The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

“It has deep sentimental value.” Frosty winks at me.

“Mmhmm.” He’s not having it.

I force myself to hold his bottomless blue gaze and arch a brow. He has at least a foot on me and seems to grow taller during these matches of will. I’m not scared though—not of him physically hurting me, at least.

“Well, Andrew, do you need a fake girlfriend or not?”

I think I see a grin touch the outer corner of his mouth, but I can’t be sure. “Do you need a roof over your head or not, Jessica?” Touché.

“It seems we’re at an impasse.”

“It seems we are, because this is my first weekend off in a very long time, and I don’t intend to spend it running multiple trips between our houses so you can be surrounded by all of your sentimental objects. So, as far as I am concerned, Frosty is staying right where he’s at.”

“No one asked you to help me move, Dr. Stuck-up. By all means, go enjoy your weekend. Throw baby kittens into a lake or slash the neighborhood kids’ bike tires. You know, the things you normally do with your spare time.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not? You already have your pocketknife on you.”

His gaze drops to my stomach. “You shouldn’t be lifting boxes, and if I leave, you’ll try to pick up the slack.”

Self-preservation instincts flood my system, and I flash Drew an angry smile because I HATE feeling reliant on other people for help. “My physical well-being doesn’t concern you, so leave. I’ll be just fine without you.” Better, actually.

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Come on. Quit being ridiculous. We both know you need help moving today.” He plops his heavy hand on the top of the box, and it lands with a thud. “So as your official unpaid mover, I say this stays. You can enjoy your sentimental mugs when you move back home in three short weeks.”

I slap my hand on the box like I’m going to tug it toward me, silently saying it will come with me even if I have to strap it on my back. I look down and see Drew’s knuckles whiten as his grip tightens more firmly around the cardboard. It’s denting.

I want to growl. What does he know? Maybe I really do need this box full of cheerful holiday mugs! Maybe I’m dealing with severe anxiety and snowman mugs are the only things that bring relief! I don’t need any of it, of course, but that’s beside the point. HE doesn’t know I don’t need it.

Our gazes lock, and I think we would both stand here all day, searing each other with angry glares, trying to intimidate the other. There’s an unspoken rule in place: first person to remove their hand loses. Grandaddy has told me my greatest strength is my stubbornness and resilience. Of course, he’s also told me it’s my greatest weakness as well. I’m convinced that in this moment, it’s my superpower.

Drew’s lashes fall and rise as he blinks slowly, and staring at him like this, I can see his pupils grow, blanketing the blue until his eyes are mostly black. His mouth slants and I squirm, but not out of intimidation. Apparently, no one has told my unborn baby that winning against Drew is my greatest high in life, because the little thing ruthlessly squashes itself right down onto my bladder. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I don’t run to the bathroom in one minute tops, things are going to get ugly.

Drew misses nothing where I’m concerned. His gaze slips to my crossed legs and notes how I’m bouncing a little. I don’t want to bounce, but my body has taken matters into its own hands. It’s on autopilot so I don’t pee myself.

His grin tilts, indulgent as dark chocolate buttercream frosting. “Something wrong, Jessica? You need to step away for a minute?”

Never! Absolutely not. I am glued to this box. It is an extension of me now. “No, I’m wonderful. Thank you for asking, Andy.”

I watch suspiciously as his brows crunch together, and he lightly touches the pads of his fingers to his throat. He’s hiked up the sleeves of his hoodie, baring his forearms, and I don’t notice the way his veins wrap around the undersides, twisting like tempting little vines up his arms. I would have to be stupid to pay attention to those things.

“I’m suddenly so thirsty,” he says. “Mind if I get some water?”

I swallow, dread filling me like lead as I see the direction his mind is moving in. “N-no. Go right ahead.”

What a pincushion.

Drew turns on the faucet and, slow as Christmas itself arriving, plucks the snowman mug off the counter and inches it toward the stream of water, other hand still firmly splayed out on the box. He fills the mug up with only a slow, subtle stream of water, looking over his shoulder at me with a false apologetic smile the entire time.

“Gross—I think there’s some dust in this mug. Better pour it out and refill it again.”

I try to focus on anything besides that stream of water. The Sahara Desert. Hot, dry sand. Thanksgiving turkey. Everything that is devoid of moisture. My fingernails bite into the side of the cardboard, and I’m practicing every technique I can think of to not give in to the urge to pee. But OH GOSH, this isn’t working. I’m seriously about to wet myself in this kitchen over a Frosty the Snowman mug set.

Drew can sense my urgency and has zero sympathy for my predicament. He thrives off of it. His powers grow stronger. “Bouncing an awful lot there, Oscar.” I still have no idea why he calls me Oscar, but I know whatever the reason, it’s deeply insulting.

I’m a human pogo stick at this point with how badly I’m bouncing, but I refuse to give in yet. I shake my head in sharp, tight movements. “Nope. Just full of excited energy for move-in day!”

“Oh good. For a second there I thought maybe you had to pee.”