Roommating

by Meredith Schorr

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Sizzling chemistry and tender friendship develops between two accidental roommates in this hilarious rom-com from the author of As Seen on TV.

Sabrina is too busy with grad school and her job as a library page to think about dating. Until Marcia, her elderly roommate, invites her estranged grandson Adam to move into their two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan temporarily to “find himself.” Sabrina doesn’t mind sharing the small space with Adam if it helps Marcia repair her relationship with her grandson. But she’s not expecting to fall for him herself. Adam is not only gorgeous, he’s kind, funny, shares her love of reading, and clearly adores Marcia. After one too many accidental midnight rendezvous in the bathroom (him shirtless), the tension between them is hotter than ever.

But they’re not the only ones feeling the heat. After Marcia has a health scare, her doctors advise that one of her younger roommates must go. In a comical and sexy battle to prove who deserves to stay, the two pull out all the stops. All's fair in love and real estate, but in the end victory is not so sweet when winning the apartment could mean losing each other.  

Release date: June 10, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

My seventy-two-year-old roommate Marcia is a ten.

I make this observation from behind my phone, primed to record her placing the first book on the black four-tier revolving bookshelf we spent most of our Sunday afternoon struggling to put together. “Are you ready?” I ask her.

Marcia shakes her head of chin-length salon-dyed blond hair. “I’m not sure. Why are there so many extra screws? Shouldn’t we have used them all?” Her gaze dips to the small clear bag holding at least ten leftover screws on the dark wood living room floor of our two-bedroom apartment in Union Square.

I shrug. “They’re probably spares. Ikea is generous that way.”

This may or may not be true, but the bookshelf is standing, which must count for something. I tuck my phone into the pocket of my high-waisted wide-leg jeans and squat. Then I slide the bag of extra screws under one of the flattened cardboard boxes at our feet before straightening my legs. Out of sight. Out of mind. “See? No extra screws anymore.”

“Clever,” Marcia says, her blue eyes twinkling. With a grunt, she bends her knees and retrieves the bag. “We should store them somewhere safe, just in case.”

I laugh. “It’s a good thing one of us is sensible, huh?”

She blows a raspberry. “I think you mean old.”

I smile fondly at her. I’d swallow a container of retinol in one gulp to look as good as Marcia in my seventies. “Age is relative. Compared to my twenty-four, sure, you’re older. But the guy in front of us at Trader Joe’s yesterday? Ninety if he’s a day. Compared to him, you’re but a young grasshopper.”

She waves me off and regards me with soft eyes. “Have I told you lately how happy I am that you live here?” She squeezes my forearm affectionately.

Warmth fills my belly. “Not as happy as I am,” I say, meaning it.

When I first moved to Manhattan from Connecticut after graduating college more than a year and a half ago, I shared a one-bedroom apartment with two girls I’d connected with through Craigslist. Our place was party central for pre- and post-bar outings several nights a week. It was all fun and games at first, but the lifestyle wasn’t sustainable while taking two courses a semester toward my master’s in library and information science and working approximately fifteen hours a week as a library page at a branch of the New York Public Library. Trying to focus on schoolwork in a “bedroom” partitioned with sheets while perpetually drunk twenty-three-year-olds shout “Woo!” on repeat less than ten feet away… well, I don’t recommend it.

Then I saw a segment on the Today show about a roommate app that matched younger adults with older people who had rooms to spare, and I found Marcia. The deal is, I pay obscenely low rent—by New York City standards—in exchange for taking care of the more physical burdens in her life, helping care for Rocket, her precious but hyperactive Jack Russell terrier, and demystifying the techie things that frequently trip her up. Even with the dismal salary I make at the library and paying my own way through grad school with loans, I can afford it. It’s been a dream—both the living arrangement and Marcia, who’s become one of my best friends.

“Do you like it here?” Marcia asks.

For a second, I think she’s read my mind, but she’s referring to the bookshelf’s current placement in front of the window overlooking Fourteenth Street and to the right of the dark-gray suede sectional couch.

“It’s perfect. Time to christen this bad boy,” I say, gesturing to the hardcover copy of Nothing Like the Movies on the granite-covered square coffee table.

She chews her lip. “Maybe you should do the honors.”

I cock my head. “Do you want to take the video then?”

“I’d probably cut off your head, so no.”

I chuckle. “You said it, not me.” Marcia is comically horrible at taking pictures with her phone. We haven’t even attempted video yet.

