Roomie Wars Box Set (Books 1-3)

by Kat T. Masen

  Through the blinds the sun begins to rise, the sweet rays bouncing off our off-white walls. It’s officially Sunday, my favorite day of the week. Zoey doesn’t need to go into the office, and I don’t have a shift for another twelve hours. Pushing my exhaustion aside, I remember a moment from the past deciding to share my thoughts with her.

  “There was this one time when Jess was over, and you guys got into a fight. I was angry, livid, and told myself I’d marry you and knock you up just so he didn’t.”

  Zoey grins, resting her hand on my shoulder. “You said that?”

  “Well, to myself. I hated him. And God… I had feelings for you back then but never acted—”

  “Can I tell you a secret?”

  I nod.

  “I look back a lot, usually when I’m engrossed in reading some angsty romance novel and waiting for these two characters to actually hook up. Anyway, I keep reminiscing about us, you know, pre-hook-up days. And I think about all the sexual tension between us. Like, you were always throwing your sexual innuendos around, but I was like ‘whatever, you’re just doing that to annoy me.’”

  I chuckle, remembering how much I did annoy her. “I was doing that to annoy you. But, I’d be lying if I said I never thought about us.”

  “And look at us now…”

  “Look at us now.”

  “Drew,” Zoey whispers, running her hands along my chest, stirring the desire which I keep holding back since she isn’t interested in anything that involves my dick near her. “I just need you.”

  She doesn’t need to say any words.

  My wife needs me here, now, and forever.

  This is her way of telling me to get my damn clothes off super-fast and make crazy love to her.

  Happy wife equals happy life, right?

  Chapter Three

  Zoey

  The first trimester is the longest three months of my life.

  According to this book I’m currently reading, to understand the development of a baby, you best compare it to a piece of fruit. At sixteen weeks, I’m carrying an avocado—times two.

  Sure, an avocado is smaller than a watermelon, but there’s no chance in hell I can push one, let alone two, out of my vagina.

  Thankfully, the cycle of nausea has eased. One minute, I love the smell of fresh pineapple, the next, I projectile vomit giving Linda Blair a run for her money. Like I said, the longest three months of my life.

  Aside from telling Mom and Dad, we decide to keep the pregnancy quiet until it becomes difficult because of my weight gain. Ironic, since I can’t hold a thing down.

  Dad is being typical Dad—proud and rambling on about his grandkids’ future fishing trips to the lake near where I grew up. If they’re anything like the fishing trips he took me on back in the ‘90s, I say payback is sweet. If they’re wreaking havoc in my uterus for the next five months, they can endure Dad and his stories about his two-mile walk to school every day and how he got beaten up by some kid who stole his ball and jacks.

  Mom is no better. Going from speaking on the phone once a month, she calls me daily, coincidentally at eight at night when I take my prenatal vitamins. My God, the woman can talk on and on about articles she reads, food I should or should not eat, and telling me the same story over and over again about how she carried me, and I turned her off to having more children. Great story to hear when you’re a hormonal mess.

  I crave solitude. Since I work for myself and have a small office downtown, I can escape daily and throw myself into working for new clients. I have taken on a huge project just outside of town, building a ranch property for a high-profile celebrity.

  Keeping myself busy with work takes my mind off the pregnancy and all the weird things my body is now doing. Take, for instance, heartburn. I’ve never had it in my life. And don’t get me started on the untimely gases that choose to leave my body without warning. It’s times like this that I’m grateful for an office on the ground floor because elevators are a death trap for others riding with me.

  Drew tells me to slow it down, that I have plenty of time to wrap things up. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. The guy is a workaholic. The only reason I don’t get all five-stage clinger on his ass is because he’s saving lives. I’m selfish but not that selfish.

  After dedicating much of my adulthood to my career, giving it up once the babies come doesn’t seem like such an easy thing to do. I wrack my brain trying to think of ways to expand so I can work from home more, but nothing I come up with works.

  So back to square one of my failed plan.

