by Sarah Adams
“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.
I’m mesmerized now. I don’t know what he’s doing, but whatever it is, he’s so intense about it. I don’t think my face has ever been this close to Drew’s before. Our moment in the kitchen when we were fighting over Frosty the Snowman was the closest, but this is so much closer. I can see where each of his eyelashes connects with his lid, where his smile lines would appear, and the flecks of black floating in his deep blue irises.
I’m completely silent as Drew takes my arm, his hands tenderly moving across my skin as he adjusts my arm to lay it across the side of the chair. I’m convinced Drew could have a full beard if he wanted, because every day around this time he looks like he could use a shave. Like if I ran my hand over his jaw right now it would scratch me.
Now Drew is dipping into a bag beside the chair and pulling something out. Wait, not just something…a blood pressure cuff!
Lucy and I are so over.
I blink several times to resist the hypnotic trance he’s lulled me into. “You have got to be kidding me! I don’t need my flipping blood pressure taken.” I try to fight it by pulling my arm back, but Drew’s warm hand lies firmly over my arm. Don’t move. His jaw ticks, and he looks almost angry. What does he have to be angry about?
“Stop squirming. Lucy told me about how flushed and disoriented you were at the salon. She’s worried about you.” His eyes scan over me again, and he touches the back of his hand to my cheek. “And she’s not wrong. Your face is abnormally flushed.”
Oh good gracious. This is not happening. Every look, every touch, every scan of his dark eyes is making my problem worse. I need to get away from him. Now.
I slap his hand away. “Yeah, of course my face is flushed! My psycho roommate packed up all my stuff and piled it in my room! I can’t even lie down on my bed! Don’t you think that’s a good enough reason to get worked up?” He grimaces slightly, like maybe he’s a little embarrassed. Good. “When did you even have time to do that?! I thought you were at work all day.”
“I might have…come home during my lunch hour and packed your stuff.”
“And moved all those boxes in such a short amount of time?” I narrow my eyes. I want him to have to say it out loud.
He scrunches his nose a little. “And hired a moving company to come in and move them upstairs when I went back to work.” I stare at him, wishing on every star that when I blink, he will go POOF and disappear. I blink three times and he is, unfortunately, still there each time.
“Just where was that generosity on Saturday when you were busy complaining about the precious time you were sacrificing to help me move?”
“In hindsight, it was childish to have all your stuff moved back to your room. I’m sorry, I was just trying to get back at you. But right now, I’m a doctor, not a roommate, and I’d really like for you to let me check your blood pressure because”—this next part looks like it pains him deeply to say—“I’m genuinely concerned about you.”
I fold my arms, ripping the cord and squishy ball of the blood pressure cuff out of his hand. “Fat chance. You’re not my doctor, and I’m not concerned enough to go get it checked out, because I know the real reason I’m flushed.”
I realize my mistake as soon as Drew’s brow rises. “What is the real reason, then? Lucy said it started right before you left the salon, so I know it wasn’t the boxes.”
I squint. “Well, aren’t you just Nancy Drew. Do you get paid extra for these mystery-solving skills or is it included in your fee?”
Drew’s eyes shut tight and he tilts his head up toward heaven, pressing the heels of his hands to his brows. He can’t handle me. I’m too much. I think he’d like to yell right now, but he’s holding it in because of my possible high blood pressure. Now he’s scraping his hands back through his hair, making it all stand on end but not fixing it. It’s actually a really sexy sight, especially the way his biceps flex against the sleeves of his scrubs. All I want to do is lean forward and run my fingers through those unruly, dark locks and put them back in place.
And the flush is getting worse. Super.
“Jessie. I swear…” He trails off, and I’d really like him to finish that sentence, but he doesn’t. It’s left as a warning. “Let me check your blood pressure. It’s important.”
It’s now clear that the only way I’m going to get off the hook and avoid an assessment is to tell Drew the truth. You’re so freaking hot sometimes I can’t stand it. I’ll die before I admit that to him, so instead, I growl and extend my arm.
“Fine. Take my blood pressure. But when you see that it’s perfectly normal, you owe me a cookies n’ cream milkshake.”
He releases a sigh then gets to work squishing the little ball thing. I stare at him as the cuff on my arm tightens, but instead I feel it in my chest. It constricts with every methodical blink of his dark lashes.
“Close your eyes and take deep breaths.” His voice rumbles in a way that makes my insides tingle. But I can’t close my eyes, because I know what I’ll see: Tan. Golden. Bronze.
“Nurses never tell me to close my eyes. I think I’ll keep them open.”
His eyes shift from the cuff and peek up at me. “Because you like staring at me?”
“Because I’m afraid you’ll run off with my purse.”
He drops his eyes again, but there’s a tug in the side of his mouth. I try to regulate my breathing and find some sort of zen when the cuff is at its tightest because my blood pressure HAS to be normal or else Drew will never let me live it down. I shut my eyes only to make sure I win. A small tickle at the base of my wrist triggers my senses, and I peek one eye open. Drew’s thumb moves two centimeters back and forth against my skin like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
I frown, and the cuff releases. The harsh sound of Velcro ripping splits the silence. “Well, doctor, will I live?”
