Chapter Twelve #3
She had told him the gist of what had happened to her parents, a cursory comment or two early in their days living together, but they’d never talked specifics.
They’d also never talked feelings. Maggie nodded to his comment, because what else did you do but nod?
“Hard for both of us, me and Cora. It’s not new, obviously, but you know sometimes you lose somebody and you think it’s fine, but then it hits you …
bam, out of the blue like that, like being bowled over out of nowhere.
Like turning your back on the ocean.” She swallowed around the words and fished around in the drawer, fingers fumbling on silverware.
“You’ve got an ice-cream scoop, right? It’s easier with an ice-cream scoop. ”
“Here.” He scooted closer again, his side pressed against hers, and fished an ice-cream scoop from the back of the drawer.
“Thanks.” She wet her fingers with water from the faucet and sprinkled it on the griddle, which wasn’t yet hot enough to cook on.
“What about the rest of your family?” Blake asked. “Are there more of you? Aunts, uncles, cousins, anybody you’re still in touch with?”
“Only on social media.” Maggie stared at the griddle, like that might make it heat up faster. “We’re not close. I think maybe that’s easier, not having to keep up those connections.” She laughed again, hearing the words come out of her mouth. “Maybe I’m a sociopath.”
“You’re not a sociopath.” His voice was unbearably gentle, the kind of gentle that made Maggie’s heart ache, and oh, shit, she did not want to develop feelings for her roommate, but when he spoke like that, a tiny voice whispered maybe.
The griddle still wasn’t hot yet, so she made herself face him. “You said you and your family aren’t close. You want to talk about it? Are there any you are close with?”
“I was close with my aunt. The one who died and left me the condo.” Blake sounded cautious. “The rest …” He hesitated. He seemed a lot more sober now.
“It’s OK if you don’t want to talk about it. I was just curious.” She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.
“My immediate family is all very religious and conservative, and I’m not.
I had a falling-out with my parents about it when I was in high school, and my aunt took me in.
She didn’t share their beliefs.” He moved in once more, stepping close, and Maggie’s heart did something medically concerning as he reached past her to hold a hand over the griddle’s surface. “I think this is ready.”
She dripped more water on it, and the water jumped off the surface with a popping hiss. Thank god she could turn her attention to the pancakes. She dropped scoopfuls of batter onto the hot griddle. “Are you still estranged? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not really. My parents moved to Florida after they retired, and it became easier to keep the peace. I see my sisters occasionally, but we don’t have a lot in common. They’re both doing the whole career and family thing beautifully, and I’m not. I’m the only one not in a relationship.”
Maggie looked back at him over her shoulder. “Does that bother you?”
“Of course.” He laughed and took off his glasses, folding them neatly and returning them to their case.
“I don’t know if I’m not trying because I’ve given up, like I tell people, or because it’s easier to pretend I’ve given up than admit I can’t find someone.
I haven’t been in a real relationship in …
” His voice trailed off. “I don’t know. Over a year. ”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t had sex in years.” As soon as the words were out, Maggie wanted to pull them back in. She shook her head. “That’s embarrassing. Forget I said that.”
“It’s not embarrassing.” His voice was too kind, too sympathetic, and Maggie brandished the spatula at him. “OK! I won’t bring it up.” He laughed. “Don’t hit me with that.”
Maggie looked at the spatula held aloft, remembered the Pimpernel asking her to spank her clit with a ruler, and all the words vanished as her face got burning hot.
She tried to cover it with a laugh but it came out all weird.
She tried to cough, but that came out equally as weird.
And the pancakes still weren’t ready to flip.
“I don’t really like sleeping with strangers.
” As she said it, she wondered if it was true.
Maybe the Pimpernel didn’t count as a stranger anymore.
“Even though Phoebe says I would feel better if I got laid. But it would be nice if I liked the guy. I don’t need to be in love with him.
I just want …” She trailed off, looking for the right words. “I just want to feel seen.”
“I know what you mean.” Blake’s tone softened, wistful, and she could get lost in those brown eyes. “You ever think some people don’t have soulmates out there?”
“I don’t think any of us has a soulmate anywhere.” The pancakes finally needed flipping. “Soulmates are bullshit. There’s how many billion people on this planet? What are the odds?”