  Drew and I barely have time for each other these days. Conflicting schedules and crazy hours are his life due to the hospital being short-staffed. I knew this would be our life once we married. It’s never going to slow down. We do, however, make an effort to take small road trips when we can, a few day trips to the mountains, and once a month we schedule one day at home to binge-watch movies, but that’s all pre-babies.

  I can’t ask for a better husband, but Drew is overbearing at the best of times. You’d think I’d have seen it coming since we’d been roomies since forever, but he takes it to a whole other level. Mom and him combined are annoying the living daylights out of me, to the point that I walk out of the room leaving them to pick out which breast pump is the best on the market. I feel like a human experiment. Breast pump? The thought of whacking out the girls in public terrifies me. Occasionally, I have witnessed mothers breastfeeding with that blanket covering them. They look like they have it all under control. Knowing my luck, the blanket will fall right off, and my nipples will be swaying around spraying everyone with milk like a loose fire-hydrant hose.

  The only thing I can do is block out the noise of other people’s opinions and seek joy in the very few things that still make me happy such as tonight’s tickets to The Best of the ‘80s. Belinda Carlisle, Tiffany, Bananarama, and too many others to name.

  I flatly refuse to bring Drew along—his aversion to anything from this era has almost cost us our marriage. However, my best friend, Mia, is the perfect date. Pregnant or not, I’ll be making an appearance and dancing the night away.

  Mia arrives promptly at three wearing black tights with an oversized Whitney Houston tee and sparkling white Reeboks. Her ebony hair is teased and compliments her fluorescent pink earring hoops that fall past her jawline.

  We plan to get there early by beating the peak traffic, grab a bite to eat, then take our seats and catch all the opening acts.

  Inside the car, Mia connects her phone and chooses her ‘80s’ playlist to get us in the mood.

  “Girl, you look amazing. Love the Footloose shirt.”

  I lower my head, tugging on my shirt at the same time. There isn’t much choice in my wardrobe, and thank God this still fits me. Throw in the maternity tights I found at Target and some pink ballet flats, I have to admit I’m pretty comfortable. The crimped hair is just an added bonus courtesy of Mom’s hoarding. She found my crimper in some old box stored in the attic. I’m shocked it still works and didn’t burn the place down with some electrical hazard.

  “Thanks, you look great, too. I’m so excited. What do you think they’ll open with?”

  I can barely contain my excitement, bouncing in the passenger seat hoping to make it to the venue without a restroom stop.

  “Oh…” Mia sighs. “Tough choice. I’m thinking Belinda, Heaven is a Place on Earth?”

  “Yes. Or maybe even Summer Rain. It’s such an underrated song.”

  Mia nods in agreement before cussing like a sailor at some moron who has cut us off.

  My phone beeps in my lap, the notification gracing my screen, and no surprises it’s Mr. Overbearing.

  Drew: Did you take a rain poncho? What if it rains and you get pneumonia?

  Me: It’s indoors… take a chill pill.

  Drew: Oh. What about your vitamins? Did you take them today?

  Me: Yes, doctor. I also bent over, and the nice doctor stuck something in my ass. I think I’m
good for today. Thank you for your concern.

  Drew: You’re an annoying wife. Have fun.

  With a satisfied smile, I place my phone into my small sequined purse and zip it shut.

  “Let me guess, Doctor Drew disapproves that his wife is partying hard at a concert,” Mia teases.

  “Mia, he’s getting on my nerves. Mom and he are shopping for breast pumps together. Does that not scream awkward? They’re both driving me insane.”

  “Um… yes. God, he’s really taking this ‘daddy’ gig to another level. Why don’t you just talk to him and tell him to back off a little, you know, give you space to take it all in? You’re having twins for Christ’s sake. And by the way, do we know what we’re having?”

  “I’m only sixteen weeks. We have a scan in a few weeks. I want to find out to be prepared, and Drew wants a surprise. Argh, the man drives me up the wall.”

  “It’s a nice problem to have.”

