The Temporary Roomie (It Happened in Nashville 2)

I sag against it and drag in as much air as I can, feeling grateful no one is here to witness me fighting for my life after that mild exercise.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

“AH!” I screech and then cover my mouth. How did he get up here so fast? I don’t even hear any panting on the other side of the door. Showoff.

“I know you’re hiding in there. Get out here.”

My, my, someone’s throwing a temper tantrum.

Feeling empowered by the locked door, I lean against it and angle my lips toward the crack. “You know, someone once told me that manners are important, and I think you’re missing a special word there, mister. I’ll give you a hint. It starts with a p and ends with—”

“Jessie,” Drew barks from the other side. The fact that he used my shortened name makes me want to run for the hills. This is serious. “Come out here and face me, woman.”

I’m a tiny little mouse safe inside my mouse hole, and he’s the big mean cat trying to swipe his paw inside. “No thanks. I’m good in here.” My stomach growls. I should have brought some cheese with me into this mouse hole.

“You can’t stay in there forever.”

“Not forever. I just have to wait long enough for one of your patients to go into labor, and then I’ll sneak out. I’m not an idiot.”

“I’ll quit my job.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“My full-time career is now sitting here and waiting you out. Don’t think I won’t.” He growls, and it stirs the pit of my stomach. “I can’t believe you did that to me tonight.”

“Can’t you? We’ve been pranking each other repetitively since I moved in. You should have seen it coming. I don’t understand why you’re so mad.” I do understand, though. It was a cheap shot tonight. It felt wrong from the beginning, and it feels wrong now.

He scoffs mildly. “You don’t see why I’m mad?” His voice is doing that thing where it sounds light and airy, which is honestly scarier than if he were yelling. Not scary because I feel that I’m in any danger around Drew—I know he’s not like that—but scary because it feels like we are on the precipice of something. His emotions are loose and wild, and everyone knows in the heat of the moment is when real truth spills out. It’s when words are said that no one can take back.

“Well, let’s see. To

night, my fake girlfriend tricked me into getting down on my knee and proposing to her at a medical fundraiser with the world’s dinkiest, most insulting ring on the planet in front of five hundred important doctors, scientists, and a few celebrities, all of which came up to offer their sincere congratulations for a union that’s not really going to happen and then poorly contained their horrified shock at the fake diamond ring on your finger that’s literally the size of a punctuation mark.” Okay, yeah, that sounds pretty bad when he lines it all up like that. “But I’ll tell you what makes me the most upset.”

“Do you have to?”

I can practically feel his white-hot anger searing through the door, and I want to hide under my covers. “I’m most upset that this wasn’t like all the other pranks.” His words are sharp needles resting on my heart. “Was it, Jessie?”

I swallow and flick a piece of chipped paint off the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” It sounds like his forehead is resting against the door too. “This one was malicious. It was meant to humiliate me, and”—he sighs, and I imagine him running his hand through his hair—“you’ve been planning this since the day you moved in, haven’t you? Everything was just building up to this prank. You still think I stood you up on purpose and haven’t forgiven me.”

I stay quiet, afraid to say anything. But apparently my silence is telling enough.

“Thought so. Damn, I’m an idiot.” He laughs, but it’s humorless. “Here I thought this last week we were…”

“Were what?” I lean against the wall and stare at the crack in the door, almost wishing I hadn’t asked that question.

“Flirting,” he says, so matter-of-factly. “Weren’t we? All those other little wars just felt like messing around, having fun…like they were leading to something else between us. Was I wrong?”

Again my silence speaks volumes, but I know it’s telling the wrong story.

He’s not wrong, and I’m quiet because tears are leaking down my cheeks, and I don’t want him to know it. I don’t want him to know I’m crazy about him and every day I spend with him I like him more. He has a horrible singing voice but still belts out a song every morning while he cooks breakfast, and he always makes double for me, pretending he accidentally added too many eggs. I still have terrible insomnia, so every night I go out and fall asleep on the couch watching reruns of Seinfeld or a BBC show. The past few times, I’ve woken up in the morning with my pillow from my bed under my head and an extra blanket draped over me. One time I woke up with socks on my feet. I’ve never thanked Drew for it, because I’m scared to admit how much it means to me.

And now, I absolutely will not tell him I have feelings for him, because I never want a man to have power over my heart again. It feels easier just to let him think I hate him, let him believe I like being on my own.

It sounds like Drew’s forehead gently lands on the other side of the door, and I imagine us face to face, separated by only two inches. “I’m not afraid to admit it to you, Jessie. I have been flirting with you. I like you. Yeah, you drove me insane at first and still do sometimes, but it’s good. I really…I thought you felt the same way.” He sounds tired all of a sudden.

I clear my throat lightly so he won’t hear the wobble from my tears and then force myself to kick him away Old Yeller style. “I’m sorry, Drew. You’re not my type. I’m just…not attracted to you in that way.” I’m tempted to duck and cover due to the lightning that will definitely strike me down any second. As extra penance, a magical transcription will appear on my gravestone that reads: Jessie Barnes was never as attracted to anyone else as she was to Drew Marshall.