“But I must look awful!” She stretches her royal blue sweatshirt over her cropped black leggings and smooths down her hair.

“You look gorgeous, but I won’t post unless you approve it first.”

She sighs and plucks the book off the table.

Victory. I clap. “Yay!” Once I confirm she’s ready, I start filming. “Momentous moment here! Watch as Marcia places the first book on the gorgeous bookshelf we just put together. Go for it, Marcia!”

Marcia flashes a smile and hams it up, spinning the four-and-a-half-foot shelf for a full rotation before letting it come to a stop and carefully placing Nothing Like the Movies on one of the top shelves.

From behind my phone, I shout, “Woo-h—”

Thunk.

The slab of wood holding the book crashes to the ground, taking Nothing Like the Movies and the three shelves below with it.

I jump. Marcia gasps. We share a moment of silence while we survey the crash site. I turn off the video. “Well, that was unfortunate.”

Marcia points at me with what I’ve come to recognize over the last seven months as mock annoyance. “They’re probably spares, she said. Ikea is generous that way, she said.”

“Fine. You win! They’re not spares, and Ikea is the worst.”

We burst into laughter.

Rocket barks, a piece of paper dropping from his mouth with wet and mutilated cartoon images of the Ikea instructions man pointing unhelpfully at black arrows and slabs of wood.

Since we’ve long passed our threshold for playing carpenter, we decide to shelve (pun intended) the project to revisit at an undetermined time in the future. An hour later, we’re at the white circular table in our small dine-in kitchen sharing an extra-cheese pizza.

I take a bite of my second slice. “Is it me or does pizza taste better after hours of grueling labor not building a bookshelf?”

“Mm-hmm.” Marcia dabs at her mostly uneaten first slice with a napkin, letting it soak up the grease.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

She’s been uncharacteristically quiet since putting in the order with Unregular Pizza using the Slice app I downloaded on her phone.

“Yes. I’m sorry. Just… thinking. But I’m glad you like the pizza. Brenda from the gym recommended the place.” She cuts into a slice using her knife and fork and takes a bite, looking a bit like a child forced to eat his broccoli.

“Are you upset about the furniture? I might have oversold my skills. We should have paid someone in the building to do it.” Rocket brushes against my leg under the table wanting food. I gently push him away.

She lowers her fork to her plate, the metal causing a clinking sound as it hits the ceramic. “I actually know someone who might be able to help us. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him.”

Him? Since I’ve lived here, I don’t think a single man has gotten beyond the threshold of our apartment. After letting boys and partying affect my schoolwork when I first moved to the city, dating has now taken a back seat to pursuing my dream of becoming a librarian… like so far back, it’s in another car. But Marcia’s husband died ten years ago, and since she’s retired from teaching, she has plenty of time on her hands. Maybe she’s ready to date. “Tell me more about him!” I lean forward on my elbows.

“It’s Adam.”

My eyes widen while my arms drop to my sides. “Adam as in your grandson, Adam?” I don’t know much about him except that her son kept them apart for the last decade. There are several pictures of Adam in the living room and her bedroom, including from his bar mitzvah more than ten years ago, but nothing more recent. “What did he want?”

“He’s going through a tough time professionally. He just got laid off from his last position.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Marcia must catch the note of sarcasm in my voice because she levels her eyes at me. “He apologized for letting his father come between us and insisted he does not share his views. He wants us to have a relationship.”

“Well, that’s great!” As if it weren’t hard enough for Marcia to come out to her friends and family as bisexual in her sixties, her own son couldn’t handle it and basically ejected her from his life, further punishing her by removing access to Adam.

She smiles timidly. “Rather than jumping right into yet another job, he’s decided to take a short break to figure out what he really wants to do next. Since graduating from UPenn, he’s been through several jobs trying to find the right fit. His father and stepmother refuse to pay for his ‘vacation from life,’ so I’m thinking about inviting him to stay with me for a little while. With us.” She clarifies, “On the couch. If it’s okay with you.”

My mouth falls open, but I quickly snap it shut. Marcia’s still speaking, and I want to hear her out.

“I hate to put you in an awkward position, but I’ll make sure he stays out of your way. And it’s not forever. It’s just… I don’t know him very well. My own grandson.” Marcia’s features collectively droop in barefaced sadness.

