The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

“I was at the clinic, but I have to go into the hospital for a little while today. Just stopped for a coffee—and apparently a hostile pregnant woman—on the way.” He shows the first signs of a smile, so I look away. I need to get out of this Drew-infused vehicle. It’s making my brain mushy.

We pull up in front of my salon and park. Drew then swivels his big torso so his back leans in the corner between the door and the seat. He surveys me, eyes scanning like lasers, trying to comb through my thoughts.

Needing something to do other than let Drew see me sweat, I flip down the visor and open the flap, revealing the cosmetic mirror, looking for the stain. There’s another little love note to Drew scribbled in Sharpie. Beth & Drew forever. I frown. “How long have you had this Jeep?”

“Since I was sixteen.”

“I would think since you’re a big-time doctor now you’d be excited to get a sports car or something, trade up like the rest of them do.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. Too many good memories, I guess.”

Oh no. Drew is sentimental? That’s exactly the sort of thing I didn’t want to know about him. I would like to take that information and bury it at the bottom of the ocean where I can never find it again. Drew is a monster with a cold heart—not a man who chooses a ratty old Jeep full of memories over a hot new sports car.

Staring at him now in this tight space surrounded by his scent and adolescent memories leaves me feeling sort of breathless. The stain—RIGHT! Focus on finding the stain, Jessie. I still can’t quite see anything in the mirror, though, unless I lift my butt off the seat and angle my belly toward the mirror, which I will literally die before doing in front of Drew. I give up with a grunt and slap the visor mirror closed again.

“Want me to show you where it is?”

“No,” I snap. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just a tiny stain right—”

I slap his hand away from where it was inching toward my belly bump. “I said no! Stick to your own side and stop trying to feel me up.”

He scoffs, annoyed, and shakes his head. “Right. You wish.”

“Never! Not even in my dreams.” Why did I have to mention that last part? It’s almost like I’m admitting I dreamed about him last night. It was not a polite dream either. I saw more than just that tantalizing sliver of his skin, and I think that’s why I’m so riled up by him today. I’m not supposed to be dreaming about Drew! Or anyone. I’m on my own, and that’s just how I want it for now. No more men until I complete at least ten years of therapy to undo the damage left by the others.

“You sure about that? You’re telling me you’ve never even had one tiny dr—”

“Well, Dr. Andy,” I say, firmly cutting him off. “It’s been torture as always. Thanks for the ride I didn’t want.” Wow, I’m so mean I can barely even tolerate it myself. I reach for the door handle, but Drew grabs my wrist.

We both look down at where his hand circles it, and he lets go.

“Hang on.” He opens up the glove box, pulls out a Tide-To-Go pen, and tosses it in my lap. “The coffee stain is about three inches below your navel.”

“Don’t talk about my navel,” I say, and then I glare down at the pen like it’s a grenade. “I can’t believe you just had this on hand.”

“Never hurts to be prepared.”

“Of course.” For some reason, it does not surprise me in the least that Drew has a stain-remover pen in his Jeep. He’s probably got a change of clothes in that glove box too, and a protein bar in case of emergencies.

I hate that I have to accept his offering, but I will because I don’t want to face a whole salon of women today with a coffee stain down the front of my shirt. I tuck the pen into my purse then unlock the door and start scooting out. I look like an Oompa Loompa rising from a candy binge.

When I’m out, Drew rolls down the window and calls out to me. “By the way, you shouldn’t be drinking too much coffee. Caffeine isn’t good for the baby.” He’s smiling like the devil as he backs out of the space and starts driving off. He just had to get in one last hit before he left.

I fist my hands at my sides and yell, “I WANT MY UNDERWEAR BACK, YOU PERV!” A woman in the parking lot tosses me an angry glance then finishes escorting her elderly mother into their car. Oops.

When I get home that night after work, Drew is locked away inside his room (coward), but there’s a pile of my undies in front of my bedroom door with a note on the top that reads: Some dirty weirdo dropped these off earlier. He said not to invade his laundry loads with your underwear anymore.

It’s a slow Tuesday morning, and it’s only Lucy and me in the salon. Levi’s tummy troubles yesterday ended up just being a case of too much sugar at Grammy’s house, so Lucy is back at work today. I’m not due to have another client for twenty minutes, which gives me a chance to pull my planner out of my purse and hunker down behind the reception desk. I don’t know why I feel the need to hide when I do this, but I do. I have a planner I bought solely for this purpose, and every day, I pull it out and place a solid X through the calendar box with my aqua-colored gel pen, telling me I’ve made it one day closer to my due date. Leaning my elbow against the counter, I prop my hand under my chin and smile as I trace my finger along the freshly inked square.

One day closer.

“Whatcha got there?” Lucy materializes out of nowhere to peer over my shoulder like a snoopy mom trying to catch me getting up to no good.

I screech and slap my planner closed. “Nothing!” Anger is the first emotion I rush to when I’m embarrassed, which would explain why my eyes are blazing and tone is clipped.

Lucy blinks and backs up, hands raised. “Wow, okay. So sorry. I didn’t realize I would be stepping into something, but clearly I am.” Trying to be angry at Lucy is like being angry at a bunny for having too fluffy of a tail. It’s impossible. I just want to feed her carrots and make her happy.