Page 45 of The Roommate Subtext

“You’re not thinking big enough, Blake.” She shook her head sadly, which made Blake laugh, now. He was cute when he laughed. He even had dimples. He didn’t really need her to woo the super-rich, probably; he could likely charm the pants off them all on his own. But hey, she was going to get to go to a fancy-schmancy party in a dress that she didn’t have to pay for, and she wasn’t about to turn that down. It would be the perfect distraction from everything in her life she couldn’t control.

“You’re right. We’ll save the world. Maybe even before the holidays.” He reached across the table with a piece of naan, holding it over Maggie’s plate and meeting her eyes with a questioning expression. She gestured with a “go ahead” sign, and he dunked it in the sauce. “Thanks.”

The holidays. Time was running out on her deal with Chauvel, and if she lost that, her finances would really be fucked.

She had to move faster.

Aside from that, she had this gala to plan for, another two articles to write for other publications, and a get-together with her friends. The days were getting cooler and shorter, autumn was in full swing, and somewhere, a forensic accountant was digging through her parents’ financial records, and she had no idea what they’d find.

For now, though, she could put the stress aside. She could enjoy sitting with Blake at the kitchen table, eating late-night Indian food and chatting, and pretend that maybe it would all be OK.

ELEVEN

Maggie wasn’t planning to stay out late with the girls, but “let’s get dinner” led to “let’s grab a drink” which led to “there’s a new axe-throwing place a few T stops away,” and suddenly it was after eleven. She’d welcomed the diversion. With no new updates from the accountant, no sword of Damocles crashing down, she was living in a holding pattern. No news is good news, James had said, but she knew Chauvel had been keeping the consequences at bay.

Blake was sitting on the couch when she got home, a large three-ring binder spread open in front of him.

“That the plant binder?” Maggie got a glass of water from the fridge. “Pretty dry reading for a Saturday night.”

Blake didn’t rise to the bait. “I picked up a new plant and I needed to make a page for it.” She came over to peer at his work upside down and saw that he was sketching. He’d taken a blank half sheet of paper and added the plant’s common names, Latin name, sunlight and moisture requirements, and the date he acquired it. Then, in the upper corner, he was completing his drawing of the plant with a fine-line black ink pen.

“You’re really good at that.” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

Blake didn’t look up. “Thanks. I’ve always liked sketching, but back in college, I started doing it more seriously. Illustrating my notes, doing some nature journaling, things like that.” He slipped the completed document into the sleeve of a half-page sheet protector.

Maggie slid on the couch beside him, close enough to read his work. His new plant was called a false shamrock. She scanned the room and spotted it on the windowsill, a small white pot with bright red-purple leaves. “I’m surprised you don’t name your plants.”

Blake smiled. “I worried that would cement my status of Weird Plant Guy.”

Maggie placed a hand on the open binder and gave him a sobering look. “Blake, we both know this binder puts you there on its own.”

He laughed, tugging it out from her hands. “Come on. It’s a common botanist’s trait. And gardeners. You know, Emily Dickinson did illustrations for all the plants in her greenhouse and garden.”

“No TV back then.” The tease slipped out from habit, but she was too distracted by the binder to push the subject. “These are seriously good, though.” She flipped a page. She’d seen all these plants on his shelf. “If you fall into a storm drain, I could take care of your plants.”

“Exactly. It’s like a guidebook.” He played with the edge of one of the sheet protectors. “I started it in a notebook, but then it was hard to keep it updated without tearing out pages, so I came up with this system.” He straightened an uneven sheet in its sleeve.

What a perfect encapsulation of Blake. “I think you should go all in and name your collection. You’ve already got the binder.”

Blake cleared his throat. “A few of them … have names.”

Maggie laughed and elbowed him. “I knew it! Which ones?”

“The ones in my room, mostly.” He flipped to a divider in the binder which was labeled “Bedroom.” A small stack of the plastic sheets sat behind it, and he laid his palm on the top one. “These back here. In my defense, most had names when they were given to me.” He shut the binder and set it on the coffee table.

“Is it bad luck to rename a plant, like a boat?” She drank some of her water.

His brow furrowed. “I never thought about it, but I’d assume so. I’ve never renamed any of the ones I’ve been given.”

“Do people give you plants often?” Maggie had never been given a plant as a gift.

Blake leaned back. “Not too often, but more than you’d think. One time …” He kept talking, but Maggie was distracted by the stretch of his shirt over his shoulders. He looked good, she realized, dressed in pajama pants with a snug white T-shirt, hair tousled and messy. His stubble was in full bloom, a shadow across his chin and lower cheeks that she longed to touch. He was a perfect mixture of unkempt and unbothered that for some reason was hitting her real nice that night.

Her train of thought rolled past that station, capitalizing on the words hitting her real nice, and she started thinking about the Pimpernel. They’d been talking every night, but their conversations had stayed unfortunately platonic, and she was itching for more. She’d hoped to catch him tonight before bed, but it was late. And oh, Blake was talking, and had been for a minute, and she hadn’t been listening.

“So usually if I can revive it, people tell me I should keep it,” he finished, and he was probably still talking about plants. Of course he was.

“Mostly I’ve killed my houseplants,” she admitted, grateful to be able to jump into the conversation. “I’m glad no one buys them for me. That feels like such an obligation. Like giving someone homework.”