Page 15 of The Temporary Roomie: Extended Edition

She smirks at my obvious agitation, and now I’m even grumpier that I’ve let her see how well her plan worked. I should have wrapped myself in that pastel blanket. Worn her fuzzy house slippers. Poured coffee into her hot-pink “Boss Babe” mug and smiled as I sipped from it.

“I have terrible pregnancy insomnia these days. I can never sleep.”

I resist the urge to go into doctor mode and list off several ways I could help her remedy that insomnia. Instead, I focus on the situation at hand. “Pretty sure I made it clear that all your stuff needed to stay in your room.” I fold my arms. These are business arms.

Her eyes sparkle and gleam in false innocence. “Oh no! Do you not like my stuff being in your space? Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I’d be happy to go move it all, but . . .” She moves her hand to her small belly bump and rubs it affectionately. “I’m a little worn out from all my hard work last night. I think I better put my feet up and rest for a while because I’m starting to get some sharp pains.” Her eyes widen into big doe eyes, and she blinks her long dark lashes slowly. “Unless . . . you want me to spend the day moving it allllllll the way back upstairs.” Now she rubs her lower back like it’s giving her great pain, like she’s the size of a bus rather than looking like she swallowed a pebble.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip and bite until I nearly taste blood, because once again she has found a way to best me.This woman.She’s going to be the death of me in so many ways.

“Don’t worry about it.” I turn around so I can say the next words without letting Jessie see how truly annoyed I am. “Go put your feet up.” It’s important to note that I only added that last part in case she’s not faking those pains. The obstetrician in me cannot allow her to hurt herself in the name of a stupid prank war.

Besides, I’ve already figured out a way to get even, and the first step is to find that snowman mug for my morning coffee.

CHAPTER 8

Jessie

My phone is balanced between my ear and my shoulder, laundry basket perched against my hip. My eyes are glued to the TV, and I absolutely cannot believe Grandaddy is going to win this bet.Again.

“I told you he was going to send Brandy home this week.” He’s so smug when he’s right. No humility with this one.

I blink at the screen, not willing to give up hope just yet. “No way! There’s absolutely no way. They went to the beach of devotion together last week! And he showed her the childhood photo that sparked all the bullying he endured! No way would he send her home after that.”

Grandaddy scoffs, and I know he’s sitting in his brown-and-yellow-plaid recliner, feet up, decaf coffee in hand. This is our Sunday-night tradition:Love Experiment,laundry, and coffee. We make a bet at the beginning of the week on who will be sent home the following Sunday, and the loser has to buy the winner a pack of Oreo cookies. So far, I owe him three packs when I next see him.

“I have more chemistry with my mailman than Tray has with Brandy. You should have seen the sparkle in old Bill’s eyes when I gave him a poundcake at Christmas. Brandy should have made Tray a poundcake.”

The producers are really dragging out this elimination. After this week, there are only two left until Tray will have to choose the love of his life—aka the woman he’ll break up with a week after the show, but I don’t care. No one does. We’re here for the drama and the kissing.

A shadow swoops by in my peripheral. It’s Drew carrying a laundry basket full of clothes toward the laundry room. Wait! No! I need to do laundry. I have work tomorrow and not a single pair of clean underwear. I’m not even exaggerating. I wear everything I own before I dare darken the doorway of the laundry room.

“HALT, YOU!” I yell, and Grandaddy acts dramatic about the decibel level of my voice.

Drew freezes in his black sweatpants and hoodie and turns to me. Our laundry baskets stick their tongues out at each other. Mine is a bright yellow. His, a drab gray. “What?”

“Are you going to do laundry right now?”

“No, I just like to carry my laundry around because it’s fun,” he says with a serious face.

Iwill notcrack a smile.Will not!

“They’re about to call it!” Grandaddy says in my ear. “It’s about to rain Oreos.”

“Shut it.”

Drew lifts an obnoxious brow. “You’re the one who asked.”

“No, not you!” I peel my eyes from Drew because Grandaddy is chantingBye-bye, Brandyand I need to see it for myself.

When I turn away, Drew disappears down the hallway. Ah, no! He’s getting away. I need that washer! “Andrew, wait! I need the washing machine!”

“Ow. Quit yelling in my ear,” Grandaddy harrumphs.

Drew calls out, “You snooze, you lose, Oscar.”

I growl and bounce impatiently, mumbling under my breath how much I hate Drew.

“So, living together is going well?” Grandaddy asks, and I can see a knowing smile on his mouth through the phone.

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