Page 41 of The Roommate Subtext

Maybe Chauvel’s friend had not been in a romantic relationship with the Pimpernel, or one the Pimpernel didn’t consider romantic. Sometimes people had different definitions of the same relationships.

Maybe the Pimpernel was lying. Or Chauvel was.

Again, she wished she could get Chauvel’s friend’s side of the story. Chauvel had denied her request to make contact (“I’d hate for her to relive her trauma,” he’d said), leaving her at a frustrating dead end, but he’d given her an extra two weeks on the draft. Her only source of information was the Pimpernel himself, but she couldn’t seem to think past her own horniness lately.

Do you want a kinky romantic relationship? she asked.

The Pimpernel didn’t reply for a few moments. Then, It would be nice, but I’m not hopeful.

She thought about asking, what about me? Which was ludicrous, since she didn’t even know this guy. More and more, though, the thought of meeting him had her brain working overtime.

If only Chauvel’s article wasn’t hanging over her head.

TEN

Board meetings were always a big deal at PlantSeed, and Blake was at the office early. He liked having time to order dinner and review the board packet, so even though the meeting didn’t start until seven, he was there at five with food from India Joy. Normally, Andrew joined him, but Andrew was doing some freelance tech work tonight and wouldn’t roll in until right before the meeting started.

“You’re here early.” Shontelle Williams, the board chair, greeted him with a smile when she came in at half past six. “I suppose I should be used to it by now. You’re always the first one here.”

“I like to have my ducks in a row.” Blake straightened his printout of the board packet. Maggie would have rolled her eyes at that comment and told him he sounded like a boomer, and he smiled thinking of her. “You want some veggie pakora?” He offered her the dish. “I’m not going to finish it.”

Shontelle took one of the delicate fritters with a murmur of appreciation and dipped it in the tamarind sauce. “These are delicious. We should get India Joy to cater the next board meeting.”

“If we have excess fundraising money from the gala?” Blake gave her a wry smile. He knew there was never any extra money for catering.

Shontelle returned his amused look. Blake liked Shontelle. When he joined PlantSeed last year she was just another trustee, but she’d served on the board for years and was a perfect fit to take over as board chair this past winter. An environmental lawyer by day, she had connections in various fields and was responsible for many of the high-profile donors they’d see at the gala. She was still fairly young, probably in her early forties—he would never ask, since he knew what was good for him—and somehow balanced an impressive career with volunteer work for their organization.

“You’re not letting me down next weekend, are you?” Shontelle leaned across the table to lock eyes with him, and Blake fumbled his fork.

“What?” He took a minute to catch up. “Do you mean the gala?”

Shontelle didn’t bother to nod. “It’s my first fundraising gala as board chair and I need us to make a lot of money. I want you schmoozing with every rich piece of shit in that place and making them open those checkbooks.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

Her words startled a laugh out of Blake. “I’ll do my best, I promise.” He’d spent this last year fundraising for the nonprofit, writing grant applications and partnering with similar organizations for mutual aid, but this was the first time he’d be hitting the Boston elite for their money in person.

Shontelle looked him up and down. “You bringing a date?”

For a moment he forgot her husband and kids and thought she was asking him out, but then realized that wasn’t her intent. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Hmm. You should plan on it.” She slid the pakora back across the table. “Find some nice person to bring. Makes you more appealing to donors.”

He was about to ask if she was serious, but then the door opened and she got up to greet the arriving board members. She probably was serious: she joked about a lot of things, but she never joked about anything related to the nonprofit or its mission. She would definitely tell Blake to get a date if she thought it would bring in more money.

Blake greeted the other board members as well, as he cleaned up from dinner. Some, like he and Andrew, worked for PlantSeed in some capacity; others, like Shontelle, were community members dedicated to the nonprofit’s success. The most senior member was Candace Bellingham, executive director, who had hired Blake. Once a quarter, they all gathered for the board meeting, and each subcommittee reported out on their progress and goals. Tonight, though, their focus was the annual PlantSeed benefit fundraiser, more commonly called “the gala.” It was Blake’s first gala, and similar to Shontelle, he was feeling the pressure.

Shontelle ran a tight ship, as meetings went, and they moved through old business and onto new business in no time at all. The gala subcommittee had absorbed two other subcommittees for the planning, and Blake heard from each about the intricacies of the event itself before they started on the numbers.

The more they talked specifics, the more nervous he felt. Normally at ease in social situations, he’d expected the gala to be similar. He was good at talking with people, most of whom liked him, as far as he knew. He’d had success fundraising back in college and had leveraged that success into a series of grant-writing gigs, and finally this position at PlantSeed. Andrew had encouraged him to apply in the first place: PlantSeed was one of Andrew’s tech clients, and Blake was grateful every day his friend had convinced him to take the leap. This was his first job where the company mission statement mattered to him, and he cared deeply about the gala’s success. With the money they hoped to raise, they would be able to expand several community gardens in underserved areas of Boston and provide direct aid to the local volunteers. Also, they had a stretch goal to pilot gardening programs at local elementary schools. He was passionate about this work and PlantSeed, and a lot was riding on this event.

When it was his turn to present, he shared the talking points of the speech he was planning to give. He’d already sent them all the videos he’d made with Andrew’s help, the ones that showcased the work the organization had done with the previous year’s proceeds. He had crunched all those numbers over the past month or so, creating graphics and charts, anchoring those numbers in stories.

They moved beyond his report, and Blake relaxed. The rest of the meeting was the non-gala information, the part he could zone out on a bit, and finally they made and seconded a motion to adjourn until the new year. God, the new year. It felt impossible they were already into October.

Andrew met him at the bar next door when the meeting ended, a tradition that always helped Blake unwind.

“I think it went well,” Blake told him as they sipped beers. “The notes of the presentation.”

“Of course it went well.” Andrew didn’t seem surprised in the least. “You’re a good writer. That English minor is paying off.”