My heart splinters a little. “It’s fine! This is your apartment. You can invite anyone you want to stay over.” I mean every word, though I’m sure I’ll have more feelings on the matter once I have time to digest it.

Rocket lets out three barks as if expressing his agreement. Then again, Rocket is almost always barking unless he’s asleep or having his belly or ears rubbed. “Seriously. This seems like a great opportunity for you two to bond. I’m all for it,” I say. I can’t really blame Adam for allowing his father to keep him from Marcia when he was a boy. And I fully support him making up for lost time as a man.

Marcia blows out a breath of relief. “Thank you!”

I watch as she grabs her slice of pizza with both hands and bites into it with gusto. Thrilled to see her spirits back up, my mind wanders to my own late grandma, Nana Lena. We spent every day together for most of my life, and although we were close when I was super little… well, let’s just say teenage Sabrina wouldn’t win any granddaughter-of-the-year awards. I regret wasting so many opportunities to bond with her now that she’s gone. I regret a lot when it comes to her. Even though I’ve never met Adam, I don’t want him to have those same regrets with Marcia.

After dinner, Marcia goes to her room to call Adam, and when she returns, she’s beaming. He’s accepted her offer to move in temporarily and will be here on Wednesday. She retires for the night, and I stay in the living room to watch an episode of Selling Sunset. It occurs to me that once Adam moves in, I might have to watch all my shows on my laptop since the couch out here will now be his bed.

I toss the gray chunky-knit throw blanket off my lap and walk over to the leaning white ladder shelf set against the opposite wall. It’s decorated with plants, glass figurines and other tchotchkes, and picture frames, including one of a teenage Adam in a navy-blue suit, powder-blue yarmulke over his brown hair and white prayer shawl draped across his narrow shoulders. The poor kid’s got metal braces and a serious T-zone situation going on, but his light blue eyes pop against his outfit. He shares that feature with his grandma. The first time I saw it, I told Marcia he was adorable. In truth, he was about as adorable as the cast of Stranger Things after the first season, but I expect he’s probably grown out of his awkward stage by now.

I return to the couch and search for “Adam Haber” on Instagram, scrolling through the results until I find what I guess is the right one. On his feed are some photos of the Philadelphia skyline, a few lake and hiking pics, a beer bottle against a setting sun, but none of him. He’s in a few tagged photos, but they’re either profile shots, taken from behind, or his face is hidden by sunglasses. I close out of Instagram assuming I’ll find out soon enough.

While washing my face and brushing my teeth before bed, I tidy up the vanity to make room for Adam’s stuff. I’m thrilled for Marcia to bond with her grandson, and if greatness runs in the family, maybe we’ll become friends, but there’s also a slight pinch of anxiety in my gut. Besides losing access to the couch and flat screen and sharing a bathroom with a dude, my dynamic with Marcia is bound to change. Will she have as much time for me now that her estranged grandson is back in her life? But I push aside these selfish thoughts. I’ve had Marcia to myself for almost seven months, but she’s not my grandmother. I won’t stand in the way of Adam bonding with his.

Wednesday morning, I’m on the couch enjoying a cup of coffee before my shift at the library while listening to Harlan Coben and Jasmine Guillory recommend books on the third hour of the Today show when the doorbell rings.

As per usual, Rocket loses his mind. He vaults from the couch, where he’s been snuggling at my side, and whips down the narrow foyer to the front door, jumping so high like he thinks he can climb over it into the hallway. “Be right there,” I shout, hoping Adam can hear me over Rocket. I assume it’s Adam since Marcia, who’s in the shower, said he’d be here sometime today. For no reason whatsoever, I’d assumed she meant dinnertime. I place my mug on the coffee table and stride to the front door, gently shooing Rocket out of the way so I can let Adam in.

Instead, I cast my eyes upon some other twentysomething white guy who can’t possibly be Adam because this guy is hot—like, I’m sure I’ve seen him in movie sex scenes with Margot Robbie or Zendaya hot. His hair, which is somewhere between medium and dark brown with hints of red, is cut above his ears in the front and a little longer in the back. His eyes, the shade of blue wheat, fall beneath full eyebrows, and a trace of stubble covers his flawless fair skin. I tear my eyes away from his face and take in the rest of him. Gone are the lanky shoulders of his early teenage years, replaced by ones that are broad without being at all Hulk-like. He’s tall—although nearly everyone is tall compared to my measly five feet, one inch—and wearing a light-gray Henley under an unzipped black winter jacket—

“Does Marcia Haber live here?” he asks, interrupting my objectification to remind me he’s a human being, and I’m acting gross. His lips twitch.

