by Sarah Adams
SUNDAY
I shut the fridge. “We’re out of creamer.”
Jessie is standing beside me, holding a cup of black coffee, looking like I just told her she has to pee in that mug and drink it.
“No,” she whispers dramatically.
“Not a fan of black coffee, I take it?” I already know she won’t drink it without cream, but I ask anyway so she won’t know I’ve been tracking her every movement since she moved in.
“Drew”—I’m still not totally used to hearing my name used so casually on her lips—“creamer is one of the few magnificent little wonders in this world. I refuse to go without it, and no, I’m not being dramatic.” When she smiles like that, I don’t stand a chance. I will bend to her every desire every time.
“Alright then.” I scoop up my keys.
She sets down her mug and hurries after me. “Wait, where you going?”
“To the store to get you creamer.”
She’s bobbing behind me, trying to grab the keys. “No! I didn’t mean you had to go. I’ll go. It’s for me anyway.”
I hold the keys up high so she can’t take them. They jingle playfully. “I need a few other things too.”
“Then make a list, and I’ll get them while I’m there. I better go ahead and buy Grandaddy more Oreos anyway.”
I grin down at her attempts to hop in the air for the keys and her inability to do so because of how uncomfortable it is with her swollen belly. I’m so mean, hanging them like a bone on a string over her head. “Nope, I’m going.”
Determination settles in her stubborn green eyes. “Fine. Then we’re both going.”
“Great.”
“Wonderful.” Her chin angles up. “I’ll drive separate.”
“You’ll ride with me.”
Her eyes narrow and she waits three beats before responding. “Only to help preserve the planet.”
“Such a hero.”
MONDAY
There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and because it’s only us here, I know who it is. My stomach flips as I turn the handle and find Drew with a hesitant smile. He leans his shoulder against the frame, does a slow perusal of me in my shorts and tank top, and then meets my eyes.
“I accidentally made too much dinner. Come eat with me.”
“Is it poisoned?”
“No, my vial was empty.”
I twist my lips to the side, trying to look like I’m contemplating it and didn’t make up my mind the second he asked. Because truth is, I’m spending all my free time with Drew these days. He knows it. I know it. But neither of us will admit it out loud, because it’s too scary.
TUESDAY
Everything took too long today. So many highlights, so many women wanting to re-invent their look. At five o’clock, I wanted to throw my bowl of lightening cream against the wall and yell, “Yeah, yeah, you look fine! Go home and love yourself as you are!” But I stood there like a good little hairstylist and finished taking a woman’s hair from a level four brunette to an ambitious level seven warm blonde until eight o’clock. Because in the hair world, you don’t get to clock out at five. You stay until the job is done.
I floor it all the way home. Home. Drew’s home, I mean. His Jeep is in the driveway, and I feel an eagerness to get inside.
I open the door too exuberantly, and it slams back against the wall. He’s sitting on the couch with a bowl of ice cream and nearly throws it over his head. He’s wearing his trademark at-home look: Hoodie. Sweatpants. Bare feet.
Except thanks to me, he also has a swollen black eye.
He’s adorable, and I have to admit it to myself or I’ll burst.
“Is a killer chasing you or something?” he asks, wide eyes looking to where I flung the door open.
Oh, right. He can’t know I rushed in here like a maniac so I could see him. I look over my shoulder. “Yeah. Gosh, you should have seen him. Big. Burly. Scary knife.” I shiver and shut the door, smiling when my back is to him.
“In that case, lock it.” He grins, and my heart flutters.
My legs are crying out for me to go to the couch and sit down beside Drew, but I’m still not sure if I’d be welcome there or not, if I should go there or not. I think it would be a bad idea.
There, woman, you’ve seen him like you wanted, now go to your room and behave.
Drew leans forward and rests his elbow on his knees, bowl of ice cream in hand, and takes a casual, unhurried bite, staring at me the whole time. “Are you going to stay over there all night?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay.” He takes another bite with the spoon upside down in his mouth and slowly pulls it back out. So yeah, I can’t stand here watching him eat ice cream all night like a freak. I can’t, right? No. I can’t.
