Page 50 of The Roommate Subtext

Maggie tried a few other angles. “Like I’m naked. But my tits look fine. They aren’t huge, so it’s not like they’re going to be uncomfortable.”

“I could never.” Phoebe gestured at her breasts, which were one of her most prominent features. “But you look incredible.”

“This is the dress, then.” She checked the price tag. Not cheap, but not as expensive as she’d expected. “I thought silk would be a lot more money.”

“It’s a synthetic blend with silk, which shaves a few hundred dollars off the price.” Alesha smiled. “But people can’t tell, and it looks like a million dollars on you.”

Maggie looked at herself in the mirror again and nodded, unable to stop smiling. “Now I need some shoes.”

Maggie hadn’t expected to come home to an empty condo, but the place was dark when she returned. Blake had left her a note on the table where they left their keys, saying he was going out with Andrew and some of their college friends and he’d be back late. Unusual for him. He tended to not stay up very late on weeknights, so for him to be out until after nine was uncharacteristic. Plus, it was Marigold Murders night.

Being alone in the condo also felt strange. While putting away her new purchases, she tried to identify what felt off, but she kept returning to the same conclusion: apparently she missed Blake.

Weird.

There were some advantages to being alone, though. After swapping her sweater dress for some pajama pants and a tank top, she sent a message to the Pimpernel to see if he wanted to play. The app said he wasn’t online, though. Maybe he’d come on later. She started straightening her room. She wasn’t waiting for the Pimpernel, since that would be ridiculous. This was simply using the available time for a beneficial purpose. And she turned on her phone’s notification sounds to hear if anyone messaged. Not him, specifically, but anyone.

She should be trying to write this article. And she had tried: she’d sat down multiple times this week and tested a few sentences, deleted them, and tried again, in an endless loop. The doom settled on her shoulders each time she tried, and tonight, she didn’t want to face that doom.

But no one messaged, and as the time rolled close to midnight, it seemed unlikely he’d log in at all. She could rub one out on her own, but it wasn’t as fun without the Pimpernel giving her instructions. At least her room was clean and she’d finally put away the basket of clothes she’d been living out of for the past few days. Finally, her grumbling stomach sent her to the fridge, and she was frowning into its fluorescent-lit depths when the door lock rattled and Blake stepped inside.

“You’re still up.” He smiled at her, and there was something somewhat off and sleepy in his expression.

“You’re home late. Not that it’s a problem,” she hastened to add. “It’s just surprising.” Equally surprising was how long it was taking him to get his shoes off, which he finally managed after a few tries of wobbling on one foot. He lined up his shoes side by side on the shoe rack, then missed the key bowl with his keys and nearly fell over trying to pick them up again. “Blake, are you drunk?”

“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes. “Phil wanted to set the high score on Tapper and we all got sucked into watching him. They had these specialty drinks, Zelda Zingers, which turned out to be stronger than I thought. And sweet. Thus I’m sugared up, and a little drunk, and also hungry again.” Blake exhaled through pursed lips, a puff of air. He didn’t look really drunk, but he always was put-together enough that the difference stood out. His hair was more mussed than usual, but his glasses and sweater vest—he was wearing a sweater vest—made him look composed despite the mussed hair. Both adorable and sexy.

“You want something to eat? I could make something.”

He made an “ooh” face. “Pancakes? I’ve got a mix.”

That did sound great. “Yeah, I could make pancakes.”

“Midnight pancakes.” He yawned. “I’m not tired, I swear. Just yawning.”

“Right, just yawning.” Maggie rummaged around in the pantry. “You have syrup, right? Real syrup?”

“Of course I do. It’s in the fridge.”

“You keep your syrup in the fridge?”

“After I open it, I do.” Blake pulled out the syrup from way in the back, a gray plastic pitcher printed with the brown logo of some sugar house. He tapped the fine print. “See, refrigerate after opening.” He slurred on “refrigerate.”

“I thought you’d be home tonight for Marigold Murders.” She rooted around for supplies in the baking drawer.

“It wasn’t the same watching it without you. I figured we could stream it together.”

Maggie stood, her face flushing, glad she was facing away from him. “That’s really sweet.” She pushed back the unexpected emotion. It was only a show, after all. “Measuring cups?”

“Here.” He reached past her and took them from the back of the countertop, where they were hiding behind the container of tongs and whisks. His body pressed along her back, sandwiching her against the counter, and she froze. He froze, too, pausing with the measuring cups in hand. Maggie stayed motionless, Blake’s body along hers, his breath whispering against her cheek, and shit, she wanted him. This was the problem with being awake after midnight. Reason and logic had gone to sleep, leaving only their dangerous cousins: lust and curiosity.

He stepped back, and she relaxed, taking the measuring cups when he thrust them into her hand. “I forgot to put them back last time.” His voice sounded higher than usual, a little breathy. She didn’t turn around for a moment, trying to measure the pancake mix with a trembling hand.

“You have eggs, right? And milk?” She swallowed. “You should buy the ‘just add water’ kind next time.”

“What? Yeah. Both. In the fridge.” He got both for her, brushing against her each time he moved, and she might catch on fire. He remained in her space, reaching past her to open a cabinet with pots and pans. “I have a griddle. Not one of the electric kinds. A stovetop one.” He pulled it out, fished from between a couple of cookie sheets. “I make grilled cheese on it sometimes.”

“Oh, grilled cheese. Also a good late-night snack.” The conversation still felt stilted, the air thick between them, but she could talk about food. She added milk and eggs and focused on the batter.