Chapter Six
SIX
Maggie sat back in front of her spread of empty takeout containers and folded her hands across her belly. “Fuck me, Blake, that was delicious.”
Blake looked up from his laptop, his peach skin coloring faintly pinker. “Kind of an overreaction to takeout.”
“It’s really good takeout.” She shook her head in mock judgment. “Obviously you don’t appreciate the joy of India Joy.”
He looked back down to his screen, ears still pink at the tips. “No, I appreciate it, but not to the point of obscenity.”
Maggie smiled. Blake was ridiculous sometimes and it was endearing. She got up to put her dirty dishes in the dishwasher and throw out her takeout containers. “I know, you don’t swear.”
“I swear. But not gratuitously.”
She sat on the couch, now within better eye contact of where he rested on the recliner. “No, you don’t swear at all. Not just ‘not gratuitously,’ but never.”
A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, but he kept his gaze down on his screen. “Lies. I swear. You’ve just never heard it.”
“When? Broken bone?”
“Well …” He looked up from the keyboard again. “I swear during sex.”
Maggie’s face heated up. Now she was the one blushing because he took her by surprise.
He noticed, too, damn him: his lips curved up and he returned to typing.
“Well, that explains why I’ve never heard it,” she retorted after too long a pause to seem clever.
“And what are you typing over there? Grant writing, this late at night?”
“Nothing.” He shifted his gaze to the side, then back again, smile fading. It clearly wasn’t nothing but he wasn’t sharing.
“All right, all right. Keep your secrets, Gandalf.”
Blake’s eyebrows drew together. “What?”
“Gandalf.” Seriously, did he not get this reference? “From Lord of the Rings? It’s a Frodo quote. To Gandalf. Oh my god, how can you be a nerd and not know this?”
“I’m not that kind of nerd. I’m a plant nerd.
” Blake smiled again. “I was talking about this earlier with Andrew. How there are different kind of nerds? His new boyfriend—” He paused, pursed his lips, and amended.
“Or, the guy he’s seeing, I don’t know if they’re at the boyfriend/boyfriend stage yet—Andrew said he’s a nerd, and I asked him what type. ”
“When do I get to meet Andrew? Does he ever come hang out here?” She hadn’t seen Blake entertain since she moved in, not friends or dates or anyone.
“Oh, uh …” Blake shifted in the recliner. “We usually get together at his place. I don’t want to bother you.”
“You can have guests here, Blake.” Maggie laughed. It was sweet, if a bit weird. “It’s your condo. We have separate rooms. You can bring back friends, or … or dates, or whoever.”
There was that blush again, the one that made Blake look at least five years younger. “I’m not dating right now.”
She kicked her feet up onto the coffee table. “God, I know, right? The dating scene right now is absolute garbage.”
“It’s hard for me to believe you’d have trouble finding a date.”
From another guy, she’d think that was flirting, but she wasn’t sure with Blake.
“Thanks. But I’m quick to judge and have no time for bullshit, so it makes dating difficult.
Since dating is at least 80 percent bullshit.
” She tipped her head back to stare up at the ceiling.
She wasn’t dating, but she was definitely hoping to get some online action later.
The Pimpernel still hadn’t messaged her, and she’d decided to message him that night.
She could feel Blake’s gaze on her even though she wasn’t looking at him. He was a tough person to read sometimes, at least when he wasn’t blushing. She caught his eye. “What?”
He shrugged, enigmatic again. “Do you really want to meet Andrew?”
Her mind had drifted far from that conversation. “Yeah. I mean, we’re friends, I should meet your friends.”
Another tiny smile twitched on his lips, making her heart twist in some kind of way. “We’re friends?”
“Of course we’re friends. Look at us, sharing this living room right now.” She gestured around them. “We’re having a nice conversation. You brought me my favorite takeout. What, is there an application now?”
“No application.” He smiled more broadly. “Most people get weirded out by the plants. Or the organizational binder about them.”
“I’ve had far weirder roommates.” He wasn’t even in the top five. She checked the clock. She was going to wait until at least eight o’clock to message the Pimpernel. Eight seemed like a good time.
Blake was back to staring at his computer screen again, his smile replaced by a thoughtful expression. He’d type, delete, then type some more. Maybe he was sending a challenging email. Or writing a blog post. Lots of people had blogs these days.
