Chapter Five
The Reveal
Emmie
My laptop screen has been mocking me for forty-five minutes.
Chapter Seven: Comfort Foods for the Soul, the cursor blinks. And beneath it? Nothing. A whole lot of white space and zero inspiration.
I’ve rewritten the opening paragraph six times. Deleted it six times. Made myself a cup of tea, forgot about it, and found it cold an hour later. Classic.
The cookbook is due in two months. Cooking for Your Person (Even If They’re Grumpy About It)—a title that felt cute and marketable when I pitched it, but now feels like the universe is playing a joke on me since I moved in with the grumpiest person alive.
Not that Crew is my person. Obviously. He’s my roommate. Who happens to be grumpy. And hot. And walking around shirtless at ten at night like that’s a normal thing people do.
Focus, Emmie.
I need this book to work. Not just for my career, not just to prove to Gavin and my parents that I can handle adult life without constant crisis—but because my bank account is hovering at a number that makes me want to cry every time I check it.
The advance from my publisher covered the deposit and first month’s rent here. If I don’t deliver this manuscript on time, I won’t get the second half of my payment. And if I can’t prove to anyone—including myself—that this whole “follow your passion” thing wasn’t a spectacular mistake.
No pressure or anything.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.
Mom.
I consider ignoring it. I love my mother, but she has a sixth sense for calling at the exact moment I’m trying to be productive. It’s like she knows.
The phone keeps buzzing.
I answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“Emmie! How’s the new place? Did you sleep okay? Is the neighborhood safe? Your father looked it up on one of those crime map websites and he’s concerned about a car break-in three blocks away, but I told him that’s just city living—”
“Mom. Breathe.”
She takes an audible breath. “Sorry. I just worry. You know how I am.”
I do know. Linda Marshall has been worrying about her children since before we were born, and she’s not about to stop now.
“The apartment is great,” I tell her. “Really nice. Super clean. My roommate is, um…” I search for a word that isn’t intimidatingly hot or confusingly intense. “Quiet.”
“Quiet is good! Quiet means you can write. How’s the book coming?”
I look at my blank screen. “Great. Really flowing.”
“That’s wonderful, honey. Your father and I are so proud of you. Three cookbooks! Our little girl, a published author.”
The guilt settles in my chest. I hate lying to her, but I also can’t handle the worried phone calls that would come if I admitted I’ve written approximately three usable paragraphs in the past two weeks.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Now, about Sunday dinner. You’re coming, right? And bringing your roommate? We’d really like to meet him. Gavin told us he’s FBI, which is very impressive, but I’d like to see for myself that he’s not some kind of—”
“Mom, I’m not bringing my roommate to family dinner. That would be weird.”
“Why is that weird? We feed people. It’s what we do. Is he not eating enough? Gavin said it looks like he only eats protein powder.”
“He—” I pause. “How does Gavin know what he eats?”
“He snooped in the fridge while you were unpacking. He said it looked like a sad laboratory.”
Of course he did.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, my standard response when I have no intention of doing something but don’t want to argue. “I should get back to writing.”
“Okay, honey. Love you. Call me if you need anything. Or even if you don’t. Just call me. I like hearing your voice.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I hang up and stare at my laptop again.
Comfort Foods for the Soul.
What even is comfort food? Food that makes you feel safe, I guess. Warm. Like someone cares about you. Like you’re home.
I think about last night—the way Crew’s face changed when he tasted the pasta. That tiny crack in his armor, like he’d forgotten food could be enjoyable.
Maybe that’s the angle: cooking for people who’ve forgotten how to enjoy things.
I start typing.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my agent, Rachel.
“Hey, Rach.”
“Emmie! Quick check-in. How’s the manuscript coming?”
“Great,” I lie for the second time in five minutes. “Really taking shape.”
“Wonderful. Because I just got off a call with your editor, and she’s very excited about this one. She thinks it could be your breakout book. Bigger print run, more marketing push, maybe even a tour.”
My stomach drops. “A tour?”
“Nothing confirmed yet. But she’s optimistic, which means we need this draft to be stellar. No pressure.”
“No pressure,” I echo weakly.
“You’ve got this, Emmie. I believe in you. Talk soon!”
She hangs up before I can spiral out loud.
A tour. Bigger print run. My breakout book.
I look at my sad three paragraphs and want to scream into a pillow.
