Page 19 of The Roommate Lie

Muriel nods, leaning closer. Still whispering even though Alice is sitting right beside me and can hear every word. “What if she tries to smother you in your sleep? Or poison you? Some of the deadliest poisons are odorless and tasteless. They’re practically undetectable.”

This is the sweetest, most terrifying thing she’s ever done—trying to protect me by sharing facts about poison. Though most of the women around us just find it terrifying. Muriel brought the chocolate chip cookies tonight, and several women set their half-eaten cookies down. Never to be touched again.

Muriel’s in the cozy mystery book club too, that’s the problem. A comment like that would’ve killed with the ladies inNothing Amateur About It. That cozy mystery group is wild. I’ve never seen a sweeter bunch of women more excited to talk about murder.

But the holiday romance readers are a totally different crowd. The only danger they want is in the form of a disgraced duke. Or maybe one of those grumpy mountain men women always get snowed in with at Christmastime.

I glance at Alice, ignoring the commotion around us. She’s going to have to be the voice of reason. I wait for her to look as doubtful as she did when I offered to buy her an Old Western ticket, for her to shake her head. Instead, she looks…hopeful?

“It would be kind of nice to focus on my writing.”

She almost sounds wistful. As if life hasn’t allowed her a luxury like that in a very long time. We’re basically strangers—this is a horrible idea—but then her brown eyes find mine. Her gaze pins me in place, and maybe this is a good idea after all. Maybe it’s the best idea.

I duck my head toward hers, voice low. “Are you sure about this, Carrots?”

She hesitates, biting her bottom lip before glancing up at me. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

“You were already staying. What’s a few more days?”

I can hardly believe I’m saying it, that I’ve let myself walk into a trap the Old Birds handcrafted just for me. But Alice likes my response. And I like how much she likes it. A strange sensation sparks behind my ribs. It feels like a forest fire.

“Well,” she says slowly, “my Old Western ticketisnonrefundable…”

I pretend that makes the decision for us. That this is all about saving her a hundred bucks on bus fare. It’s a pretty nice lie, too. It feels a lot safer than the fire in my chest.

Maybe I should do this differently. Safely. The BookSlinger is full of sweet old ladies who would love to take in one of their favorite authors for an extended vacation. Women who would put her in a nice guest room of her own and probably bake her cookies. Or at least make sure she gets three square meals a day.

Though even as I think that—the moment I consider letting Alice stay with someone else—a feeling pulses in my veins I don’t recognize. Something primal I’ve never felt before. The intensity startles me, and one thought—one word—echoes under my skin:mine.

I try to ignore it, to backtrack and talk myself out of letting Alice stay with me. But that feeling, that word, echoes again. Louder this time.

Mine.

And that word is going to get me in a lot of trouble. No matter how much I like it.

Chapter Eleven

ALICE

Charlie is quiet on the walk home from book club, and I can’t help wondering if I did something wrong. If I misread him somehow.

Did I push him into this?Does he wish I wasn’t staying at his house?

Those questions follow me for blocks, but they disappear when we reach our destination. When Charlie pauses in front of the cutest little schoolhouse I’ve ever seen. An old white building with a red gable roof and a bell tower that pierces the night sky.

It’s nestled on the edge of a quaint historic neighborhood full of tree-lined streets that they call the Lilac Hedgerow, and the exterior of the schoolhouse has been painstakingly restored. I wait for Charlie to move past and keep walking, but he doesn’t. A white picket fence frames the front yard, and he reaches for the latch on the gate like he owns the place. Because I guess he does.

“Wait.” I grab his arm. “This is where you live?”

Charlie doesn’t answer. He raises both eyebrows innocently, opens the gate, and tries to keep walking. I hold tight to hisarm, letting him drag me up the weathered stone walkway to the schoolhouse, the bottoms of my sneakers skittering across the rocks. Halfway to the front door, he glances back, and the neighborhood lights reveal the faint upward tilt of his mouth. The way he’s trying to hide his amusement.

“Seriously—this is where you live? In an old schoolhouse?”

That can’t be possible. Normal guys my age don’t live in places like this. They live in apartments with three other guys or back at home with their parents. Or—if they’re my ex—they live in a condo they paid too much for, a place with ultra-modern fixtures and floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase their view of downtown.

Not this.

“Well, I either live here, or we’re about to get arrested for breaking and entering. Guess we’ll find out which.”

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