At least he wasn’t watching porn. She’d had that roommate, too.
Blake was apparently done talking. Maggie drummed her fingers and checked the clock again. She should perhaps reread that Pimpernel story so she’d be ready to talk to him about it, if he happened to be available.
“Maybe I’ll go read in my room.”
He didn’t look up. “You can read in here if you want. You’re not bothering me.”
It was nice to sit here in the living room with company, that was true. She drew her legs up beneath her, curled against the armrest, and opened the story she’d read last weekend.
Maggie only made it a couple of lines in before the discomfort overwhelmed her.
Nope, this was not going to work. Blake was right there, and even though he wasn’t reading her screen, his presence was distracting enough.
The last thing she needed was to associate her roommate with the hot kinky fiction she was reading.
She’d had enough trouble with that last weekend.
She cleared her throat and got to her feet.
“Can’t focus. Think I’ll clean my room instead. ”
“Kay.” He still didn’t look up, although as she passed by, his screen blinked like he’d swapped windows. Maybe her imagination, or maybe he didn’t want her to see what had his attention.
Relatable.
Maggie closed the door to her bedroom and leaned against it, looking around the space and the clothes scattered across the floor.
When she first moved in, she’d kept the door closed most of the time, conscious of her messy tendencies in contrast to Blake’s impeccable condo.
But that only lasted a week or two, and now she kept the door open and tried to keep things presentable as a concession to being a good roommate.
Not that Blake would ever say anything; he was polite like that.
When he straightened the refrigerator, he cleaned her items as well as his own, and he’d gather her forgotten half-empty glasses from around the apartment when he was going to run the dishwasher.
But he never entered her room, and it tended to degenerate into messiness over time.
She put on an instrumental playlist and started on the clothes.
Having in-unit laundry was a luxury; she didn’t miss trekking to the laundromat, the same way she didn’t miss the rotation of roommate to roommate, moving between a half dozen apartments in as many years, knowing that if she spent the inheritance instead of watching her dimes, she wouldn’t have to live like this.
Now, her whole inheritance rested on a flimsy house of cards, ready to give out at a strong gust of wind.
James had told her there was nothing to do but wait, and so she waited.
Again, she considered telling Cora, but dismissed the thought.
If there was nothing to do but wait, she might as well spare Cora the worry.
She would focus on what she could control: this Pimpernel investigation, for example.
The night was cooling off nicely, and she turned on the fan in one window to get some more fresh air moving through the space.
The light hum and instrumental background music blended, blocking out all noise from the outside world.
She went through stacks of mail, tidied up loose change on her bureau, folded the basket of clean clothes she’d been picking through all week.
With still some time on the clock before she’d let herself text the Pimpernel, she changed her bedsheets, which elevated the feeling of the entire space.
It was wonderful to have clean sheets. Then, finally, she settled down on the bed and sent a message.
Hey. You around?
After she hit send, she realized she had been counting on a “yes” response.
Was she being too desperate? That wasn’t her MO in any kind of encounter, platonic, romantic, sexual, or otherwise, and the discomfort twinged.
She hadn’t expected the feeling of vulnerability in being the one to reach out first.
But he replied almost instantly. Yeah. I was wondering if tonight was too soon to message you.
Relief washed over her. Thank god. She didn’t want to come on too strong.
His next text followed the first. I didn’t want to come on too strong.
Eerie. She scooted up on the pillows. So what are you wearing?
Ha ha, he replied. Is that how this works?
Beats me. Never done this before. Their mutual uncertainty made her smile. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.
Which story did you read?
She couldn’t remember the title, if it even had one. The one with the woman in the woods. Maybe he had more than one with a woman in the woods. The anonymous sex one.
I know the one. What turned you on about it?
Maggie blushed. She’d been contemplating the story for the last few days, mulling over its appeal.
It seemed really risky, which probably should have been a turnoff, but I was into the fantasy.
She paused, then sent the next message. The helplessness.
The idea of being used. The bondage. And the public setting.
Messages sent, out into the unknown where she couldn’t take them back.
What about the denial?
She’d liked that as well. That too. But I mostly like to think about denial but get off anyway.
I see, he replied before a long pause. What do you think about letting me control your orgasms?