Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
Jessie
This day has gone on forever. Forever and a half actually. Normally my clients are all pretty easygoing and I’m able to understand exactly what they want and achieve their desired look. Something was in the water today, however. Maybe it’s because I’ve hit the exhausted part of pregnancy where no matter what I’ve done I feel as if I just swam up Niagara Falls carrying an elephant on my back; or maybe everyone else woke up crabby. Either way, no one looked happy after the first big reveal of their hair, and I had to do second passes on everyone’s style.
Basically, I’m walking through the door feeling like a huge failure and really hoping that my nemesis isn’t inside waiting to make my day even worse. We didn’t say a word to each other this morning over breakfast, and it was the strangest truce of my life. It was even . . . dare I say, sexy? Can eating breakfast even be sensual? Part of me thinks I’m losing all sense in this house and maybe he is too. It’s like a vortex that’s sucked us both in and is spitting us out slightly warped.
The problem is, I’m not sure which version of Drew I’ll get when I go inside, and even more concerning, which version of him I want. Best to prepare for battle.
I turn the door handle and step inside. It’s quiet, and at first I think that maybe I’m alone, until I hear a sound from the kitchen.
Wait . . . was that a . . . moan?
I hesitate a second at the door, but then I hear it a second time and now I can confirm that it was definitely a moan, and it was definitely coming from Drew, and I’m definitely feeling a lot of conflicting emotions that I don’t know how to process. Is he . . . entertaining someone in there?
Oh god.
Oh no, no, no.
This is the day of nightmares, and it won’t stop.
I turn as quickly as I can and dart for the front door, trying not to make a sound so he and his person in there don’t hear me. Except, of course, my purse, which is hanging off my shoulder, becomes the victim of centrifugal force and arcs off my body and into the wall beside the door like it’s trying to knock down the whole damn thing. The sound is horrific. There’s no missing it.
“Jessie?” Drew’s alarmed voice suddenly calls out from the kitchen.
Oh, this couldn’t get any worse.
“Oh god. I’m so sorry. Don’t mind me, I’m leaving!” I say loudly while moving out the door.
“Wait.” His voice is getting closer. “Where are you going?”
He’s right behind me now, and I throw my hand over my eyes to turn around and face him. “Leaving! I didn’t mean to walk in on you.”
There’s a small, confused pause. “What the hell are you talking about. Jessie, look at me.”
I hesitantly drop my hand away and find Drew standing there in his black sweatpants and a white T-shirt.
“You’re clothed,” I say, like it’s the most startling revelation in all of humanity.
“Yeah . . . what did you expect?”
“Your penis.” My face flames at my own admission.
Drew’s eyes are saucers as he chokes on a surprised laugh. “Wh—why would you expect my penis?” He takes an awkward step away from me suddenly, like I might reach out and peek down his pants anyway.
“I came in and heard your . . .” I really struggle over this next word. “Moan.”
“My . . . m—” he cuts off, eyebrows pinched together, then a wry grin twists his mouth. His whole demeanor suddenly relaxes. “Wait. What exactly did you think I was doing in that kitchen?”
“I hardly think I need to spell it out for you.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
I narrow my eyes. “I thought you were . . .”
“Having sex?”
“That’s the one.”
He crosses his arms with a grin. “I’m surprised you’d give me that much credit with how often you remind me of my horrible personality. ”
I shrug. “Maybe she asked you to not talk. I’m not one to judge the particulars of intimacy or how someone musters through it with you.”
He rolls his eyes, and this is the first time I notice how dark the circles are under them. There is so much tension living in his features today. “I haven’t heard any complaints so far. But no—I wasn’t having sex in the kitchen. The sound you heard was one of pain.”
His hand dashes up through his hair, and I tell myself that I really don’t care what is wrong with him or why he was in pain. It doesn’t matter. I’m exhausted and it’s been a long day and I’m just relieved I didn’t have to walk in on my roommate doing things I’d rather not see him doing with anyone.
Except, something about him really looks off.
“Come back in the house, Jessie. You’re safe from the affronting sight of my penis.”
