Page 63 of The Roommate Subtext

“You think a guy who wears sweater vests doesn’t know how to tie a bowtie?” He smiled.

“Touché.” Her voice moved into the room. He was glad he always kept the space tidy. He gently tugged the two sides of the bowtie into place and studied the effect in the mirror.

“Let’s see,” Maggie said, and Blake finally turned to face her.

Oh, goodness. She looked incredible. Her hair, her makeup, her dress. He didn’t know much about women’s dresses, but this one looked like it was worth a lot more than what she’d billed him for. The deep burgundy silk (satin? Some shiny, soft-looking material) dipped across her chest and hugged her curves all the way down, flowing out from her hips like water. His gaze roamed everywhere, flicking across the fabric, her collarbones, up to her face again, from her eyes, illuminated by makeup wizardry, to her slight smile, lips matching the deep red of her dress.

Stunning.

“You think so?” she asked, and he realized he’d said it out loud.

“Breathtaking.” There was no way to convince himself right then that he was not completely smitten. Yes, he liked Rose, but when Maggie was standing here looking like that, it was hard to think of a woman he’d never met. When her smile broadened, he realized he’d been staring for a long time. “Shit. I have to get my cufflinks on.” He fumbled the small onyx-and-gold adornments from his bureau until Maggie took pity on him.

“You’ve clearly got a lot on your mind.” She slotted the cufflinks into place in each shirt sleeve. “You’ll do fine.”

Her hair was wavier than usual. She’d styled it, but left it down, the shoulder-length brown waves looking sleek and soft. He wanted to touch her hair and had to close his hands into fists to avoid doing so. It took him a moment of silence before processing that she’d said something to him. “What?” he asked reflexively before his brain caught up. “Oh. Thank you. I know. I’m nervous, but I’ll feel fine once I’m up there.”

“Of course. Plus, you look fabulous.” She finished putting on his cufflinks and gave both his hands a squeeze, then released them. “You’re gonna wear the glasses, right?”

“Yes, I need to see.” He took them off the bureau and put them on, and the soft edges of the far corners of the room became crisp.

Maggie nodded. “Very sexy.”

Blake’s face heated. “Thank you.” He didn’t know how to take compliments about his appearance. He knew he wasn’t bad looking, but nobody ever really called him sexy. Still blushing, he pulled on the tuxedo jacket. “I hope it’s enough to win over all the wallets.”

Maggie laughed. “It will be. And you have your adoring girlfriend to support you in everything, of course.” She batted her eyes, then suddenly frowned. “Fiancée? Wife? What gets you the most money for this fundraiser?”

“Girlfriend is fine, if you want to fake this at all. I’m not going to make up an entirely fake life just to get some very rich people to reallocate their money.” Blake grimaced. He hated the idea of the falsehood as it was. He had enough falsehoods in his life with his double identity.

Maggie glanced around the room. “I suppose it’s enough to discourage the notion that you’re only in love with your plants.”

“Hey!” He had to crack a smile despite the insult. “My plants are very special to me.”

“Mhm, I know, I saw the binder.” Maggie gave him a wink, then moved past him to examine the row of houseplants in front of his windowsill, working her way along the wall. It was the first time he’d seen the back of her dress, or rather, the lack of back of her dress, and he was glad he wasn’t holding the tiny cufflinks now because he’d have surely dropped them into a crack in the floorboards, never to be seen again. It was a perfectly decent dress, appropriateness-wise, very black-tie formal, but he could not look away from the expanse of beautiful peach-rose skin. His eyes flicked between the small arcs of her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the drape of fabric over the swell of her hips. “God,” he breathed, speaking aloud accidentally again.

Maggie looked over her shoulder, and he captured that perfect snapshot in his mind: her wavy brown hair tumbling over one shoulder, the line of her cheekbone and jaw, a hint of mischievous smile peeking from the curve of her red lips. “I’m glad you like the dress.”

“You could have warned me. I would have prepared myself somehow.” He wanted to touch her. He wanted to run his hand down the curve of her back to her waist, to touch the tiny dimples barely visible where they disappeared beneath the fabric. “What are you—” He stopped himself, because it was not appropriate to ask her about her undergarments.

Maggie chuckled like she knew what he was thinking, turning around to face him. “Were you about to ask me what I’m wearing under this?”

“That would not be an appropriate question.” His voice sounded strangled.

She raised her eyebrows, as if wondering if he was going to ask anyway, then turned back to his plants. “No, it definitely wouldn’t be.” She gestured to his desk. “How many do you have now?”

“What?”

“Plants.” It was a clear change of subject.

“Oh, um. I don’t know.” He had stopped counting. “Are you … ready to go?”

“Yes …” Maggie’s voice trailed off, like she was thinking and only giving some of her attention to their conversation. She was still staring at the plants on his desk, a contemplative expression on her face. She was studying the whole organized setup, which stood in contrast to the hodgepodge of mismatched pots throughout the rest of the condo. These plants on his desk were displayed in more ornate containers, carefully lined up beneath an elaborate lighting rig. They were the most precious to him, including the scarlet pimpernel plant that had been a gift and became the inspiration for his secret identity. When she didn’t ask any specifics, he asked again if she was ready, and she started. “Hmm? I need to grab my purse and my wrap.” She gave him a broad smile, like she hadn’t just been staring at his plants, lost in thought.

Maggie nudged him as they waited for their ride in the lobby. “Classy, getting a car. Look at you leaning into the image.”

“If I’d really wanted to get classy, I’d have ordered us a limo, not”—he checked his phone—“Hank in a 2021 Toyota Corolla.”

“Hey now, the Toyota Corolla is the epitome of class.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “I hear some students have been taking them to their proms instead of limos.”