A slow grin spreads on Lucy’s face. “I have a feeling he’s going to make you feel nothing but beautiful when he gets there.”

I squint at the screen. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a canary feather should be hanging out of your mouth?”

I take one last look in the mirror and try to stuff my overflowing cleavage back down inside my dress, but that somehow makes it worse.

“No, stop, you’re making them angry. They’re trying to revolt by swelling up more.”Super.“Just relax, Jessie. You’re gorgeous.”

At least I look classy from the neck up. My blond hair is curled into soft 1920s-style finger waves that frame my face with one side pinned back. My eye makeup is dark and smoky, and even I can admit I look runway ready. Then my eyes drop to my black velvet dress and swollen stomach.

“Nope. I’m coming over to your place. Pop some extra popcorn.”

“Wait! Jess—”

I end the call before Lucy has any time to protest and toss my phone into my little clutch. I swing my peach booty all the way out of the bathroom, ready to leave a trail of smoking tracks in my wake. Drew can kick me out of his house for all I care, and this prank I have planned tonight isn’t even worth it anymore. To be honest, I’ve been rethinking it all week. It’s settled—I’d rather be woken up every single morning by Levi than let Drew see me in this dress.

I open the bathroom door and leave the sterile fluorescent lighting to step into the warm opulence of wealth.Oh my gosh, I’m the pregnant version ofPretty Womanright now.I feel my mortification rising as eyes land on me when I attempt to gracefully glide my way to the front doors. I feel exposed and embarrassed as I try to avoid eye contact with everyone I pass. Why are they staring? Seriously, it feels like everyone is staring. I want to cry. No, I amgoingto cry.

And then, I see him.

Across the room, an entire ballroom length away, I spot Drew standing just inside the entrance.Holy handsome, Batman.Do they have stylists on call at the hospital, just waiting to turn doctors into red carpet celebrities at the drop of a hat? Of course the first thing I notice is Drew’s hair. It’s styled with a satin sheen pomade and waving away from his face in a wonderfully tousled look that somehow perfectly matches my own retro vibe. At first, I think he’s Cary Grant to my Doris Day. But then myeyes trail the length of his muscular body encapsulated in a tight, well-cut navy—almost black—suit that looks so fabulously out of place among all these other stuffy suits, and I realize we are the rebels at this event. He’s the James Dean to my Marilyn Monroe.

Drew looks tall, lean, and powerful while casually talking with someone who stopped him near the door. I don’t think this man even knows the meaning of insecurity, because he’s never needed to feel it. He’s everything everyone wants—everythingIwant.

It’s official. I’m out of here.

I look around, frantically trying to find a menu or something I can hold in front of my face, but there’s nothing.Nada.What’s a girl got to do to find a tall fern or ficus to stand behind? How about a heavy drape? Damn those BBC shows filling my head with improbable nonsense. They always have a plethora of ferns to conceal themselves with.

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