  “I’m sorry, Mia, I shouldn’t be—” I decide to cut myself off. Keep this big mouth of mine shut. Mia and Troy have spent the last year trying for baby number two, but nothing is happening. She constantly reassures me she’s fine to talk about it, but I know it’s hard. Me and my stupid big mouth need to shut up, but it doesn’t erase the fact that I’m showing, so no matter what, I’m the giant elephant in the room.

  “Hey, don’t worry about me, okay? We have to celebrate you,” she reassures me while placing her hand on my shoulder.

  “I don’t want to celebrate me. I want to celebrate the fact that Bananarama hasn’t reunited since forever and will be belting out Love in the First Degree. Oh my God, I love that song. I used to sing it in my room and pretend I was singing it to this boy I liked. He was so cute and everything you imagined your first crush should be,” I say out loud, daydreaming.

  Mia giggles. “I bet you Facebook stalk him?”

  “Duh, a few years back. He’s still single but has a kid, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. I was trying to read the comments of this post with him holding a baby but then got distracted by his sister’s profile, and all of a sudden, I’m stalking her twenty-first birthday party and Googling the venue they had the party at because the table settings looked amazing.”

  “And… what does he look like now?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “He ain’t no hot doctor.”

  “You do have a very handsome man as your husband. I’ll give you that.” She laughs, turning the wheel as we find a spot straight away. “We’re here.”

  Both of us let out an excited squeal before locking the car and making our way to the main entrance. We have an hour to kill, so we grab some subs from Subway before hitting the bar.

  “I feel terrible for drinking,” Mia admits.

  “Please don’t. If it were reversed, I’d be doing a round of shots and fighting security to climb on the stage.”

  She drops her hand over my shoulders and squeezes me tight. “I love you. You’re amazing.”

  Our seats are nothing short of the best. Third from the front and smack bam in the middle, so we have a close-up view of everything. The concert opens up with Tiffany, and from the beginning to the very end I’m on my feet, dancing and singing along to every song and forgetting about all my stupid problems.

  It’s one of the greatest nights of my life.

  Three hours later, I’m beat.

  Resting my head on Mia’s shoulder, I make the mistake of leaning on her for support. My feet begin to ache, my toes crippling inside my ballet flats as the reality of all the stomping surfaces.

  “Time to call it a night. I’m so partied out I can barely walk to the car.” I yawn.

  Mia is still buzzing after abandoning me several times to hit the bar. By the way she swaggers and her incredulous laugh, this chick is hammered.

  “Oh my God, so this guy, right, comes up to me at the bar, and we get to chatting. He’s like a lawyer or something legal. Check him out.” She points to this man standing near the exit. Very tall, copper-colored hair, and quite good looking from what I can see in the poor lighting. “So, he tells me I’m hot and gives me his number.”

  I pull Mia back. “You told him you’re married, right? And a Mom?”

  “Well, I don’t have to say it. I wear a ring.”

  “But you did show him your ring, right?”

  Mia laughs, brushing my concern off. “Harmless flirting. Who cares. Lord knows Troy does it all the time. You think his boys’ nights out are just a few beers at the local pub. Try strip joint.”

  “Mia,” I soothe, trying to diffuse her over-imaginative thoughts. “Troy’s not like that. And even if he is, which I’m not saying he is, what good is it for you to get guys’ numbers? Are you going to hook up with this guy, I mean, c’mon.”

  “Not everyone can have a perfect marriage like you, Zoey,” she hisses.

  Ouch.

  I remain silent, processing the hurtful comment from my best friend. It’s very out of character for Mia, and if I look deep enough, the problem is not my so-called perfect marriage but rather my best friend going through something, and this is a cry for help. The copious amount of jaeger bombs doesn’t help either.

  Mia falls asleep on the car ride home. When we reach her apartment I call Troy for help, and he comes down and carries his wife upstairs. I follow behind him, hoping to get in a quick word.

  “I’m sorry. I should have watched her, you know, monitored her drinks. She’ll be out like a light until morning.”