He licks his lips and sets the bowl down, stands, and then nods his head at the couch. “Sit.”
Drew disappears into the kitchen, and I shuffle over with weak legs. I sit down. Cross my legs. That feels weird, so I uncross them. I lean back and then feel like Santa with my jolly round belly, so I sit back up. How did I sit before Drew came along?! SOMEONE TELL ME HOW TO SIT!
“Here.” He’s in front of me now, holding out a bowl of ice cream. Cookies n’ cream, mmm. I laugh, though, when I see a single floret of broccoli perched on the side of a scoop. His grin is tilted and making my world spin. “Balance, you know?”
“Balance,” I say with a solemn expression.
And that’s that. He sits beside me on the couch, and we eat our ice cream while watching the most boring documentary in the world. It’s so good.
WEDNESDAY
Drew doesn’t come home after work, so I can only assume he’s at the hospital for a delivery. Or he’s on a date. I don’t know, and it kills me all night. I try to watch a romance movie, but I can’t focus. In my head, every scene is Drew with another woman, Drew kissing a different woman. It’s absolute torture. I could have just texted him and asked what he’s up to, but…that feels like too much. Too close. Too friend-like, or worse, relationship-like.
So instead I wait up—I mean watch TV!—on the couch for no reason other than I have insomnia like always. I don’t know at what time I fall asleep, but somewhere in the middle of the night, I wake up when I feel something warm drape over me.
I squint my eyes open and see Drew standing beside the couch, turning off the TV with the remote. The room goes black and I can’t see him anymore, but I can still feel and smell him near me. In my sleepy state, I nearly ask him to lie down with me.
“Were you on a date?” I don’t mean to ask this, but it’s better than throwing a snuggle invitation at him.
He leans closer. “You should go get in bed. You look cold.”
“I’m okay right here.”
He grunts, and then I feel a second blanket wrapping around me. He tucks me in like a burrito and quietly says, “I was at the hospital. Get some sleep.”
I do, and I dream of Drew the whole night.
THURSDAY
Drew: Was this really necessary?
Drew: *large framed photo of cat wearing an adorable beanie mounted on the wall*
Me: It was absolutely necessary.
Drew: I’m failing to see how.
Me: It boosts morale. You don’t want to live in a house low on morale, do you?
Drew: Ever since you moved in, my house seems to be bursting with it.
Me: Do you actually want me to take it down?
Drew: …No.
FRIDAY
Drew: Where is it???
Me: I don’t know to what you are referring.
Drew: The mug. My mug. What did you do with it?
Me: Andrew, we have so many mugs. How could I possibly know which mug you’re talking about?
Drew: You know…white…looks like a snowman…has a carrot nose? Was on a shelf above my bedroom door and now it’s gone?
Me: Ohhhhhhhhhh.
Me: You mean this one?
Me: *picture of me drinking out of the mug at the
salon with a devious smirk*
Drew: Put it back…or else…
Drew: *picture of Drew holding a Sharpie with the cap off up to beanie-cat picture*
Me: You wouldn’t!!
Drew: You have until midnight to return my mug.
Drew: P.S. I called in takeout from the burger place you like with the nasty fries. Can you stop on the way home and grab it?
Me: Only if we can rent that new movie.
Drew: I already got it.
Well, I’m here. At Drew’s fancy-schmancy fundraiser thing WITHOUT HIM. One of his patients went into labor this morning so he’s been bouncing back and forth between his practice and the hospital all day. I thought maybe we were going to have to bail on the event (and my epic revenge plan), but he texted me about two hours ago saying he would meet me here and to grab my ticket off the kitchen counter.
Needless to say, I was not too thrilled about the idea of showing up by myself.
So that’s why I’m hiding in the uncomfortably cold bathroom like a loser. I texted Drew incessantly as I was getting ready to ensure this very thing didn’t happen. Are you going to be on time? I texted at least five different times as the hour to leave the house grew closer. Yep! he’d say. Still on time? I asked before I ever stepped foot in my car. Yep! I’ll see you there, he said.
