The Roommate Subtext

Chapter One

ONE

Maggie St. Claire glanced up at the clock. She had a half hour before she had to leave for her meeting, and while she wanted to get this article drafted, she really should get dressed.

In a minute.

When she was done with this paragraph.

“Maggie?” Her roommate, Blake, stuck his head out from his bedroom door, eyebrows furrowed. “Didn’t you say you had to leave at two to make your meeting?”

“I know, I know. I just want to finish this paragraph.” Damn Blake Peabody and his conscientiousness.

He looked legitimately concerned, too, like it was his schedule being affected and not hers.

He was directly in her line of sight from where she sat at the dining room table and he stayed there, even while she went back to typing.

She had to finish this thought while she was still in the groove.

Blake leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms. He was waiting for her, wasn’t he? She’d be annoyed if it wasn’t kind of thoughtful. “I know,” she said, adding one final line before shutting the laptop. “Happy now?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Blake shrugged and came the rest of the way down the hall. “You said last night how much you really didn’t want to be late for this meeting.”

“I won’t be late.” She glanced at the clock again.

Shit, she really did need to get moving.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on the time for me,” she added, not really wanting to admit that it was helpful.

As a grown adult woman in her late twenties, she could manage her own time.

Even if she sometimes got so into a project that she had to scramble.

“Yup, no worries.” He gave her an amiable smile and a thumbs up, because Blake was the kind of guy who gave thumbs ups.

Even though Blake was her age—thereabouts, anyway, since she had never officially asked—he had a very “barbecue dad” persona, all thumbs ups and cheerfully mediocre puns, nary a swear word in sight.

He turned to poke around in the fridge, humming a little tune like he’d given the fridge a theme song.

Looking at his ass in those jeans reminded Maggie that Blake was objectively good-looking.

She forgot most of the time, but every so often, she noticed anew that his slightly scruffy brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses were only a few steps from a naughty scientist fantasy.

His casual build, just this side of softness, looked cuddly rather than intimidating.

But he said things like “gee whiz” and gave high fives, so being supremely dorky overshadowed the sexiness.

Most of it.

Blake made a happy discovery noise and emerged from the fridge with a container of yogurt, because he was also the kind of person to get excited about yogurt. She was still staring, and she had to leave.

Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to an in-person meeting.

Being one of the most popular columnists for multiple Boston magazine and newspaper imprints came with its perks, and one of them was an ability to work from home.

It helped that most of the editors she worked with would choose email or firing squad over having to gather people for an actual meeting, and the one woman who felt otherwise was content with Zoom.

Now Maggie was going to a real sit-down meeting, where she had to put on an entire outfit (instead of a nice blouse with pajama pants) and talk face-to-face with a human being.

A mysterious human being.

Arnold Chauvel, the man behind most of the media platforms in and around Boston, was a near unknown: he owned basically every company she wrote for, gave generously to charitable causes throughout the area, and never appeared in the news.

Either he didn’t do anything particularly noteworthy, or he was very good at keeping it under wraps.

When he’d asked to meet with Maggie in person, she wasn’t about to say no.

Idle curiosity would have sent her to that meeting even if he wasn’t her boss’s boss’s boss.

Boss’s boss’s boss’s boss? She wasn’t sure about the hierarchy.

When she came out of her bedroom, Blake was tending to his plants, doing his daily check of soil moisture and rotating them so they’d get equal sunlight, still carrying his yogurt.

“What do you think?” Maggie smoothed down the hem of her blouse. He gave her the once-over.

“Professional. I didn’t know you owned pants that weren’t pajamas.”

She flipped him off, making him smile. “I wear nice outfits when I go out with friends.” A twinge of guilt flickered. She’d been terrible at getting together with anyone lately and been way too absent in the group chats. A recent string of back-to-back articles had taken most of her time.

Blake took another bite of yogurt. “I guess I didn’t notice.

” At least he didn’t say he didn’t know she had friends.

That would’ve been mean, and as far as she could tell, Blake was never mean.

“The condo’s going to feel empty.” He misted a small, stringy plant at the end of one shelf.

