Lucy is peering at me like I might suddenly keel over. “You’re headed home now, right?”
“Yeah, as soon as I finish cleaning up my station.”
Lucy rips my purse from the hanger next to me and drapes it over my shoulder before pushing me toward the door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it and lock everything up when I’m done with Mrs. Ellis. Your face looks alarmingly flushed. I’m going to text Drew and have him check your blood pressure when you get home.” She looks over her shoulder and naturally has to fill in her new BFF. “My brother is an OB-GYN and also Jessie’s roommate.”
I mash the brakes. “NO! Oh my gosh, Lucy, I’m fine. Don’t you dare text Drew!” I can barely manage to stay five feet away from him without coming unglued. Imagine if he were right next to me…checking my heart rate with his fingers on my neck or wrist…nope. Just nope.
Her eyes go round. “Geez, look at those cheeks. I could fry bacon on them. Mrs. Ellis, do they look like they’re getting worse to you?”
“Oh, honey, yes. Go home and let that doctor check you out.” Not the most ideal choice of words, Mrs. Ellis.
“Okay, that’s it, I’m leaving because you two hens are fussing over me way too much. And Lucy”—I look over my shoulder as I head out the door—“do not text Drew or you will be dead to me.”
Traffic was exceptionally brutal today, which is only adding to my agitation. As I step out of my car and storm my way into the house, I do start to worry about my blood pressure a little. I don’t know why I’m so worked up. It was one tiny little glimpse of Drew’s side abdomen a few days ago, and suddenly, I can’t get it—or him—out of my head. He’s so obnoxious. And prickly. And unthoughtful. Yeah, that’s good, Jessie. Focus on all of that.
Bottom line, I enter that house looking for a fight. I’m feeling strongly attracted to Drew and I need to squash that desire. At least it’s just physical. All I need is one good argument with the man to remember each of the reasons I want to handcuff him and send him off on a boat to the Bermuda Triangle.
I storm inside the house, throw my purse on the couch all willy-nilly, not even worrying that half the contents have fallen out (extra points because that will annoy the snot out of Drew), and then I stop dead in my tracks. Everything looks clean. Grey, white, and black. Where’s all the color? Where is all my stuff?
I’m going to kill him.
“Andy? Are you here?” I peek my head around corners like I’m afraid he’s going to jump out with a boogieman mask on. Actually, I file that idea away for a rainy day. “What did you do with all my stuff, you big jerk?” I yell out. When he doesn’t respond, I’m convinced he’s not here. My fight will have to wait—but I swear, if he packed up all my things and gave them away, I’m going to ruin him.
I stomp my way up the stairs, taking out all my aggression on the carpet and really letting my feet drive my frustration home. When I make it to the top of the steps, I’m out of breath and exhausted. I just need a little pre-dinner nap and then I’ll be ready to—
What the heck? Why won’t my bedroom door open? It’s unlocked and I’m able to turn the handle, but it’s like there’s something on the other side pushing against the door.
I lean my shoulder into it, and finally, it gives way…
…to my bedroom, stuffed to the brim with all my boxes.
My jaw drops an
d my blood boils to the surface of my skin and out through my pores as I take in the room, packed completely full of boxes I can only assume contain all the stuff I unpacked over the weekend. They are stacked one on top of the other and lined all around my room, covering my bed and any useable surface. I don’t even bother going inside because Drew has made sure to stack them in such a way that I can’t even walk around if I want to. Definitely can’t get to my bed. Definitely going to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze.
What was he thinking! I know I sort of started this little prank war, but seriously, Drew?! I’m pregnant! I’m like really, really pregnant! I need a place to be able to lie down and rest. Growing a human here, no big deal.
The sound of a door slamming downstairs makes my head tick toward the stairs like an angry killer robot—target set and ready for brutal combat. With newfound energy, I stomp my way down the steps just like I did on the way up, except now, I’m rewarded knowing Drew gets to hear it. I sound like a herd of elephants.
“ANDREW MARSHALL!” I yell down the stairs as I descend to battle.
“Jessica, get down here!” he bellows back.
Just as I make it to the bottom of the stairs, he steps into view (wearing lavender scrubs that I have to try very hard not to laugh at). His face is cut into stern lines and his pupils are two punctuation marks at the end of a sentence that reads, Not even if you were the last woman alive. The way he looks only fuels my volcanic anger. I’m certain I look nothing like his suave, stoic tyranny. My cheeks feel like I could lay them onto a shirt and iron out all the wrinkles. My eyes are bugging out. I’m a rabid dog you really don’t want to get stuck in an alley with.
“Come sit down.”
“NO. You moved all my—” He takes my arm and pulls me along with him to the living room. “OW! Let go—you’re hurting me!”
“I’ve held newborn babies tighter than I’m holding you.” It’s true. His touch is gentle, but I refuse to dwell on it.
“It’s your scales—they chafe my angelic skin.” I can only see the back of his head, and I’m frustrated by it. I want to see if my quip earned a grin or not.
He doesn’t let go until we make it to the couch, where he plops me down in an armchair.
“You can’t put me in timeout. I’m too old for it. I’ll just get up.”
Drew drops down to one knee beside me, the square lines of his jaw still cut into sharp, serious angles like he’s completely ignoring me. He’s a member of the Queen’s Guard and he won’t pay attention to me even if I snap in front of his face. Even if I stick my tongue out and dance around shaking my butt. He’s focused on my face, my neck, my fingers…why is he holding up my fingers? Why is he pressing on them like that? Why are his calloused fingers so pleasant to be touched by? I figured Drew’s hand would feel soft and buttery from how often he has to wear gloves, but they’re not. Maybe he gets these callouses from the gym? I know he goes every morning before work, because that’s what he’s done the last two mornings.