The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

I angle my face a little toward Harold, keeping my eyes on Jessie. “Of course. I’ll be out in a minute.” It’s a good thing he has his eyes closed so he can’t see the sexy eyes his granddaughter keeps giving me.

Harold shuts the door, and I let out something between a puff of air and a laugh before I sink down on the bed beside her. “Well, that was eventful.”

Jessie whips her head to me. “It’s all your fault.”

“Not true. You’re the one who took off my shirt.” I stare up at her with grave seriousness. “I can’t believe you were about to steal my innocence. What a harlot.”

She bites her cheeks against a smile and greedily takes in the sight of me lying on her bed without a shirt. Heat kindles in my chest under her scrutiny, and it takes everything in me to change the subject and not pick back up where we left off.

“Do you think I’m in trouble? Is he going to ground me or something?” I run my hand slowly down her arm and wrap my index finger and thumb around her wrist just because I can.

She watches my weird display of affection with an amused smile. “He’ll probably make you go pick a switch off the tree out front so he can swat you with it.”

“Did he do that to you?”

“No. He was a big softy with me. I was punished by getting one less scoop of ice cream after dinner than normal.”

I pick up her hand next and trace each of her fingers until two of my own land on the pulse point below her thumb. I set my watch, and a fifteen-second countdown begins.

“Why are you always checking—”

“Shh,” I reprimand softly and continue counting. She watches me with a gentle tug on the corner of her mouth and waits until I’m done checking her resting heart rate. I’ll check it every day for the rest of her life, because I can already feel myself becoming obsessive. Although some women might find it annoying, I think Jessie needs someone to obsess over her a little.

“Healthy?” she asks with a taunting raised brow.

I smirk up at her. “I wish I had my stethoscope. We could listen to the baby’s heartbeat.”

She stares down at me with a look of disbelief. She can’t believe that I care about her baby—about her. It’s something she’s going to have to get used to, because my adoration is only going to grow from here.

After I lightly yank on Jessie’s arm a few times, she concedes and lies down beside me, letting me run my hand affectionately over her stomach. I brush my fingertips across her collarbone and mentally map every freckle, every scar, every bend and dip of her skin. I lean in and kiss the base of her neck slowly, brushing my lips up and down the gentle curve between her shoulder and jaw. She sighs and shuts her eyes, a contented smile on her lips. I nuzzle her skin with my nose, breathing her in and finally letting myself believe she’s…

“Mine.” I finish my thought as a whisper against her skin before giving her a soft love bite on the top of her shoulder.

I prop myself up and stare down at this beautiful woman, wondering how fortunate I am that God apparently took enough pity on me to drop her into my life when I never deserved her and never will. She gives me a warm, loving smile, her hair fanned out around her and face tilted to look at me.

“I really hope Grandaddy doesn’t kill you.”

Right.

Much needed mood killer.

Let’s get this over with.

I don’t know what I’m so nervous about. I’ve spent all day with Harold, and he’s been nothing but sweet and kind. Also, I’m a grown man—a doctor. Surely I can handle talking to Jessie’s grandfather. He probably just wants to get to know me a little more and tell me he’s happy Jessie and I found each other. I encourage myself with these thoughts all the way down the hallway toward the little dining room off the kitchen.

I felt weird about him seeing me shirtless—hovering over his granddaughter—so not only did I put my shirt back on, I also added a sweatshirt even though it’s about seventy-five degrees in here. I was tempted to also wrap myself in a blanket, but Jessie said that was excessive.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the dining room with sweat dripping down my forehead, wishing I had left the sweatshirt behind and cursing myself for ever underestimating Harold Barnes. Yeah, that’s right—this man is no longer sweet little Grandaddy to me. He’s freaking Colonel Barnes, decorated World War II hero. Want to know how I know this? Because the first thing he did when I entered the dining room was point to a chair and tell me to sit. And then he told me all of this while leaning across the table, knuckles pressing into the wooden tabletop, leveling me with a terrifying gaze. After that, the old man strapped me up to a polygraph test. I’m not even joking. A real lie detector. Where did he even get this thing? Probably the war…

He sat down in front of me, crossed his legs, and lifted a brow. Gone was the sweet, meek old southern grandaddy gleefully showing me photo albums. This man has scars from war marking his soul. He tells me he’s not old—he’s experienced.

“How old are you?” He’s been lobbing some softballs at me so far, but I’m expecting a curve at any moment.

“Thirty-three.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”