Page 48 of The Roommate Lie

“I made it. With my mom.”

That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever said out loud. True, but dumb. I brace for impact—sarcasm, mockery, the works. The full Jason experience. But all I get is another good, low chuckle, and I’m not complaining.

That sound rolls down my spine, giving me the best thrill. Especially when he’s standing that close.

Charlie gazes down at me, his face a few inches from mine. The air thins between us, and I can’t even blink, let alone look away. I feel like I’ve hiked to the top of a mountain, and there isn’t enough oxygen in the air. I’m too dizzy for my own good, lightheaded from spending too much time with Dangerous Charlie.

He leans a little closer, still boxing me in. He starts to say something else, or maybe he isn’t going to say anything at all. Maybe words are overrated.

His eyes flick toward the bed, and everything changes. Dangerous Charlie fizzles in an instant, and he leans back ashe notices something on the comforter. A folded piece of paper that’s been haunting me since lunch: the newest scandal sheet from the Victorian.

“It fell off the top of the fridge when I tried to make a sandwich,” I admit. My voice wavers, and all those little things I didn’t want to think about come rushing back. My writing woes, and how pathetic that must look to everyone else.

“She made it sound like I’m lazy, like I’m not trying to get any writing done while I’m in town. But I’m not lazy. She?—”

The front door opens downstairs, and my voice fades. Our game fades. Charlie searches my face, and he isn’t trying to get answers out of me anymore. When he finally speaks, any playfulness in his voice is long gone.

“We need to talk.”

He takes me out for an early dinner at the smallest hole-in-the-wall restaurant I’ve ever seen. A place with sawdust on the floor and only one item on the menu for each night of the week. And it works—Charlie’s newest plan is genius.

The moment our Wednesday burgers hit the table, I’m basically an open book. As if that man has discovered the secret to Alice Kilpatrick. Give me enough french fries, and I’ll tell you anything.

“One of my author idols at Harlequin used to dress up when she had writer’s block,” I blurt out of nowhere. Before Charlie can even ask. “That’s where I got the idea. I like to pretend I work at a grand estate. That I’m not just making up a love story out of nowhere—it’s something I’ve seen and overheard while I was working.”

“As a maid in the Regency era?”

I nod as a blush warms my cheeks. “I know it sounds silly. But I get dressed up, and then I do writing sprints on my typewriter. Usually by candlelight.”

Why does everything I confess to this man sound worse when I say it out loud? Don’t get me wrong, I already knew this was bad—my sisters and Jason have all given me a hard time about it—but it sounds even more ridiculous now. Not to mention historically inaccurate.

Typewriters weren’t invented until the late 1860s. If I’m cosplaying a Regency maid, shouldn’t I be using a quill?

I don’t know why that’s never occurred to me, but Charlie doesn’t look like he’s getting ready to call the history police. And he isn’t mortified on my behalf either.

“Does it work?” he asks. “Dressing up?”

“It used to.”

Dressing up hasn’t helped with my current book, but before that, it worked like a charm. My sister Nicki first started acting strange while I was finishing my last book. I knew she was hiding something; I just wasn’t sure what it was. Worrying about her stalled my writing pretty bad, but a few rounds of Pretend Scullery Maid did the trick. Even if Jason said it was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen.

But Charlie seems more intrigued than anything. “Have you dressed up since you’ve been at my house?”

“No.”

“If I asked real nice, would you?”

No.

Nice try, Blythe.

I reach across the table to swat him, and he chuckles. Then I steal one of his fries as punishment. Something in my chest eases as we sit there together, and I’m almost having fun—until he taps the folded white paper on the table: the Victorian’snewest scandal sheet. I guess he wasn’t going to let me off the hook after all.

I don’t wait for Charlie to ask any questions. I just start babbling. “I know the Victorian wasn’t actually going after me. She wasn’t trying to be mean. I’m just really sensitive about my book these days. But I’m fine.”

That’s clearly a lie. I’m not fine, and I’m more than a little annoyed with the Victorian. That gossip monger was my new happy place, my scandal sheet dream come true, and then she turned on me. But Charlie doesn’t call me out. He’s too busy listening.

I don’t know why that makes me crumble, having his complete attention, but it does. Before I know it, I’m telling him everything. About all the words I write and delete each day, how many different plot lines I’ve tried that have gone up in flames. I even confess that the grumpy hero in my book is based on Jason, and Charlie winces.

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