My face burns like molten lava. “She does. Are you Adam?” As difficult as it is to reconcile that this man is the grown-up version of the awkward boy in the photo frame, it’s the only logical explanation for why he’s standing outside my door on the day Adam is expected to arrive.

“I am. I caught an early train this morning. Are you—”

Before he can complete the sentence, Rocket dashes through my legs and out into the hallway like a trapped demon out of the opened gates of hell. “Shit. Rocket!”

Our apartment is on one far end of the hallway, and by now a barking Rocket has already reached the other end and is on his way back, most certainly to repeat the lap again and again until he wears himself out sometime next year. After sliding his dark-brown canvas messenger bag down his shoulder and placing it against the door, Adam squats. “Hey, Rocket. Come here, boy.”

Rocket freezes and watches Adam, who slaps his muscular—not that I noticed—thighs in a “come hither” motion.

“Good luck with that,” I mutter. There’s no way.

And yet, there is. Right before my eyes, Rocket sprints over to Adam, who rubs his brown ears while Rocket licks his face. The display reminds me of those YouTube videos of soldiers returning from war and reuniting with a beloved dog for the first time in years. Except Rocket is only two and it’s been much longer since Marcia’s seen Adam.

Adam seamlessly guides Rocket inside the apartment, dragging his blue suitcase, one shade darker than his eyes, behind him.

I pick up his messenger bag, which feels like it’s filled with boulders, and follow in awe.

We return to the living room at the same time Marcia exits her bedroom, running her fingers through her damp hair. “Did Rocket get out again?” It takes a moment for her to realize we’re not alone, but when she notices Adam, her face breaks out into the hugest smile I’ve ever seen. And this is saying a lot because Marcia is generally a very smiley person. “Adam!”

“Hi, Grandma.” Adam’s almost shy as he scrapes a hand through his hair.

“Come here!” Marcia doesn’t wait for him to act before heading his way and pulling him into a hug while I take the opportunity to release his heavy messenger bag from my shoulder as gracefully as I can, in case there’s a twelve-piece set of fragile dinnerware in there.

Observing the two, I can practically feel how tightly Marcia is squeezing from here, her arms stretched to reach around him, but before long, Adam sinks into it and hugs back just as hard. I nearly choke up.

When they separate, Marcia gives Adam the once-over of a loving grandmother. “Look at you. You’re all grown up.” She shakes her head, clearly trying not to cry. She proceeds to ask him a bunch of questions without letting him answer: “How was the train? Did you find the apartment okay? Are you hungry?”

I’m about to make a quiet exit to my room to give them some privacy when Marcia says, “Have you met Sabrina yet?”

“Sort of.” Adam faces me. “Hi again,” he says with a teasing glint in his blue eyes.

I guess it was too much to hope he’d forget my initial reaction to seeing him, but I pretend I have. “Thanks for dog-whispering Rocket before.”

Hearing his name, Rocket darts right over.

“Aw, he’s a good boy.” Adam kneels and grabs the chew toy from Rocket’s mouth, gently tossing it across the room. When Rocket chases after it, he stands. “I actually am hungry. What’s your plan for today, Grandma? Can I take you to breakfast? And if it’s not too cold, maybe you can show me around the neighborhood after?”

Marcia’s face shimmers with joy. “I’m yours all day. Breakfast sounds great, but it’s on me. I have hundreds of meals to make up for.”

Adam grins. “The unemployed and broke grandson cannot argue with that logic.”

“It’s settled then,” Marcia says.

Adam turns to me. “Can you join us?”

My stomach flutters. A hot guy with manners. “I appreciate the invite, but I have work today.” I look between him and Marcia. “And I wouldn’t want to impose on your reunion.”

Marcia beams. “We can all have dinner later. Do you have time to give Adam a quick tour of the apartment before you leave? I need to dry my hair and make myself acceptable for public viewing.”

Adam and I say, “You’re gorgeous!” at the same time.

Marcia rolls her eyes. “You’ll get along well. You’re both full of crap.”

She returns to her room, and then it’s just me and Adam again. “She’s so excited you’re here,” I say.

Adam’s eyes soften. “I’m excited too. We have a lot to catch up on.”

