The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

My hands are braced on the kitchen counter, shoulders bunched up to my ears, jaw working when I hear the soft padding of feet approaching behind me. Jessie.

“Morning, roomie.” Her voice runs up my spine and knocks against every vertebrae.

I release my palms from the counter and turn to face her—my opponent. My eyes collide with baby blue sleep shorts and a matching tank top. With curves and tan skin. With sleepy eyes and wild hair. With the most deadly of opponents: a gorgeous woman.

I’m not worried, though. It’s just a little physical attraction. Just a man and a woman and all that. Nothing too serious to be concerned about. It would be one thing if I secretly enjoyed her feistiness or her constant need to push my buttons. But I don’t. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

“Looks like you were busy last night.” I sound like a monster guarding his cave, even to my own ears.

She smirks at my obvious agitation, and now I’m even grumpier that I’ve let her see how much 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 affectionally. “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 low 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.

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 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 give 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 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 grey. “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.

I will not crack 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 chanting “Bye-bye Brandy” and 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.