“Right. Not soulmates. Just … compatible people.” He sighed. “I wonder if it’s worth the effort.”
“You might meet somebody at the gala.” Maggie carefully watched each pancake cook. She was good at this, the one thing in her life requiring patience that she was actually good at. “You’ll be in a tuxedo.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Fancy dress events make everybody horny.”
“Right.” Blake rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Should’ve told me this before I leaned into the whole ‘fake dating’ thing.”
Maggie smiled back. When the pancakes were done, she transferred them gently onto a plate. “We could stage a big public breakup and you could seek solace in the arms of a wealthy widow.”
Blake laughed and squatted to put the plate into the warmer drawer under the stove. He wobbled for a moment and grabbed her leg to steady himself, his fingers pressing into her shin, and Maggie lost her train of thought altogether. “Sorry,” he said, getting up. “Not quite sober yet.”
“You’re a lightweight.” She dropped more scoops of batter onto the griddle, using up the rest of the mix. “Anyway, it would probably hurt your fundraising chances if we end up on the front page of Below Boston.”
“God, could you imagine? I hate that paper.” Blake took the bowl to the sink and started washing it.
“It pays well.” Maggie watched bubbles appear on the wet surface of the new pancakes.
The silence stretched out, only the sizzle of pancakes and the sounds of water as Blake finished washing the bowl. “Didn’t know you wrote for them,” he said at last.
“I write for whoever’s paying.” She watched the pancakes cook.
Blake made a noncommittal “hmm” noise. He dried the bowl and put it back away, right as Maggie was flipping the next round of pancakes. “Speaking of which. How’d that deal end up with Arnold Chauvel?”
“I told you about that?” Maggie hadn’t remembered that conversation. She certainly wouldn’t have shared the details.
“Not the specifics,” he said. “Only that you’d made a deal.”
Maggie wrinkled her nose. “I’ll be happy to be done with it.”
“I don’t blame you. He’s a piece of work.”
Maggie hadn’t expected Blake to know Chauvel, since Chauvel stayed out of the limelight, but Blake was probably courting rich people all the time for his nonprofit. “I didn’t know you’ve met him.”
Blake shook his head. “Only by reputation. I heard he got really handsy with his girlfriend on the dance floor at last year’s gala. The PlantSeed people still talk about it.”
“He has a girlfriend?” That was new information, and Maggie tried to reconcile it with her assumptions about Chauvel thus far.
“Not anymore. Or if he does, he isn’t bringing her to the gala. He doesn’t have a plus-one this year.”
Chauvel was coming to the gala. She hadn’t expected that. He was probably going to ask her about the article’s progress. She’d have to get him a draft before that.
Blake leaned over her shoulder to look at the pancakes. “Those smell good.”
Maggie tried to focus on the pancakes, or their conversation, not Blake’s cheek pressed against hers. He was clearly less aware of personal space when tipsy. “They’re nearly done. You can take the others out of the warming drawer. Don’t fall over again.”
Blake chuckled and grabbed a flowered potholder. He managed to get the plate out without losing his balance or grabbing her leg this time, unfortunately. “Am I allowed to know what you’re writing about for him? Is it scandalous?”
Maggie shook her head. “Keeping that a secret, sorry.”
Blake waggled his eyebrows. “So it is scandalous.”
Maggie didn’t want to think about Chauvel right now. While she removed the last pancakes, Blake poured some syrup into a small dish. Then he rolled up one of the pancakes and dipped it in the syrup.
He must have picked up on her “What the fuck?” expression, because he looked down at what he was doing. “What?” he asked defensively. “You expecting we’re going to sit at the table or something? It’s after midnight.”
Maggie was still flabbergasted, but there was a certain appeal to the simplicity. “Touché,” she said after a bite. She liked how this felt, decadent and a bit silly, perfectly suited for standing in a dimly lit kitchen after midnight.
“See, I’m full of good ideas.” He held up his rolled pancake. “Mind if I double-dip?”
“As long as you don’t mind if I do.” She matched his action. “I got a dress tonight. And some shoes.”
He winced. “Am I going to go broke?”
“You offered to pay!” She swatted him with the spatula.
“Ow!” He rubbed his knuckles, although she hadn’t hit him that hard. “Easy, will you?”