My heart pulls, and I swallow hard. “Anyway… this is the living room. Obviously. The couch pulls out.” I point stupidly at the TV like I’m a host on HSN. “The TV in here has Netflix, Apple TV Plus, Disney Plus, Hulu, Prime, Max, Peacock, Showtime. All the streaming you could possibly want. Except sports. Marcia doesn’t have ESPN or Yes or any of those.” I’m babbling. “You saw the kitchen. It’s right when you walk in. Marcia’s bedroom and bathroom are through the door she just entered, and mine is down there,” I say, pointing toward the far end of the living room. We’ll share this bathroom right here,” I say, opening the door to my left.

Adam pops his head inside.

“Everything is off of the living room. Almost impossible to get lost.”

Adam cocks his head, his eyes sparkling again. “Almost?”

“Enough tequila, and I’d get lost in my own bed.”

“I hear you. One too many Jell-O shots and I’m…” He makes the “mind blown” gesture.

“J… Jell-O shots? Really?” I pegged him for more of a beer guy with absolutely zero basis for doing so.

“No.” He laughs and sets his suitcase to the side of the couch. “Oh shit, my other bag is still in the hallway.”

“I brought it in.” I motion to where I left it against the wall.

He blinks. “Thank you.”

The way he’s gazing at me with open curiosity is unnerving, though I can’t say I hate it. “What do you have in there anyway? Cement blocks?”

His lips quirk. “Something like that. My laptop and some books.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Books? You read?”

From his bemused expression, I suspect he thinks I just asked if he knows how to read. Before I can clarify, he says, “You’re not at all how I pictured, Sabrina.”

For some reason, hearing my name from his mouth sends my chest all aflutter. He looks me up and down, but I can’t take offense because of how blatantly I did the same to him earlier. Also, my desperately-in-need-of-exercise body is too busy sweating under his scrutiny to multitask emotions. I’m in decent shape for the sole reason that I’m only twenty-four, as my fitness-obsessed older sister Audrina reminds me often. “No? How did you picture me?”

I try to see myself through his eyes. While he’s objectively hot, my petite frame, wavy shoulder-length golden-blond hair, and big brown eyes usually place me in the “cute” category. This is fine with me, since cute requires less maintenance than hot.

“Older. Much older.” His cheeks flush pink.

I touch my hair. “Oh. She didn’t tell you how we connected?”

Adam shakes his head, so I explain.

“My grandma looks great. I didn’t know she needed live-in help. What’s wrong? Is she okay?” He fires off questions in rapid succession.

He’s freaking out, which wasn’t my intention. I instinctively lift my hand to provide physical comfort but lower it when I remember he’s a stranger to me. Instead, I look him squarely in the eyes so he knows I’m being sincere. “She absolutely does not need live-in help. She’s actually in great physical shape for someone her age. I’m here to make sure she doesn’t overdo it. And I help with other stuff, like getting her more online. She had her own reasons for wanting a roommate my age, but I’ll let her explain. Okay?”

He nods, his shoulders dropping in visible relief. “You mentioned work. What do you do?”

“I’m a library page while working toward my MLIS.”

He nods approvingly. “Master’s in library and information science. You’re studying to be a librarian?”

My eyes widen. It’s rare when someone knows what the acronym stands for. “I am.”

“Do you love it?”

“I do. I have three more semesters including this one, but since I don’t take summers off, I’ll graduate in a year.”

Adam sits on the edge of the couch and studies me again. “What kinds of things are you learning?”

“Be careful what you wish for. I can literally talk about libraries all day, but…” A glance at my phone alerts me to the time. “Can we continue this later? If I have any shot at getting to work on time, I need to go.”

Adam winces. “Of course. Sorry to keep you.”

“No worries! It’s great to meet you and I’m looking forward to being your roomie.”

Adam smiles slowly. “Same.”

With a loud “Bye, Marcia!” I grin at Adam once more, grab my coat and bag, and head out.

It’s two hours into my workday at the library, and I’m placing returned books back on the shelves while briefing my co-worker and friend, Gabriel, on Adam. Gabe is the adult services librarian, but it’s a slow day, and no adults are currently seeking his services.

“And it was full of books!” I say, referring to Adam’s heavy messenger bag. “He even knew what an MLIS was without me having to tell him.”

Gabe scratches the brown skin along his jaw. “I’m confused. Is Adam here to reconnect with this grandma, or is this some freak reality dating show where seniors set up their grandchildren with their roommates?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, hiding m. . .