Maggie had been living here about two months now and she was still getting to know Blake himself; she hadn’t yet broached the topic of learning about Blake’s plants. There was a three-ring binder involved.

Maggie checked through her leather bag to make sure she had everything.

Blake was moving through the last section of plants with no haste, but then again, Blake never showed haste with his plants.

He was perpetually calm. “Not headed to the garden today?” she asked.

He was a grant writer for PlantSeed, an environmental justice nonprofit, and he spent a lot of time volunteering in their community garden.

Blake shook his head. “Not today, but later in the week for sure. It’s the end of the fiscal quarter, and we have reports to pull together before the board meeting.

” He finished with the plants. “Are you asking because you were hoping I’d bring you home food from India Joy again?

I thought you were having dinner with your sister. ”

Maggie couldn’t hold back a smile. “I was campaigning for leftovers for tomorrow.”

“You know, you could go to the garden yourself sometime and pick up your own Indian food.” Blake rolled his eyes and tossed the empty yogurt cup into the recycling bin. “But no, I’m staying here. I should have you bring me something.”

“Maybe if you ask really nice.” Maggie checked the time again. “OK, I’ve really gotta run.”

“Be safe,” he said, and it made Maggie smile as the door closed behind her.

While she was on the T, her phone buzzed with a text from her sister, Coralie.

I need to cancel dinner tonight. Sorry! I’m staying late at the lab.

Maggie frowned. Cora had canceled multiple dinners lately to work late.

She felt a pang of overprotectiveness, like she always did when thinking of her younger sister.

When their parents died unexpectedly eight years ago, Cora had been still in high school, and Maggie was thrust into the role of parent to a teenager while barely an adult herself.

It was hard to shake that dynamic, even this many years later.

You work too hard, Maggie texted back, but she followed it up with a heart so Cora would know she wasn’t chiding. At least, she was trying not to chide. Then, trying to be tactful, she added, Do you need the overtime? Cora’s text reply came quickly. HA! You know we’re loaded.

Maggie cringed. Their parents had left them a sizable inheritance, yes, but it was all invested, and the dividends bought them security rather than luxury.

Maggie had tried to keep Cora from worrying about money, but the long-term side effect was …

Cora didn’t worry about money. At all. Even when she probably should.

She was perfectly content to let Maggie manage the entire inheritance and investments.

Fortunately, Cora had a good work ethic and no real taste for luxury; she remained devoted to her career in a research laboratory and her fastidiously tidy studio apartment.

Do you want to reschedule? Maggie asked.

Yes! Tomorrow? Cora replied. I know I’ve been canceling a lot. We’re up to our necks in grant funding hell. But my weekend is open.

That was Cora, putting the job first. Tomorrow sounds good, Maggie confirmed.

Good luck tonight. She cradled her phone in her lap, staring blankly out the window of the train.

She had to focus on her upcoming meeting, not on Cora, not on her perpetual worries that she was not doing enough for her sister.

She was going to meet with Arnold Chauvel for an unknown reason, and she couldn’t afford distractions.

Fingers crossed this meeting would be for something good.

After Maggie left, quiet settled over Blake’s condo like a blanket.

Distant city sounds sifted through the open windows: the engines of cars and trucks a few blocks away from their much calmer residential street.

Blake flipped on a fan to circulate the air and breathed in the stillness.

It felt weird having the place to himself again.

He didn’t need a roommate to make ends meet; he’d inherited the condo from his aunt, so he didn’t have a mortgage, and his income was enough to comfortably live on.

He’d lived alone for a few years, had used one bedroom for sleeping and the second for his office, had filled the space with his plants and his art, but he had missed the companionship of having someone else around.

He’d confessed this to his best friend, Andrew, and had been affectionately teased.

Andrew loved living alone. He’d told Blake that he could not imagine inheriting a two-bedroom condo in a nice neighborhood and voluntarily inviting another person into the space.

That was when he’d gently but firmly turned down Blake’s invitation to move in, informing Blake that he would never voluntarily live with another person unless he was in a serious romantic relationship with them.