I ease back into the house and close the door behind me, eyeing closely my roommate that I hate more than pumpernickel bread. Normally his muscled frame is ramrod straight, ready for anything. But right now, it’s drooping. Odd.
He goes into the kitchen and begins unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher, and even though I tell myself I really don’t care about whatever is happening to him, I can’t make myself stop watching him. I hover on the threshold of the kitchen, assessing him. Tracking every single one of his movements and replaying them against how he was moving this morning.
I decide to perform an experiment.
I step fully into the kitchen and wait until he puts a bowl away in the cabinet. I deliberately scoot that same bowl over two inches like he did it wrong the first time. He doesn’t even notice. Not a sigh. Not a grunt. Not an eye roll. In fact, he’s not commenting on my presence in here at all, and that might be the most startling aspect of this encounter yet.
With arms folded, I lean back against the counter and throw a large piece of bait into the water, knowing the real Andrew won’t be able to resist. “If you make love like you put dishes away, I’m willing to bet that your predicament of never getting a second date has nothing to do with your profession.”
I’m not proud of that comment—and if I’m being honest, I know it wasn’t even my sharpest poke. But listen, I’m exhausted and it’s all I can muster right now.
I nearly fall to the ground in shock when the only response I get from Drew is a quiet and uninterested hm.
“Okay.” I push away from the counter. “What’s wrong?”
He looks at me. “Nothing.” But his eyes are squinted into little slits. His jaw is flexing.
“You said your moan earlier was from pain. What did you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Clearly it’s something, Andrew, so tell me or I’ll be forced to turn all of your scrubs lavender.”
He doesn’t laugh or flip me the bird. He attempts a smile, but it never fully hits his mouth. “It’s no big deal. I have . . . a small migraine.”
I imagine I’ll look back on this moment later in life and find it startling how quickly I push away from the counter and slingshot across the kitchen to Drew’s side. I’m sure I’ll want to scold myself for the all-encompassing need to comfort him I have now. But in this moment, all I can think about is that Drew is in so much pain he can’t even bring himself to slice me with a cutting comeback for any insults.
“What the—Jessica, what the hell are you doing?” he says as I press my hand to his forehead, then his cheeks. Back and forth. I do this three times before I feel I have a good grasp on his body temperature.
“Checking for a fever.”
This makes him gently swat my hand away. “I don’t have a fever. I get these sometimes.”
“Migraines?”
“Small migraines.”
“No such thing. I’ve had a migraine before—only once, but it was brutal and I can attest that when you feel the need to use the word migraine, it’s no small thing.”
He turns back to the dishwasher and bends to retrieve the silverware basket. I immediately take it from his hands and place it back on the rack. This earns me a mild glare. “Jessie, I’m in no mood to . . .”
“Exactly. You’re in so much pain that you can’t even fight with me.” I wrap my hand around his wrist—firmly—and tug until he follows.
“Where are we going?”
“To your bedroom.”
And see . . . the man doesn’t even so much as toss a dirty remark back at me. The Drew I know (and hate) would have said something wonderfully mean about how only in my dreams would I get to hear him moan with pleasure. But no. He’s silent.
After I’ve fairly dragged his butt into his room, I turn him and push against his shoulders so he’s forced to sit on his mattress. He sighs as he relents, and I can’t tell what it’s directed at because his face is so contorted with pain it’s hard to interpret.
“Lie down.”
“I’ve got stuff to do.”
“I’ve had a long day and I don’t have the energy to fight with you more on this. Lie down, Andrew.”
He searches my eyes for a few seconds, and whatever he sees in them convinces him I’m not to be messed with right now. Slowly, and accompanied by several grimaces of pain, he gently lays his head on the pillow. I pull his blankets up over him and he frowns at me the entire time.
“You don’t need to do this,” he says, but I don’t acknowledge the comment.
After making sure he’s not going to try to dash out of bed, I go to his curtains and close them.
“Jessie . . . stop. I don’t need help.”
“Yes, you do,” I say, frowning at how light the room still is. He doesn’t have blackout curtains, and that’s not at all acceptable when your head feels like there’s a jackhammer chiseling away at your brain. So after grabbing a blanket from the living room, I toss it up over the curtain rod, darkening the room two shades.
