The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

We hightail it out of there, and when we pull up outside her house, I give Lucy the whole bag of Twizzlers to take inside as an apology for the one-and-a-half-centimeter-sized scrape she complained about all the way home.

When I’m alone on the couch again, I rub my hand over my belly and tell the baby what an idiot he or she has for a mother. I can’t decide what’s worse, letting myself develop feelings for an incredible man like Drew when I’m eight months pregnant or pushing him away when he showed the slightest bit of interest.

My lengthy inner monologue gets interrupted when the front door opens and Drew steps inside. I hunker down into the couch cushions and pull my blanket up to my chin like I’ve been here all night. Niiice and cozy. Would it be over the top if I snored? I’m just about to try it when I accidentally make eye contact with Drew. Ugh. I want to groan at how fantastic he looks tonight in his dark jeans and heather-grey Henley shirt pulling against his chest.

His blue eyes flare and his mouth forms a mocking smile. “Comfy?”

I make a show of snuggling in, knowing full well he saw me at the restaurant. I’ll die before I admit it though. “Sooooo comfy. Date go well?”

He toes out of his shoes. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? Looked like you had a nice front-row seat.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Drew crosses the room to where I’m lying on the couch. He plants one hand on the armrest above my head and the other on the back of the couch—trapping me. His blue eyes almost look black right now. “I saw you.”

I gulp.

“How is that possible when I’ve been here on this couch all night?” Thank God couches can’t talk.

Drew smiles slowly. “Cute taco robe by the way.” I’m covered up to my eyeballs with a blanket, so this is his way of calling the cards in my hand before I’ve even laid them on the table. His finger rises near my shoulder and leisurely flicks the blanket down an inch, revealing the collar of my adorable leisurewear. He doesn’t even drop his eyes to it, just holds my gaze with that lazy confident smile. It makes me want to disrobe him.

“Seems odd to spy on a man you have zero interest in. You sure there’s no previous statements you’d like to amend, Oscar?”

“Nope,” I say, willing myself not to look at his beautiful mouth. Two out of three buttons are undone on his Henley tee, making a small V-shaped patch of chest visible. My fingers itch to undo that last button. Ladies all across the world chant for me to do it. “Still can’t stand you,” I whisper, sounding weak and like a woman staring at a fresh stream after weeks of dehydration.

“Great.” Drew rises back up to his full impressive height and walks toward the kitchen. “Then you’ll have no problem with me taking Mia to lunch on Friday.”

“None. I hope you have a great time.” I HATE MIA, AND I HOPE SHE CHOKES ON AN OLIVE. I hate that he went out with her! I hate that he looked like he was having a good time! I hate that I feel so broken I can’t let myself love a man again. I want to be like normal women and allow myself to tumble into infatuation naturally, with no restraints, not thinking eighteen steps in advance. But life has taught me to look ahead for the potholes, to identify each and every potential arrow to my heart—and most importantly, Jonathan taught me that I’m easily leave-able.

Drew comes back into the living room, drinking water out of the Frosty the Snowman mug. It’s all he uses now, and when he’s done with it, he rinses it and puts it back up on that shelf above his door. He plops down on the end of the couch near my feet, and I pretend to be deeply offended at the prospect of sitting close to him. I scrunch my legs up as far as my belly will allow, like I can’t afford to catch his cooties.

He smirks at me, dimple popping, and reaches over to snatch the remote from my hand. “Hey! I was watching that!”

Casually, he changes the channel. “No you weren’t.” No, I wasn’t. He flips it over to some boring documentary he knows I’ll hate just to spite me. I’d try for the remote, but it’s hopeless. He’ll just hold it above his head like he always does, and I have zero agility with my belly sticking out a mile in front of me. So I just lie over here and sulk, though I’m secretly smiling to myself that Drew didn’t go back to Mia’s place after their date. In fact, I’d say it ended pretty early for a successful date. Which means it probably wasn’t a successful date.

“Why are you smiling like the Grinch over there?”

I clamp down on my lips and shake my head in a No reason look.

He hums his suspicion and reaches over to pull my blanket down an inch to cover the portion of my toes that was hanging out and cold.

It’s lake house day. SUPER! I’m so glad I made this happen. Not. If there wasn’t a promise of seeing my grandaddy on the other side of it, I’d be canceling so fast. What I don’t understand is, why hasn’t Drew canceled? There’s absolutely nothing in this for him except to reconnect with his old mentor—but I’m not even sure that’s important to him.

Currently, Drew and I are both standing opposite each other in the kitchen, angrily wolfing down bowls of Raisin Bran Crunch (he insists on healthy cereal but doesn’t realize I secretly mixed Cinnamon Toast Crunch into mine). We’re staring at each other like we’re in some sort of warped cereal eating competition. I almost choke twice.

We both take the last bite at the same time and then go shoulder to shoulder at the sink and drop our bowls in. We’re synchronized swimmers as we turn opposite ways and flow out of the kitchen. I grab my heavy suitcase, Drew rips it out of my hand and glares at me then picks up his own. We stomp stomp stomp out of the house, lock the door, and go to the Jeep. This is how we’ve been operating the last few days, ever since our fight after the fundraiser.

He’s mad at me for humiliating him and turning him down outside my door, and I’m mad at him for breathing. Also—I don’t love that he went out with Mia again. It was just a lunch date, but Lucy told me Drew said they had a nice time. Well sure, Drew, if you like nice times, then why don’t you just go ahead and buy an Instant Pot and dorky matching polos and marry her already. You two will have a very nice life with adorable Christmas cards, I’m sure.

Gag me.

Drew doesn’t want nice. He wants spicy. He wants some grit. He wants a good fighter. He wants me.

Do I want him?

BAM. Drew slams down the trunk of the Jeep, so I slam my passenger door shut just so we’re even. And then we’re off. Locked inside a steel cage together as we barrel silently down the interstate toward a weekend of fake bliss and love. There’s so much tension between us that I can’t even imagine a happy outcome for this trip. How are we going to act lovey-dovey when clearly we both feel like throwing on some boxing gloves and stepping into a ring?

After forty-five minutes of silence, I break. “Have you thought about how you’re going to explain me away after this weekend?”