Some of the rigidity of his features softens, and his lashes rise so his gaze meets mine. He drops the blood pressure cuff into the bag then leans forward so his forearm rests on his knee. He grins lightly. “Your blood pressure is good, but I’m concerned about your ego overdose.”
The self-control I harness to keep myself from sticking my tongue out at him is beyond impressive. He knows though; he can see my thoughts. He holds that grin and shakes his head a little.
“Excuse me for worrying about you.”
Wait, huh?
“You were not genuinely worried about me.”
“I wasn’t?”
“No.” That absolutely can’t be it. I won’t allow it. “You were only worried that Lucy would kill you if something happened to me under your watch.”
He shrugs and fiddles with the zipper of his medical bag. “Hmm, I don’t think that’s it.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, my tone almost coaxing. Like I’m swinging a pocket watch on a chain in front of his eyes. You will believe me. “We’re mortal enemies.”
He looks up at me with an unreadable expression painted across his sharp features.
His mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then he closes it and stands instead. He stares down at me, narrowing his blue eyes a fraction before turning around and heading for the front door.
“Where are you going?” I say to his back.
“To get your milkshake. Lie down on the couch and rest while I’m gone. I’ll move your boxes out of your room when I get back.” And with that, he shuts the front door behind him and leaves.
I blink several times, feeling that flush creep back up again.
Jessie is passed out asleep on the couch when I get back with her milkshake. I cross the room and quietly set the ice cream down on the coffee table in front of her then sink into the armchair. I let my head fall back against the cushion and slide my hands down my face, finally letting myself unwind for the first time today.
Work was exhausting. It is every day, but today was particularly hard. I had to break awful news to one of my patients, and she wept in my office. I let her have as much time as she needed in there because it’s really hard not being able to console my patients. Being a male in this profession, I can’t offer physical comfort in any way. I can give them a few comforting words, maybe squeeze their hand, but then I have to step out and let one of my nurses do the real consoling.
My heart is tender and a little broken, and because of that, when Lucy texted me worried about Jessie, I lost it. I floored it home. All I could think about was worst-case scenarios. She’s in her third trimester, so a sudden spike in blood pressure could mean preeclampsia, and although facial flushing is not normally a sign of high blood pressure, it can be. For some reason, I wasn’t willing to risk that uncertainty. I needed to know for sure that it wasn’t a spike, and the way I felt when her blood pressure read off as normal can only be described as immense relief.
But here’s the thing that’s tripping me up: I never lose my cool under pressure. In the office, if a nurse suspects preeclampsia or any other life-threatening disease, I never show it on my face. I follow the procedures in my head that get me from point A to point B until we figure out what’s going on. But, damn… The way I felt when I thought Jessie was in trouble—it was ridiculous. Absurd. Embarrassing. Definitely not professional. It was something I felt deep in my gut, or chest, or…I don’t know. I’m not really willing to dive into where the emotion came from yet. I’m just relieved she’s okay.
I hear Jessie take in a deep breath like she’s stirring from sleep. I sit up and find her green eyes squinting at me. She has a pillow mark slashed across her cheek that makes me smile.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she says, pushing up on her elbow then swinging her legs around so she can sit up. I watch—a little too closely—as she removes the messy bun from the top of her head and lets her hair fall to her shoulders. It’s kind of crinkly and wavy and wild, and I really like it like this. She stretches her back before gathering her hair again to retie it up into a neater bun. I have to bite my tongue against asking her to leave it down.
Her eyes fall to the Styrofoam cup and she looks up at me with something like gratitude. “You really did get a milkshake for me?” She says it like I’m a freaking hero. Like I just lifted a house off of her trapped body.
“Yeah. I told you I was going to.”
She picks it up and takes a tentative sip. “Yes, but I didn’t think you actually would. I expected you to come back with a bag of broccoli or something.”
Man, I should have done that.
“Not tonight.”
We fall into silence for a few moments while Jessie drinks her milkshake. Finally, she looks up, giving me a quizzical smile. “This is kind of weird.”
“What is?”
“You.” She nods toward me. “You’re being nice to me, and I feel like it’s a trap.”
I chuckle, realizing how ridiculous our relationship is that she has reason to believe I’d be up to something by being kind to her. “I could say the same. For once, you’re not aiming your flaming arrows at me. What’s that all about?” Is it just my imagination or did her flush creep back up? Don’t get out your blood pressure cuff.
She clears her throat lightly. “Too tired, I think. I’ll go back to making your life miserable tomorrow. Do you want to…watch some TV?”
Watch TV? With Jessie? That seems awfully friend-like to me, something we have definitely never been. Could it really be this easy? Can one health scare tip us over whatever it is that’s made us constantly fight and finally have a friendship? Do I want that? Yes.