  He places her on the couch, removing her shoes and throwing a blanket over her.

  “It’s not your fault, Zoey. Mia is… she’s unhappy. With me, our marriage, our life… just everything.” He lowers his head. “Listen, you should go. It’s late, and you’re pregnant. Maybe I should drive you home?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, I’m fine. I’ll return her car tomorrow,” I reassure him. “We’re here, Troy, both Drew and I if you need us, okay?”

  He nods offering a smile before I close the door behind me.

  It’s only a twenty-minute drive home, but boy, did that twenty minutes feel long. As soon as the keys jiggle and I’m through the door, my apartment is in full view, I breathe this long sigh of relief.

  I find Drew sitting in our bed with his reading glasses on and some medical textbook. His beautiful, muscular chest is bare, half-covered in our fresh white sheets—some weird thread count which he claims helps him sleep better. I call bullshit on that but let him have it anyway.

  I seriously wonder how I got so lucky to land a husband so sexy, intelligent, and perfect in every way. Just the sight of him in our bed makes my stomach do backflips.

  “You’re home.” He closes his book, meeting my eyes with a sexy grin. “How was it?”

  “Great, fantastic.” I yawn, unable to hold it in. “Babe, is our marriage too perfect?”

  Drew puts his book down, gazing at me curiously. “Where did this come from?”

  I sit beside him removing my shoes and pulling the hair tie out of my hair while explaining to him what happened tonight. “And here’s the thing, I know she doesn’t mean it, but is that how she sees us? Am I rubbing this pregnancy in her face?”

  Drew wraps his arms around me, pulling me into him as we spoon in our bed. “We’re not perfect, okay? You still leave clothes on the bathroom floor. It drives me fucking insane. Same as when you half close jars. Like how hard is it screw the cap back on?”

  “I just have no patience,” I say sleepily. “And you’re annoying with your medical jargon and perfect diet. Plus, I hate how when you make the bed you have to tuck in the sides like they do in hotels. I feel so trapped.”

  He kisses the back of my neck, easing my worries in just one simple moment. The sensation travels across my entire body causing my skin to shiver in delight. He still does it. After all these years, he still makes me weak in the knees.

  “See…” he whispers, “… we’re not perfect but pretty damn close.”

  “I love you.” I yawn again, my
eyes feeling heavy.

  “Love you, too, wife.”

  As sleep becomes my only priority, I push my back into his body and bring his hands toward my chest placing it on my boob like I do every night.

  “Drew,” I mumble. “Do you hang out in strip joints?”

  Another kiss graces my neck. “Shush, go to sleep. And no… I have everything I want right in this bed.”

  ***

  My eyes spring open wide with fear and my heart’s beating like crazy. The room is pitch black, no sign of the moon’s glow or a single twinkle of a star. My hands begin to search the bed patting the crumpled sheets until I reach Drew’s arm.

  Thank God.

  The dream replays in my head.

  I’m giving birth to the babies, it’s painless, and I’m dressed normally. No hospital gown or needles stuck in my arm. My hair and makeup are perfect like I just stepped out of a salon. I’m desperate to see the babies, requesting the nurse to push them close to me, and when she does, there are two pineapples.

  I begin to panic, demanding answers. I begin screaming for Drew, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, walking into the room is my ex—Jess.

  Then I wake up.

  My heart rate begins to settle, realizing it’s just a stupid dream. But unfortunately, my bladder has other plans. Turning on the side lamp, praying I don’t wake Drew, I make my way to the bathroom to relieve myself. I can’t even remember the last time I slept through the night. Mia warned me that my numerous toilet trips will prepare me for the lack of sleep once the babies arrive.

  Back in bed, I’m about to turn the lamp off when I feel this slight bump in my stomach.

  Huh, what the hell is that?

  I give it a few moments before it happens again. Nothing. I place the palm of my hand where the bump occurs and glide it over my skin until the tiny bump presses against my palm.

  I gasp, loudly.