The Temporary Roomie by Sarah Adams
It’s a slow Tuesday morning, and it’s only Lucy and me in the salon. Levi’s tummy troubles yesterday ended up just being a case of too much sugar at Grammy’s house, so Lucy is back at work today. I’m not due to have another client for twenty minutes, which gives me a chance to pull my planner out of my purse and hunker down behind the reception desk. I don’t know why I feel the need to hide when I do this, but I do. I have a planner I bought solely for this purpose, and every day, I pull it out and place a solid X through the calendar box with my aqua-colored gel pen, telling me I’ve made it one day closer to my due date. Leaning my elbow against the counter, I prop my hand under my chin and smile as I trace my finger along the freshly inked square.
One day closer.
“Whatcha got there?” Lucy materializes out of nowhere to peer over my shoulder like a snoopy mom trying to catch me getting up to no good.
I screech and slap my planner closed. “Nothing!” Anger is the first emotion I rush to when I’m embarrassed, which would explain why my eyes are blazing and tone is clipped.
Lucy blinks and backs up, hands raised. “Wow, okay. So sorry. I didn’t realize I would be stepping into something, but clearly I am.” Trying to be angry at Lucy is like being angry at a bunny for having too fluffy of a tail. It’s impossible. I just want to feed her carrots and make her happy.
I sigh and my shoulders drop, removing my hand from its protective clutch around the planner. I extend it to Lucy because I’m really trying to get better at trusting someone other than only my grandaddy. “No, I’m sorry. I snapped because I’m embarrassed.”
“About what?” She carefully takes the planner from my fingers and thumbs through it. “What am I looking at here? It’s just a planner. I thought you were peeking at something dirty.”
I laugh. “It’s my due date countdown, weirdo.”
Lucy’s brows scrunch together. “Why would you be embarrassed about that? I have your due date set up as a countdown on my phone. It’s going to shoot off virtual confetti on the big day.”
“You do?” I ask with an incredulous smile. Why would she do that? Why would she care that much?
Lucy smiles, and the last of my embarrassment slips away. She’s seriously the most disarming person I’ve ever met. They should find a way to clone her for military de-escalation purposes.
“Of course! You’re my best friend. My sister from another mister. My ma’am.” (Which I know is the highest of compliments since it’s her and her mom’s nickname for each other.) She pats my belly, knowing she’s one of the few in the world who can without getting her arm whacked off. “I can’t wait until this little dumpling gets here. So why in the world are you embarrassed of this?” She holds up the offending sparkly planner.
It’s stupid, I know. It’s my child. I SHOULD be excited that he or she will be entering the world soon. But because of the way this all came about—because I can remember the way my ex’s face looked when I broke the news to him—I also feel immense guilt. I feel like I have no right to be excited about the baby because he blamed me so harshly for “tricking him” into becoming a dad. And then I think of the emotional train wreck that is the life I will be bringing my child into, and I can’t help but feel this baby deserves so much better than what I have to offer.
I feel like I’m doing something wrong by anticipating my baby’s birth.
Of course, I don’t tell Lucy any of this, because even just the thought of it makes me break out in vulnerability hives. Instead, I point to the planner. “All the glitter. It’s an embarrassing planner is all. Not very grown-up.”
She laughs and shakes her head, easily buying the lie. “Hardly something to be embarrassed of. I like the glitter!” She playfully bops me on the head with it before tossing it back on the desk in front of me. “Own your guilty pleasures. And now that I know yours is glitter, prepare for everything I buy you from now on to be glitterized.”
Oh good. I know she’s serious too. Is this how everyone’s weird collections begin? One tiny lie, and before you know it, your whole house is decked out in baby elephant decor. Looks like I get to be glitter girl.
The door chimes, and Jessie and I both look up to see the delivery man enter with his dolly and my monthly order of hair product inventory stacked high on it. I gladly show him to the storage room, seizing the chance to escape Lucy and our unwanted conversation.
The rest of the day moves pretty slowly yet peacefully. A happy little snail day. Jessie and I have a handful of clients and a few walk-ins but nothing too strenuous. I’m happy and comfortable in the salon, and it’s only when the clock starts to near that five o’clock mark that anxiety kicks in again. Because today, I won’t be heading home to my house; I’ll be going back to Drew’s house—aka the torture house. And yes, I realize that would make a fantastic haunted house name.
I’m sitting in my empty salon chair, leaned back, legs crossed watching Lucy finish up the perm she’s been placing in her client’s hair, but I’m not seeing any of it. Instead, I’m picturing that sliver of Drew’s skin again. Always. Like when you stare at the sun too long and it burns an image in your eyes. All I see is tan. No, golden. No—bronze.
“Has Drew always been so persnickety?” I ask Lucy.
She glances over at me, amused by my sudden blurt-out. “Yes. But in his defense, it works for him.”
“How do you figure?”