And then, as I was walking into the glowing ballroom of the fanciest event I’ve ever been to outside of prom a hundred thousand years ago, Drew texted me: Traffic. Gonna be late. So sorry. I wanted to hit the ground and army-crawl my way out of there, but it was too late. I’d been spotted by too many of the high-profile doctors and power couples.
I rushed to the bathroom, and it’s where I’m still lingering, pretending to obsess about my hair, wash my hands, and re-apply lipstick every time someone new walks in here. My hands are going to be shriveled-up prunes by the time Drew finally arrives.
A woman comes into the bathroom for the second time and eyes me warily, and I realize it’s time to leave my post as bathroom attendant. I swallow and look at myself in the mirror one more time, really wishing I had bought the more modest dress the online store tried to sell me instead of this one. It’s like it knew. Snooty sales attendants could somehow see me through my computer and were silently sticking up their noses, trying to thrust their grey lifeless maternity dress into my cart. But nooooooo. I had been watching Dancing with the Stars and was feeling frisky. So I bought the slinky, jet-black number with the high knee slit that appeared right next to the one a woman at my stage of gestation should purchase.
I hiss when I spin to look at myself over my shoulder. When did my butt get so big? Seriously. It’s massive. Like the peach emoji got implants and some dimples. The woman comes out of the stall and follows my gaze to my rear end as she washes her hands.
“Tell me straight—is my butt too big in this?”
If you’re imagining we have a moment of sisterhood, you’re dreaming. This woman looks as if I have wholly offended her genteel sensibilities and is planning an epic snub. She rips off a length of paper towels and blots her hands before saying, “It’s definitely not a dress I would have chosen for you.”
Oh great. I’m going to cry now as Miss Demure leaves the bathroom in her ravishing gold dress, hip bones protruding from beneath the fabric, tiny firm booty twitching up and down with every step. She wasn’t offended that my dress was too provocative; she was offended that I stuffed my maternal body inside this provocative dress.
The moment I’m alone again, I pull my phone out of my clutch and FaceTime Lucy. “Come on, come on, come on,” I whisper impatiently as it continues to ring. I know I don’t have long until someone else walks in.
Finally, Lucy answers, and I say, “Thank God. Luce, do I look like a trifling harlot?”
She’s sitting on her couch, snacking on popcorn and wearing her glasses. I’m so jealous. “Have you been watching a lot of BBC period dramas again?”
“Beside the point. Do I?” I spin around and give her a nice butt shot.
She whistles. “Look at that booty! You look killer!”
“I do not. You’re lying. I look like a double-wide.”
“You look like a goddess of fertility.”
“Then why do I feel like an elephant dressed up for the circus?”
“Because you have hormones raging through your body at all times. But I swear to you, Jessie, you look lovely. Has Drew seen you yet?” There’s a mischievous glint in her eye.
“No. He’s running late, which isn’t helping my nerves at all. I may look tough, but I don’t think I’ll be able to take it if he tells me I look hideous and he’s too embarrassed to be seen with me.”
A slow grin spreads on Lucy’s face. “I have a feeling he’s going to make you feel nothing but beautiful when he gets there.”
I squint at the screen. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a canary feather should be hanging out of your mouth?”
I take one last look in the mirror and try to stuff my overflowing cleavage back down inside my dress, but that somehow makes it worse.
“No, stop, you’re making them angry. They’re trying to revolt by swelling up more.” Super. “Just relax, Jessie. You’re gorgeous.”
At least I look classy from the neck up. My blonde hair is curled into soft 1920s style finger waves that frame my face with one side pinned back. My eye makeup is dark and smoky, and even I can admit I look runway ready. Then my eyes drop to my velvet black dress and swollen stomach.
“Nope. I’m coming over to your place. Pop some extra popcorn.”
