Page 54 of The Roommate Subtext

That’s OK. I ended up doing something else.

It sounded like a dismissal, but before he could say goodnight, she wrote, It was cold tonight! It was a comment about the weather, but also an invitation to conversation, and he didn’t mind chatting a bit more.

He smiled at the screen. I’ve had multiple pumpkin coffees at Dunkin this month.

No Starbucks pumpkin spice lattes? You’re a Dunkin guy?

Hey, I’m from Boston. It’s required. Blake couldn’t believe her words. Starbucks, really?

I was testing you, she wrote back.

He thought about asking how long she’d lived in the city. Was that too personal? Some people would say there was nothing more personal than the Dunkin v. Starbucks preference. While he was thinking, though, she wrote another message. You’ve lived here all your life?

Maybe they were getting more personal. Funny how knowing someone’s deepest sexual fantasies felt less personal than knowing about their childhood. Born and raised in the great state of Mass. I’ve lived in a few different places here, though. Then, since she’d opened the door, he added, You?

Same, she wrote. And to be honest, I like Starbucks and Dunkin the same.

Blasphemy, he replied, still smiling. He always smiled when chatting with her, even when they were talking nonsense. He leaned back against the stacked-up pillows on his headboard. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.

Me too, she replied.

He wanted to invite her to meet up, but it still felt too soon. I like talking with you.

Me, too. I look forward to this, she replied.

Blake was already getting too sleepy to continue this conversation, and morning was going to hurt, but he didn’t want to say goodbye yet. This thread of contact felt good. It especially felt good after having something similar with Maggie earlier.

I wish I were more awake to talk more, he typed, honestly. Or fool around.

I wish I were more awake to get fooled around with, she wrote back. It’s OK. There will be other nights.

There would be. She was right. Tonight was just one night.

He paused, then sent another message. Can we try tomorrow?

Work isn’t too busy for that? She sent a wink.

Work isn’t too busy for that. Playtime with Rose would be a perfect distraction. Put me in your schedule.

THIRTEEN

With the gala only two days away, Blake was a whirlwind of activity consuming Maggie’s attention. He had a to-do list stuck to the fridge with a timeline. Thursday: Pick up tux. Haircut. Practice presentation. Final errands. Friday: AV Team. Laundry. Practice presentation again. Maggie liked that glimpse into his task list and found herself circling back to it throughout the day.

Blake followed his schedule, of course, coming back at lunch with his tuxedo in an opaque bag and sporting a stylish new haircut. He’d left it a bit longer on top but cleaned up the sides and back, and she tried not to stare too much at how good he looked. She complimented him, making him blush—which was of course adorable—and he disappeared into his room (presumably for the “practice presentation” part of his list).

With Blake ensconced in his room, Maggie finally made herself face the task she’d been dreading: drafting the Pimpernel article. She had been procrastinating long enough. If she didn’t get a draft to Chauvel, he would surely confront her at the gala. She swallowed down her anxiety and started to write.

Is Boston home to a predator? she began, then frowned. Yes, of course it was, like pretty much everywhere. She deleted it. When sexting with strangers, it’s easy to go too far, she tried. Nah, she didn’t like the use of “sexting,” and it felt like victim blaming.

Finally, she tried another option. On the internet, you can be anyone you want to be … but so can everyone else. Here in Boston lives a man who calls himself the Scarlet Pimpernel, and if you’ve ever wondered about your submissive side, this online Dom will make you forget your boundaries. It was a start. She bit her lip, rereading the opening lines, and kept typing.

An hour later, she had a passable draft. She hadn’t lied, but she’d framed her writing to highlight how the Pimpernel was capable of manipulation. She discussed the dangerous control he held over the women he played with. She didn’t say he misused that control, but hopefully this would be enough to appease Chauvel.

It still gave her a sick feeling in her stomach. She liked the Pimpernel a hell of a lot more than she liked Arnold Chauvel, and with each passing day, each chat exchange, she increasingly regretted having taken the deal in the first place.

But then there was Cora. Chauvel was stringing her along with funding, giving her just enough to hold Maggie on the leash as well. If she didn’t write this article, the funding would dry up. Cora would lose her job, her independence, everything, and that wasn’t even broaching the idea of frozen or seized assets. If this fell apart, she’d have to tell Cora, and Cora would worry, the way she used to worry in the first months after her parents died. She used to climb into bed with Maggie, even though she was a teenager, and Maggie would hold her and reassure her that everything was going to be all right.

She didn’t want to relive those stressful nights again.