Page 44 of And They Were Roommates

Whoever that concierge was, he’s gone. Now there’s a new bookcase rising between our beds. Half of Jasper’s books that oncecoated the floor are organized on the shelves. He stands at the center of the rug, plaid blazer slung over a shoulder and tie missing. A walking dress-code violation, yet not a violation on his record.

I pointedly focus on the bookcase. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of my wet hair hanging in flat clumps and exposing my face more than usual, especially after everything Jasper just saw. I lift my pajama shirt collar higher. “Youdoown a bookcase.”

“Not me. We.”

“Huh?”

“A while ago, you said we should.”

I approach the bookcase and run my hand along the side engraved with a pansy flower pattern that matches the wallpaper. Most of the books are Jasper’s poetry and romance novels, but the middle is classics. IncludingOthello. My favorite. The top frame, carved into a scroll, is adorned with doves and olive branches and more pansies. Cursive lettering is etched into the wood.

Mr. Grimes & Mr. von Hevringprinz

Jasper’s lopsided dimple pops, whichdoeslook annoyingly charming. Unfortunately, I understand why he won Sexiest Poet of the Year, even though the existence of that award confounds me. “What do you think?”

It’s ridiculous. Pointless. The moment our deal is done, Jasper and I won’t be roommates, yet our names are on there like some wedding invitation.

But it also feels like an apology. I’m sort of stunned by that. “It’s… Thank you.”

His face lights up. “It’s the least I could do for my roommate.”

Warmth rises in my chest at how genuine he sounds. I cross my arms tightly against myself to smush the feeling out of me.“Then could you do me one last favor and learn how to knock before opening our doors?”

“Oh, is this some secret roommate code I’ve been missing out on? How fun.”

“What?”

“I have it—let’s knock based on how many syllables are in our last names. I’ll do four knocks forvon Hevringprinz.” Jasper punches his hand with his other four times. “Now you’ll do my last name.”

I punch my hand once.

“Fantastic!” Jasper pulls me into a side hug, squishing our shoulders together. “I can feel our teamwork blossoming even more.”

My heart rate spikes to the stratosphere. Because I can too. Even though I shouldn’t.

I can’t.

Jasper lets go of me. He walks to his bed, tosses himself onto the eleven pillows, and picks up P.M.’s book. “How’s your homework coming? It’s due tomorrow.”

As if I could forget. “Fine,” I lie, my pulse still thrumming in my wrist. Whether that’s due to his touch or his growing familiarity, I’m not sure.

“Is that so?”

I eye the book in Jasper’s grasp. He’s tasked with writing letters for the whole student body year-round yet has time to leisure read. Or P.M. is worth shoving aside his schedule for.

This is my last chance to figure out what writing pleases Jasper by tomorrow, but I need to be careful with my questions. I’d rather read P.M.’s words for the rest of my life than for Jasper to find out I’m struggling. “Why are you obsessed with that guy’s writing?”

His face slackens. “You know Pierre-Marie Laframboise’s work?”

“No, but Xavier told me he was our year’s Excellence Scholar before me, and I’ve noticed you constantly reading—”

“Of course you know P.M.’s work!” He flings the book across his quilt, and the pages crumple when they hit the bedpost. He falls back and stares at his poster on the ceiling. “Who doesn’t know him? That repulsive strawberry shortcake. Oh, Jasper, even your student adores your rival.”

Rival.Even though Xavier barely shared what Jasper and P.M.’s dynamic was when they attended Valentine and wrote for STRIP together, I would have never guessed it’d be this. “Is he a better poet than you?”

“Worse. He gets more modeling gigs than me.”

“That’s it?”

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