Page 75 of The Roommate Subtext

“No, it’s not weird.” He sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I—” He stopped, peering down into her open nightstand drawer. Oh, shit, she had several sex toys in there. Blake didn’t say anything.

“It’s my little collection,” she said with a laugh, because she knew she had nothing to be ashamed about.

“Right.” He sounded a million miles away, and she couldn’t read the emotion in his expression.

“Lots of people have sex toys,” she said, and this time it came out defensive.

Blake turned to her with a half smile, but something in his expression was off. “Oh yeah, totally. Not weird at all.” He gestured back toward his room. “Listen, if you’re OK with it, I think I’ll take my own bed tonight? I like the space and all that. Even though tonight was fun. Really good.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. No problem.” She waved him away, trying to ignore the stab of rejection. She knew what this was when she’d started it. A night of fun. Nothing else. No guarantee that they’d ever do it again.

Even though she wanted to do it again. Whatever side of Blake she was seeing, she liked it.

He pulled on his boxer briefs, then gathered up the rest of the items of his tuxedo from the chair, finally taking his glasses off the nightstand. “It really was fun,” he repeated, and this time his smile felt warmer, and some of her anxiety faded. This was Blake. He was her friend. Things would be all right.

“It was.” She nodded. “Have a good night.”

Blake splashed cold water on his face in the bathroom. Maybe if he numbed his skin enough, he would unsee what he’d seen, and therefore un-realize what he’d realized.

He knew those sex toys. He had a picture of them from their very first conversation, the only picture she’d ever shared, and he knew. He knew with the certainty of his own name that Marguerite St. Claire was Curious Rose, and he’d been having kinky online sex play with his roommate for the last month.

He stared at his face in the mirror, water dripping down his jawline into the sink. And now he’d slept with her. And he’d made plans to meet “Rose” next week.

She didn’t know he was the Pimpernel, though. She couldn’t have known. She’d never have continued playing if she had. He may not have known her as well as he thought, but he did know that she wasn’t the type of person who could live with a man and deceive him like that on purpose.

Right?

He dried his face and returned to his room. Fortunately, her door was closed. He couldn’t face her right now. She’d know there was something wrong. He’d barely been able to keep it together at the end there, when his brain was putting together all the pieces into a horrifying puzzle and she was staring up at him from the bed, naked and blissed-out and beautiful.

Then there was Chauvel, too. In exchange, I’m writing an exposé article for him.

He didn’t need to be told to know that this exposé article was about the Scarlet Pimpernel.

He couldn’t think of why Chauvel would want that article written. Chauvel wouldn’t know his identity, of course. He’d never seen Chauvel at a club and he was fairly certain he’d never interacted with him online. Tonight was the first time they’d met face-to-face.

Gosh, was it only tonight? It felt like a lifetime ago that he’d walked into that benefit gala with Maggie on his arm.

Maggie, who’d been lying to him for weeks now, pretending to be “Curious Rose” and digging for information about him. Was it all fake? She’d said it, once: Everything’s content. How far would she go to protect her family? Could she make up a whole interest in kink just to lead him on? Sext with him, pretend to be turned on, all the while laughing at him behind his back?

She wasn’t laughing, though. At the gala, she’d been distraught. Whatever Chauvel was making her do, she hated it, but felt she had no other options.

Oh god. He sank down onto the bed, feeling sick. What if she hated every moment of their sexting together? Maybe she was upset because she’d been talking about sex play she found abhorrent, all to … to lure him into meeting up. Maybe she was only in it to discover his identity for Arnold Chauvel. Something inside him said that it couldn’t all be fake, but he had no idea what to believe. It was three in the morning. He was exhausted and not thinking clearly, and he needed some time to process.

How the hell did he process this?

His knee-jerk reaction was to cancel dinner and cut off all ties with “Rose.” He could tell her something came up, make up a lie, delete the app off his phone, and never speak to her again. Maggie would never need to know that he knew who she was. How could he ever face her again? She’d made up Rose and led him on for weeks, weeks, just for an article. He’d thought there was something real. And now, not only was Rose a lie, but that realization had cost him Maggie as well.

Somehow, he’d gone from falling for two women to losing both at once.

SEVENTEEN

Maggie slept late. She’d been up until almost three, and considering the activities that had kept her up, it was close to eleven when she arose in groggy lassitude from her bed. The gray, drizzly day made her want to stay in bed even more, but she knew she needed to take a shower and get moving to start the day off properly.

She smiled. She’d certainly finished the night off properly. Maybe Blake was the kind of guy to make an elaborate breakfast the morning after. She could picture him whipping up bacon and eggs and, oh, maybe pancakes like the midnight pancakes they’d had earlier that week. He probably knew how to carve fruit into cute shapes. Blake seemed like he could do anything. How shortsighted she’d been to only label him a plant nerd. The way he’d played her body like a perfectly tuned instrument … she’d underestimated him in countless ways.

She replayed the night as she gathered up clothes to wear. Blake’s cufflinks were still on her nightstand, and even that made her smile. God, she was such a sap. She’d told him she didn’t want a relationship with him, but maybe she’d written off the possibility too quickly.

But then there was the Pimpernel. He came to mind again, and she had to stop, clothes bundled in her arms, a wave of longing and regret washing through her. She had finally made plans to meet him tomorrow, tomorrow, and Chauvel had fucked up everything about it. She would never meet the Pimpernel. He’d show up to the Weatherfield and find Chauvel waiting instead. He’d know she had betrayed him.