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The Perfect Roommate by Minka Kent Read Online (FREE)

Elisabeth was wracked with guilt, broken hearted, but there was the tiniest hint of hope in her eyes. It was as if she could finally move forward, finally remember her mother as she once was and not as a frail bag of bones who couldn’t remember her own name.

“Mabry Adelaide would be cute,” I say, spraying the far side of the kitchen island with all-natural cleaner, though now that I think of it, I’ve probably already done this section.

It’s easy to get distracted around Elisabeth. She talks to me like I’m a friend—and I suppose we are, in a way, though she’s not the kind of person I’d call up when I’m bored. Maybe that’s the true marker of genuine friendship? Either way, most clients aren’t home when I come to clean, and if they are, they pretend I’m invisible—which is fine with me. But not Elisabeth.

Then again, she’s a novelist who works from home and spends all day in front of a computer. I’m sure she’s starved for human interaction and I happen to be convenient.

But I don’t want to think like that. I respect her. A lot. And I like what we have—whatever it is.

I want to keep it that way.

“I suppose we’ll have to compromise,” Elisabeth says with a wink. “Anyway, we’ve got four months to go yet. Plenty of time to narrow it down.”

The gentle scuff of footsteps in the foyer sends a quick jerk to my heart. I didn’t know we weren’t alone. A moment later, Reed appears in the kitchen doorway, attention directed toward his glowing wife. Without wasting a beat, he goes to her, bending to kiss the top of her head.

“You’re going to be late,” she tells him, lifting her hand to cradle his strong jaw.

“And it’s all your fault,” he says.

They share a knowing chuckle, and I imagine them tangled in their red flannel bedsheets this morning, their bodies melded, and it makes me blush.

The Bristowes are everything I hope to have someday and proof that not all married people are selfish assholes who don’t take their vows seriously. These two are clearly in it for the long haul, and that’s a fact that puts my cynical heart at ease every time I see them together.

“Meadow,” he says, turning to me and straightening his tie. I love the way he says my name—enunciated, with intention. Like I mean something. “How’s your morning?”

“G-great,” I say. God, I hate when I stammer, but that intense, steely-blue gaze of his makes it hard for me to think straight sometimes. Clearing my throat, I add, “I heard you’re taking over for Cutler’s World Lit class.”

His expression dissipates. Maybe I should’ve offered my condolences to Cutler’s tragic situation first.

“So sad,” I add quickly. “He’s one of my favorite professors. I hope he recovers quickly.”

Professor Bristowe’s mouth forms a straight line and his hands rest on his hips. “Right, well, so far his prognosis doesn’t sound hopeful. They’re already talking about long-term care.”