The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

Drew calls out, “You snooze, you lose, Oscar.”

I growl and bounce impatiently, mumbling under my breath how much I hate Drew.

“So living together is going well?” Grandaddy asks, and I can see a knowing smile on his mouth through the phone.

“It’s torture. I want to pinch him every second of the day.”

“Now, see, that’s exactly why Tray will send Brandy home. Neither one of them wants to pinch the other.”

This again? He’s determined to think there’s something between me and Drew. And he’s right, there is something: animosity.

“I don’t think that’s the way love works.”

“Oh yes it is. If your granny was still alive, she’d tell you. If a partner doesn’t make you want to blow steam out your nostrils, you better start kicking up a storm of something, or your passion is gonna shrivel up faster than a pickle on a sidewalk in summer.”

I roll my eyes. Senile old man. Doesn’t kn

ow anything. Drew and I don’t have chemistry. I don’t even think he’s hot anymore. I made it official this morning with a cleaning ritual. I was going to light sage and wave it around the room, but I don’t have any and don’t even pretend to know where to get those little wands people use, so I just spritzed a liberal amount of my body spray around instead. Boom, cleansed.

The sound of water rushing in the laundry room pulls my attention away from the TV. That jerk is stealing the washer right out from underneath me, and this episode is taking ages to finish. One of the contestants started crying before Tray could even announce the woman that has to go home, so now he’s having a sidebar with Blondie trying to console her. It’s so stupid. I love it.

And now I’m angry at Drew for making me miss it.

“UGH! Grandaddy, text me who wins. I have an annoying roommate to murder.”

I hang up quickly and throw my phone onto the couch. In the laundry room, I find Drew wearing a quiet smirk and dropping a scoop of detergent into the drum of the washer. “STOP! I NEED THAT WASHER!”

“Tough. I do too.”

I set down my basket and cross my arms. “What’s so important that you need washed?”

“None of your business.”

I give a patronizing smile. “Aw, pooped your pants again? Don’t worry, you’ll grow out of it one of these days.”

His dark blue eyes slice over to me, and he squints a fake smile. “Run on back to your ice castle, Jessica. You can do laundry tomorrow.”

“Oh really? Tell that to my butt that’s gonna have to go commando in the morning if you don’t let me do laundry tonight!” I immediately regret saying that.

Drew’s eyes drop to my lower half, and he smirks before turning back toward the machine. Now he’s really not going to let me do laundry.

“Should have thought about that sooner. Last night while you were up redecorating my home would have been a perfect time.”

I can’t hide my grin. It did bother him. This is my punishment—forced commando. It was worth it. I knew Drew was particular about things, and mixing all of my stuff in with his has upset his well-being. All day I’ve watched him walk from room to room and cringe. His color scheme before was grey, white, and black. Now it’s an array of rainbow pastels, fuzzy materials, and a messy pile of shoes he has re-organized more than once already. I go behind him and scatter them out a little just to make his hair stand on end. Literally. I’ve learned when Drew is stressed, he rakes his hands straight back through his hair, making it all stick up at crazy angles. He forgets to smooth it back down half the time, but I refuse to find it adorable.

“That washer is huge—just let me put my clothes in with yours.” I try to hip-check him out of the way, but he won’t budge. He’s a tree trunk with deep roots. I try to lift my laundry basket to dump it inside, but he outstretches his arm so it’s anchoring my basket down. The top of his bicep presses against my chest, and my shoulder digs into his armpit. He smells good.

“No.”

“Why?” I’m struggling.

“Because that’s just not how it works. I wash my scrubs separate from everything else. All those bright pinks you have will bleed onto them.” It doesn’t surprise me at all that Drew is particular about his laundry.

We’re body against body. I’d like to think we’re both working hard to stand our ground against the other, but I know if I were to check the replay cameras, I would see myself red-faced with puffed-up cheeks trying to maneuver him out of the way, and he would be leisurely eating a sandwich or something.

“Not if we wash them on cold.” My voice is a grunt, and it makes him chuckle deep in his chest.

His face angles down to me, lips tilting. “Are you even trying right now?”