She shrugs lightly and continues rolling rods in her client’s hair. “Drew is one of a kind. He’s focused, he knows what he wants at all times, and that’s why he’s always been the reliable one…the guy you turn to when everything falls apart, and somehow, he can hold it all together. It’s his decisiveness, his attention to detail, his drive…all of those aspects are what have gotten him to where he is today in his life and career. It works for him.”
“Well, it just annoys me.” Lucy and her client both sputter a laugh. “I’m serious. It’s that decisiveness that makes him think he rules the world. He needs to be knocked down a few pegs.”
Lucy mmhmms,unconvinced. “It’s only a matter of time before you drink the Kool-Aid with the rest of us. Drew might be overbearing at times—trying to fix things when he should be quiet and making sure everything is sitting at a 90 degree angle on any given surface—but…he’s also got the most golden heart in the world. He’s lovable.”
Suddenly, Lucy’s client pops her head around to look at us with bright eyes. “You’ve sold me. Any chance he’s into old ladies?”
I push myself up out of the chair, rolling my eyes dramatically as I pass by Lucy’s station, headed for the front desk. “Believe me, you don’t want him, Mrs. Ellis. He’s the most obnoxious man in the world. Smug. Bossy. Opinionated. Likes to gloat. And…” His dimpled smile flashes in my mind, quickly followed by that sliver of skin. Why is it bothering me so much that I can’t quite accurately describe the color?
My grandaddy would probably say it’s like the top side of a biscuit, brushed with butter and fresh out of the oven, but never mind. I need to stop thinking about Drew because it’s getting me too heated—and not the good kind of heated. The angry, want to cut off the hot water while he’s in the shower, blast the AC, and then run off with his towel and clothes kind. And just for the record, I’m not thinking of him in the shower in a good way either. Like I wouldn’t open the curtain or anything before I stole the towel. I would just snatch it and run off. But then again…what if he has one of those fancy showers that is all open and doesn’t have a door? Then I’d definitely see him naked.
Shoot, what was my point again?
“Wow, are you okay? You just sort of trailed off in the middle of talking and zoned out. Now your face is super flushed.” Lucy is the most concerned person in the world right now as she tells Mrs. Ellis she’ll be right back then crosses over to my station so she can feel my cheeks and head. “Do you have a fever? I think you do.”
I swat her hands away. “No, I do not have a fever! I feel fine. Quit being such a mom.” I was just thinking about your brother in the shower.
Lucy does not look convinced, and now Mrs. Ellis is concerned too. “I don’t know, sweetie. I think Lucy might be right. Your face looks like my first-place-winning tomatoes from the fair last year.” I feel like she’s more interested in plugging her winning vegetation than my health.
And of course now that they’re bringing attention to my face, it’s heating up even more. I’m a furnace. Combustible. “I’m fine, ladies. Really.”
Lucy is peering at me like I might suddenly keel over. “You’re headed home now, right?”
“Yeah, as soon as I finish cleaning up my station.”
Lucy rips my purse from the hanger next to me and drapes it over my shoulder before pushing me toward the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it and lock everything up when I’m done with Mrs. Ellis. Your face looks alarmingly flushed. I’m going to text Drew and have him check your blood pressure when you get home.” She looks over her shoulder and naturally has to fill in her new BFF. “My brother is an OB-GYN and also Jessie’s roommate.”
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 side 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. Grey, 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 boogieman mask on. Actually, I file that idea away for a rainy day. “What did you do with all my stuff, you big jerk?” 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 pre-dinner nap and then I’ll be ready to—
What the heck? 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 I unpacked over the weekend. They are stacked one on top of the other and lined all around my room, covering my bed and any useable 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, really pregnant! I need a place to be able to lie down and rest. Growing a human here, no big deal.
The sound of a door slamming downstairs makes my head tick 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 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, 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 couch, 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 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 fingers so pleasant to be touched by? I figured Drew’s hand would feel soft and buttery from how often he has to wear gloves, but they’re not. Maybe he gets these callouses 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 looks like 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.
I blink several times to resist the hypnotic trance he’s lulled me into. “You have got to be kidding me! I don’t need my flipping blood pressure taken.” I try to fight it by pulling my arm back, but Drew’s warm hand lies firmly over my arm. Don’t move. His jaw ticks, and he looks almost angry. What does he have to be angry about?
“Stop squirming. Lucy told me about how flushed and disoriented you were at the salon. She’s worried about you.” His eyes scan over me again, and he touches the back of his hand to my cheek. “And she’s not wrong. Your face is abnormally flushed.”
Oh good gracious. This is not happening. Every look, every touch, every scan of his dark eyes is making my problem worse. I need to get away from him. Now.