Cooper’s annoying voice echoes in my mind, telling me I’ve got it bad for Jessie, and I mentally push him down a flight of stairs.
“Uh—sure. Yeah. Let me just grab a shower real quick. You go ahead and turn something on.”
“Okay. Is there anything in particular you want to watch?”
“Whatever you want is good.”
“Okay.” She gives me a soft, uncertain smile, and GEEZ SHE’S RIGHT THIS IS SO WEIRD.
What are we doing right now? How am I supposed to feel about a roommate who hates me, and annoys me, and is pregnant with some other dude’s baby, and is living under my roof in exchange for acting like my fake girlfriend, and whose expression when she smiles, I sort of love?! It’s too messy, and I don’t like messy. I like nice clean squares, neatly stacked in a row and color-coordinated. It’s why I couldn’t handle it when Cooper started dating Lucy. Suddenly he jumped into her square and it messed everything up. It takes some time for me to get used to a new organizational system.
I text Cooper because I’m a masochist who loves pain and suffering.
Me: Jessie and I are going to watch TV together…
Cooper: Naked?
Me: What? No. Why would you ask that?
Cooper: Just trying to figure out why you’d text me you’re watching TV together if it’s not because you’re naked.
Me: Because we’re going to WATCH TV TOGETHER.
Cooper: I don’t get it.
I should have texted Lucy. She’ll understand right away. In fact, my point is proven when another text immediately comes through.
Lucy: OMG!! Cooper just told me you’re going to watch TV with Jessie!!!!! This is BIG! What does it mean?! Are you friends now?? More than friends? Do you love her? She’s so amazing; please love her!
Okay, so maybe a text from Lucy wasn’t any better. Now I’m overthinking watching TV, wondering if maybe I should bail and just go to bed. Have I ever just watched a show with a woman before? It feels intimate for some reason. I give myself a mental shake. I’m being ridiculous.
While I’m in the shower, I think of my relationship with Jessie so far and try to give it a place in my mind. It’s been clear cut up until this point. She’s rude to me, I’m rude to her in return. She hates me, I hate her back. She pranks me, I retaliate. She gives me the cold shoulder, fine, I couldn’t care less. Those boxes all stack neatly—nice and tidy. But then, a new round shape enters the mix, and it looks like Jessie smiling at me. It looks like me rushing home to check on her health. It looks like watching TV together on a weeknight.
Those shapes don’t stack up, so I don’t know what to do with them.
As much as I despise it, it looks like my only option is to see what happens. Going with the flow has never been my specialty, but I think where Jessie is concerned, I have no choice.
Drew comes back into the living room, and I try (I really do) not to notice how good his hair looks damp. The swirl of masculine scents wrapping around him. How cute and down to earth he looks in a hoodie and sweatpants. And his feet are bare. What am I supposed to do with that? Now that I’ve noticed, I feel like he might as well be naked.
Geez, Drew. Must you be so scandalous while we watch TV with your oh-so-naked feet?
Oh goodness, those feet get propped up on the coffee table. Am I supposed to be attracted to the sight of bare feet? No. Absolutely not. This pregnancy and all these hormones raging through my body have turned me into an insane foot fetish person. I need to get in with a thera
pist ASAP because the sight of Drew’s feet is making my heart pump like a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby.
“What are we—”
“NOTHING!” I blurt quickly, nearly throwing my freshly popped bowl of popcorn across the room.
Drew blinks at me, uncertain what to do with that sudden outburst. “You okay over there?”
“Who me? Definitely. I was just afraid you caught me drooling over Zac Efron, that’s all.” Yeah, that’s good, Jessie. Put him off your scent. “Yeah, his bare abs were on just a minute ago and I couldn’t take my eyes off them. WHEW. I mean, talk about one hot male specimen. Delicious.” Delicious?
His head cocks to the side a little, and he takes in a tentative breath like he’s going to say something but changes his mind. Instead, he grins slightly and turns his eyes to the TV…the TV that’s not even on, because I was in the kitchen popping popcorn while he was in the shower. So, instead of pointing out the obvious—that I’m lying through my teeth—he just stares with a quizzical smile at the blank screen and then turns back to me.
I blink at him, daring him to call my bluff and make me admit I’m flustered because of him. I don’t think either of us want to go there, so he just chuckles and reaches for the remote.
“Got it. Zac Efron gets your engine going.”
I make a gagging face. “Never mention my engine again.”
He smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners like I’ve never seen them do before, and starts mindlessly scrolling through Netflix. “What? You don’t want to admit you have an engine? You know, it’s not something you have to be embarrassed—”
“OH MY GOSH, DR. STUCK-UP, please stop! No one likes it when you turn into a gynecologist in the living room.” I chuck a pillow at his head, feeling a new weightlessness between us. It’s making me high.
He only laughs harder, still not meeting my eyes as he continues on. “No need to be squeamish, Oscar. If you’d like, I’ve got some pamphlets at the office that shed invaluable light on this particular topic.”