“Wait! Jess—”
I end the call before Lucy has any time to protest and toss my phone into my little clutch. I swing my peach booty all the way out of the bathroom, ready to leave a trail of smoking tracks in my wake. Drew can kick me out of his house for all I care, and this prank I have planned tonight isn’t even worth it anymore. To be honest, I’ve been rethinking it all week. It’s settled—I’d rather be woken up every single morning by Levi than let Drew see me in this dress.
I open the bathroom door and leave the sterile florescent lighting to step into the warm opulence of wealth. Oh my gosh, I’m the pregnant version of Pretty Woman right now. I feel my mortification rising as eyes land on me when I attempt to gracefully glide my way to the front doors. I feel exposed and embarrassed as I try to avoid eye contact with everyone I pass. Why are they staring? Seriously, it feels like everyone is staring. I want to cry. No, I am going to cry.
And then, I see him.
Across the room, an entire ballroom length away, I spot Drew standing just inside the entrance. Holy handsome, Batman. Do they have stylists on call at the hospital, just waiting to turn doctors into red carpet celebrities at the drop of a hat? Of course the first thing I notice is Drew’s hair. It’s styled with a satin sheen pomade and waving away from his face in a wonderfully tousled look that somehow perfectly matches my own retro vibe. At first, I think he’s Cary Grant to my Doris Day. But then my eyes trail the length of his muscular body encapsulated in a tight, well-cut navy—almost black—suit that looks so fabulously out of place among all these other stuffy suits, and I realize we are the rebels at this event. He’s the James Dean to my Marylin Monroe.
Drew looks tall, lean, and powerful while casually talking with someone who stopped him near the door. I don’t think this man even knows the meaning of insecurity, because he’s never needed to feel it. He’s everything everyone wants—everything I want.
It’s official. I’m out of here.
I look around, frantically trying to find a menu or something I can hold in front of my face, but there’s nothing. Nada. What’s a girl got to do to find a tall fern or ficus to stand behind? How about a heavy drape? Damn those BBC shows filling my head with improbable nonsense. They always have a plethora of ferns to conceal themselves with.
When I look up again, Drew is already staring at me. Caught. Even from all the way over her
e, I can tell he is completely ignoring the man jabbering his ear off. Drew’s gaze zeroes in on me and runs from my hair to my toes—so intense I feel his eyes as if they were his hands.
Goose bumps trickle down my bare arms when his eyes meet mine again, and a slow smile spreads across his mouth. His head ticks side to side as if to say, You would. He breaks eye contact with me long enough to disengage himself from the man beside him, and then his gaze is back, locked on me as he walks across the ballroom.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I’m thankful I’m in a room full of doctors so they can resuscitate me when Drew Marshall’s sexy stare makes me pass out.
As he gets closer, I feel myself teetering forward, wanting to run over, wrap my arms around his neck, and trail kisses down his clean-shaven jaw. Easy, Jessie. You’re on a mission tonight. Poor Drew, he’s completely oblivious to the trap he’s unknowingly walking right into, the trap I set the moment he presented this idea of me posing as his girlfriend. Tonight is my chance to even the score after he left me high and dry in front of my grandaddy (yes, I know said grandaddy didn’t show—details, details), and I’ll squash my growing feelings. Just because he’s sexy as sin tonight and I may or may not be developing feelings for him doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon my plans. It means I need to double down on them.
Drew stops right in front of me, and I try not to let my knees buckle. I have never been more nervous in my life.
“You’re late,” I say, in a voice I hope doesn’t betray the way I’m trembling.
Drew shocks every nerve ending in my body when his mouth forms a half-smile and his hand rises to lightly slide the tips of his fingers along the waves of my hair, brushing my temple and cheek and then falling all the way down the length of my arm. His hand stops to lock with mine, and instinctively, my fingers close around his in a possessive, primal grip that I’m not proud of. They say the first rule in retail is to convince a customer to hold the object they are interested in, because their brain will subconsciously claim it as theirs. Apparently, the principle also applies to humans. Drew feels like mine now.
