Page 22 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Is that how you meant it?” I ask. “Because I wouldn’t want to assume you’re being kind when you’re really insulting me.” I quirk a brow.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly.

“Uh...” It’s Connie, and she sounds confused. “Do you two know each other already?”

“Oh yeah, Rosie and I go way back,” Booker says, smirking.

“About sixty-ish minutes,” I add. “And yet, I don’t even know his last name.”

“Hayes.”

Booker Hayes.

His eyes latch on to mine like Velcro, as if he’s daring me to look away. But I refuse to lose this impromptu staring contest.

“Oookay,” the woman says. “Should I wait, or...?”

My cheeks flush with a rush of heat.

Finally, I look away, hoping this unexpected exchange doesn’t result in me spontaneously combusting. I’m certain it’s a million degrees in this air-conditioned clubhouse.

Booker is still watching me. Still smirking, like this is all amusing to him, like maybe my oddness actually makes me more interesting.

It’s wishful thinking, and I know it. Not that I’m wishing foranything with someone who lives in Wisconsin. I meant what I said to Maya. I’m not into casual flings. Even if Booker does melt me from the inside out.

“You okay, honey?”

Am I sweating?

Booker just nods in Connie’s direction, indicating I should probably answer her.

“I’m great,” I say, turning away from him.

“Booker has this effect on all of us, dear,” Connie says—and not quietly. “I would say you’ll get used to it, but I’d be lying.” She giggles, like none of this is mortifying.

Booker chuckles to himself smugly, and I straighten. “Nope. No effects. I’m just...” Hot. Bothered. “Can I get a bottle of water?”

She giggles again, as if I’m just being silly, when really I feel like I’ve been chewing on cotton balls and could really use a drink.

“Well, I doubt you’re the only one immune to his charms.” Connie winks at me, and then her face turns pouty. “But of course he’s not interested in dating anyone around here.”

He smirks. “Well, you’re already taken, Connie.”

She lets out something that might be described as a titter and squeezes his bicep. “Oh, you. Such a tease.” Then to me: “Can’t blame you for getting all gooey around him.”

“I’m not gooey,” I say.

“Oh, sure you are,” Connie says. “And just you watch out for this one. He doesn’t like to mix business with pleasure. In case you’re single and looking.” She pauses, then adds, “Are you single? Are you looking?”

Booker’s face is unflinching, like he’s used to this, but I’m so surprised by the blunt question, sandwiched between humiliating commentary disguised as sweetness, that I can’t respond.

She picks up my left hand. “Huh. Not married.” She turns it toward Booker. “You two would beadorabletogether, what with your”—she waves a hand from his neck to his hips and backagain—“All of this.” She turns to me. “And you, with this quirky, adorable thing you’ve got going on. Your eyes are just the brightest blue! Big too. And those lashes.” She tuts as she shakes her head. “My eyelashes are blond, so without my face on, I look like something fromNight of the Living Dead.” A pause. “You’re probably too young to know what that is. It’s a zombie movie.”

“Mrs. Spencer,” a young woman wearing a Sunset Hills polo and a pair of khakis calls over from behind a desk. “The computer just shut down again.”

“Oh, for the love.” Connie shakes her head. “They sure make this place look nice, but they’re so cheap when it comes to the computers.” She looks at me and breathes a smile. “I want to get you settled, but—” She breaks off and looks at Booker. “Oh! You don’t have any patients this afternoon, right?”

“No, it’s my day off,” he says, as if reminding her.

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