My phone buzzes a third time. Sadie.
how’s the hot roommate situation?? *wide eye emoji*
I type back: I’m trying to WORK
Sadie: so that’s a yes on hot. tell me everything
Me: there’s nothing to tell. he’s my roommate. that’s it.
Sadie: uh huh. and you definitely haven’t thought about climbing into his bed to spice things up?
I put my phone face-down on the table. I love Sadie, but she has no filter. Or boundaries. Or sense.
I need to focus. I need to write this book, hit my deadline, get paid, and not become homeless. That’s the plan. That’s the only plan.
Everything else—the hot roommate, the confusing late-night contract delivery, and the way he looked at me like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words—is a distraction I cannot afford.
I crack my knuckles, take a breath, and start typing.
Comfort food isn’t about the recipe. It’s about the feeling. That first bite that tells your body: you’re safe here. You’re taken care of. Someone made this for you.
It’s not perfect, but it’s something.
I keep writing.
* * *
The cookies are almost perfect.
Golden brown edges, soft centers, chocolate chips still melty. I pull the tray from the oven and inhale deeply, letting the buttery sweetness wash over me. This is batch number four today—I’m testing ratios of brown sugar to white—and I think I’ve finally nailed it.
Recipe testing is the only thing that’s gone right today. My word count is pathetic, my agent’s optimism is giving me hives, and I’ve been thinking about Crew’s shirtless chest at inappropriate intervals all afternoon.
But the cookies? The cookies are flawless.
I’m transferring them to a cooling rack when I hear the front door open.
Crew walks in, and something’s off. I can tell immediately. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched, and there’s a tension radiating off him that makes the air feel heavier.
“Hey,” I say. “You okay?”
He drops his keys in the dish by the door and unclips his holster, setting it on the high shelf by the entrance. “Fine.”
He is not fine. Even I can read that, and I’ve known him for only about forty-eight hours.
“Bad day?”
“Something like that.” He glances toward the kitchen, nostrils flaring slightly. “What’s that smell?”
“Chocolate chip cookies. Batch number four.” I gesture to the cooling rack. “Want one? They’re therapeutic.”
He hesitates, and I can practically see the internal debate happening behind those gray eyes—probably calculating the caloric impact on his precious protein shake schedule. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Come on,” I coax. “One cookie won’t kill you.”
He crosses to the kitchen and picks one up, turning it over in his hand like he’s inspecting it for defects. Then he takes a bite.
His eyes close—just for a second, just long enough for me to feel unreasonably proud of myself.
“Good?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“High praise from you.” I grin and turn back to my laptop, which is open on the kitchen table surrounded by recipe cards, measuring cups, and a dusting of flour I should probably clean up. “I’m testing for the cookbook. Trying to get the texture just right.”
He doesn’t respond. When I glance over, he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, cookie half-eaten, staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask.
He takes a breath. “Emmie. Did you read the entire roommate agreement before you signed it?”
The question catches me off guard. “Hmm? Yeah, of course.”
“All seventeen pages?”
I look up from my laptop. He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip, and not entirely in a good way. “I mean… I read the important parts?”
“Did you read Section 7?”
“That was…” I search my memory. “Quiet hours, right?”
“That’s Section 4.”
A nervous laugh escapes me. “Okay, you’re being weird. What’s Section 7?”
He doesn’t answer. He just turns and walks down the hallway toward his room. I hear a drawer open, papers shuffling, and then he’s back, holding a familiar stack of documents.
The roommate agreement. He gave me a copy last night, which I definitely put somewhere and then immediately forgot about.
He flips to a page near the back and holds it out to me. “Section 7, Subsection C.”
I take it, scanning the header.
Additional Arrangements.
Okay, that sounds… vague. I keep reading.
The Girlfriend Clause.
My eyes go wide.
Tenant agrees that, should Landlord require companionship for professional or personal social obligations, Tenant will fulfill the role of “girlfriend” for a period not to exceed two (2) months or until Landlord’s objective is achieved, whichever comes first.
I read it again. And again. The words don’t change.
I’m sorry. What in the actual banana bread?
Girlfriend Duties Include:
Attending work events as needed
Answering phone calls from Landlord’s supervisor with “appropriate girlfriend enthusiasm”
Posting a minimum of two (2) couple photos on social media per month
Demonstrating “believable affection” in public (hand-holding, standing in close proximity, laughing at Landlord’s jokes)
Maintaining the appearance of a “serious, committed relationship”
“The… the GIRLFRIEND CLAUSE?!” I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, papers clutched in my hand. “Are you insane?”
“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement—”