Next I go fill up a sandwich baggie with ice and bring it to him. He is looking at me as if I’m an alien when I take the homemade icepack and put it on his head. “Have you taken headache medicine already?” I ask.
“Yes.” Those squinting dark-blue eyes continue their frantic search of my face.
“Do you feel nauseous?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go get you some Sprite.”
As I turn, he catches my wrist gently and pulls me back, tugging me down until I sit on the edge of the mattress beside him. “What is happening right now?”
I look everywhere besides his face. “I’m making you rest and take care of yourself because clearly you’re one of those doctors who saves lives but is incapable of basic self-care.”
“I don’t . . . that’s not what I’m doing.”
“You can barely keep your eyes open because of the pain, Andrew, and you were unloading the dishwasher.”
His jaw flexes and he shuts his eyes tight for a second because of what I’m sure is a flash of severe pain. “Why help me though? Especially after last night?”
I choose my words very carefully. Both for his sake and my own. “It’s purely selfish. It doesn’t feel right picking on someone when they’re hurting. I’d rather nurse you back to health quickly so I can return to pissing you off as soon as possible.”
He hums lightly and I realize he hasn’t let go of my wrist yet. In fact, his hold has sunk a little lower to where it’s almost as if he’s holding my hand. “Who knew you were so noble?”
“Do you always get migraines?”
“No. Only occasionally when my sleep and stress line up in just the right unbalanced proportion.” He sounds defeated by this. Like he’s offended by his own body for being human.
“And instead of lying down at the first sign of it and reducing your pain, you decide to tick some household chores off your to-do list?”
He puts his fingers to his temples and rubs. “I don’t like feeling helpless. Or relying on anyone to take care of me. The dishwasher needed unloading, so I was unloading it.”
My brain is telling me to get up and leave him be. But my heart, for some reason, has me glued in place. “Have you ever considered that maybe some people like to feel helpful, though? And by pretending you’ve got it all together you’re depriving them of the joy of helping you?”
He cracks an eye open. “Is that how you feel?”
“Oh no, not me. Remember, I’m only helping so I can return you to the battlefield.”
When a few seconds go by without his response, I shift my weight so I can stand, but this time Drew’s hand darts out and lies across the top of my thigh like a seatbelt. “Stay a minute.”
The rush of sparks that hits my stomach at the feel of his hand against my thigh is so intense I’m afraid he can see them. What am I doing? Why am I here? And why do I care if he’s hurting or uncomfortable?
Drew’s eyes remain shut, but his hand never leaves my thigh as he asks, “Why was your day long?”
“You should sleep.”
“I get bored easily. If you don’t distract me, I’ll be tempted to get up and vacuum the living room. Or superglue the doors to your car shut.”
I’m glad his eyes are closed so he doesn’t see me smile. “I couldn’t make anyone happy today. Everything that could go wrong did.”
He hums quietly. “Some days are just like that. I’m . . . sorry it was a rough day.”
I’m watching in silent awe, wondering what this thing is that’s sparking between us, when Drew hisses through his teeth and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. I tip forward and move the icepack from the back of his head to the front, and then, because I’m apparently out of my mind, I trail my hand from his forehead to his temple, down the side of his face to the tense muscles in the back of his neck. I knead my fingers there, hoping to bring him some relief. But the longer I touch him, feeling the heat of his skin and watching the way his body relaxes under my touch ever so slightly, the more aware I become of my breath picking up. Of desire gathering in a corner of my body that I should not be gathering for this man!
And that’s why I abruptly pull my hand back and stand.
Drew’s eyes fly open, and I don’t see pain in them—I see the same shocking desire I just felt reflected back at me. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t try to stop me again as I make my way to his door. He does, however, say something that’s going to have me tossing and turning in my bed all night long.
“Jessie. Thank you for helping me. Also, there’s a milkshake in the fridge for you.”
I glance sharply at him over my shoulder and blink.
“I got one earlier . . . and . . . they were having a buy-one-get-one-free sale,” he says awkwardly.
Andrew Marshall, as it turns out, is a horrible liar.
Inexplicably, I smile the rest of the night.