I slap his hand away. “Yeah, of course my face is flushed! My psycho roommate packed up all my stuff and piled it in my room! I can’t even lie down on my bed! Don’t you think that’s a good enough reason to get worked up?” He grimaces slightly, like maybe he’s a little embarrassed. Good. “When did you even have time to do that?! I thought you were at work all day.”
“I might have…come home during my lunch hour and packed your stuff.”
“And moved all those boxes in such a short amount of time?” I narrow my eyes. I want him to have to say it out loud.
He scrunches his nose a little. “And hired a moving company to come in and move them upstairs when I went back to work.” I stare at him, wishing on every star that when I blink, he will go POOF and disappear. I blink three times and he is, unfortunately, still there each time.
“Just where was that generosity on Saturday when you were busy complaining about the precious time you were sacrificing to help me move?”
“In hindsight, it was childish to have all your stuff moved back to your room. I’m sorry, I was just trying to get back at you. But right now, I’m a doctor, not a roommate, and I’d really like for you to let me check your blood pressure because”—this next part looks like it pains him deeply to say—“I’m genuinely concerned about you.”
I fold my arms, ripping the cord and squishy ball of the blood pressure cuff out of his hand. “Fat chance. You’re not my doctor, and I’m not concerned enough to go get it checked out, because I know the real reason I’m flushed.”
I realize my mistake as soon as Drew’s brow rises. “What is the real reason, then? Lucy said it started right before you left the salon, so I know it wasn’t the boxes.”
I squint. “Well, aren’t you just Nancy Drew. Do you get paid extra for these mystery-solving skills or is it included in your fee?”
Drew’s eyes shut tight and he tilts his head up toward heaven, pressing the heels of his hands to his brows. He can’t handle me. I’m too much. I think he’d like to yell right now, but he’s holding it in because of my possible high blood pressure. Now he’s scraping his hands back through his hair, making it all stand on end but not fixing it. It’s actually a really sexy sight, especially the way his biceps flex against the sleeves of his scrubs. All I want to do is lean forward and run my fingers through those unruly, dark locks and put them back in place.
And the flush is getting worse. Super.
“Jessie. I swear…” He trails off, and I’d really like him to finish that sentence, but he doesn’t. It’s left as a warning. “Let me check your blood pressure. It’s important.”
It’s now clear that the only way I’m going to get off the hook and avoid an assessment is to tell Drew the truth. You’re so freaking hot sometimes I can’t stand it. I’ll die before I admit that to him, so instead, I growl and extend my arm.
“Fine. Take my blood pressure. But when you see that it’s perfectly normal, you owe me a cookies n’ cream milkshake.”
He releases a sigh then gets to work squishing the little ball thing. I stare at him as the cuff on my arm tightens, but instead I feel it in my chest. It constricts with every methodical blink of his dark lashes.
“Close your eyes and take deep breaths.” His voice rumbles in a way that makes my insides tingle. But I can’t close my eyes, because I know what I’ll see: Tan. Golden. Bronze.
“Nurses never tell me to close my eyes. I think I’ll keep them open.”
His eyes shift from the cuff and peek up at me. “Because you like staring at me?”
“Because I’m afraid you’ll run off with my purse.”
He drops his eyes again, but there’s a tug in the side of his mouth. I try to regulate my breathing and find some sort of zen when the cuff is at its tightest because my blood pressure HAS to be normal or else Drew will never let me live it down. I shut my eyes only to make sure I win. A small tickle at the base of my wrist triggers my senses, and I peek one eye open. Drew’s thumb moves two centimeters back and forth against my skin like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
I frown, and the cuff releases. The harsh sound of Velcro ripping splits the silence. “Well, doctor, will I live?”
Some of the rigidity of his features softens, and his lashes rise so his gaze meets mine. He drops the blood pressure cuff into the bag then leans forward so his forearm rests on his knee. He grins lightly. “Your blood pressure is good, but I’m concerned about your ego overdose.”
The self-control I harness to keep myself from sticking my tongue out at him is beyond impressive. He knows though; he can see my thoughts. He holds that grin and shakes his head a little.
“Excuse me for worrying about you.”
Wait, huh?
“You were not genuinely worried about me.”
“I wasn’t?”
“No.” That absolutely can’t be it. I won’t allow it. “You were only worried that Lucy would kill you if something happened to me under your watch.”
He shrugs and fiddles with the zipper of his medical bag. “Hmm, I don’t think that’s it.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, my tone almost coaxing. Like I’m swinging a pocket watch on a chain in front of his eyes. You will believe me. “We’re mortal enemies.”
He looks up at me with an unreadable expression painted across his sharp features. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then he closes it and stands instead. He stares down at me, narrowing his blue eyes a fraction before turning around and heading for the front door.
“Where are you going?” I say to his back.
“To get your milkshake. Lie down on the couch and rest while I’m gone. I’ll move your boxes out of your room when I get back.” And with that, he shuts the front door behind him and leaves.
I blink several times, feeling that flush creep back up again.
