Page 24 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Yep. I’m... yep.” I step inside, and he hits the button to close the doors, and I do everything I can think of to slow my breathing.

My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.

I pull it out and look at the notification lighting my screen: “You have a possible love match”it screams at me in an obnoxious pink font.

The words are unbearably large and sent with confetti, and I glance over to see that Booker has, in fact, seen the notification over my shoulder. I click the button and toss my phone in the oversized bag.

“You, uh, sure you don’t want to get that?” he asks, a bit of a tease in his voice. “A possible love match sounds important.”

“Do you always read other people’s texts?” I ask.

“Not my fault.” He leans back against the wall of the elevator, hands up in surrender. “That font is huge.” After a pause, he quips, “Is that so you don’t miss any love matches?”

“It’s not huge,” I say. “And I’m not—it’s nothing. My friend set that up. I don’t even...” I smile in spite of myself. “Oh, just shut up.”

Thankfully, he laughs. Because my flustered “shut up” might’ve come off snotty.

I glance over at him and find him smirking. “What?”

A shrug. “Nothing. I just think you’re going to be fun to have around.”

I catch my breath.

He thinks I’m fun to have around.

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Metaphorically, so does my heart.

He steps out. “You ready for this?”

My brain answers the question the only way it knows how:Nope.

Chapter 6

Booker smells good. Darn it.

There’s no way to think that andnotfeel like a creeper.

Plus, it’s making it very hard to concentrate on anything he’s saying, especially because I’m trying to place what it is he smells like. The woods? Leather? Caramel? I’m coming up empty.

The lower level of the clubhouse is as he described—full of physical therapy machines and exercise studios with glass walls. We stop outside a Zumba class for senior citizens, and I can’t help but smile as I watch. They’re uninhibited, hooting and hollering and dancing and punching, and it makes me want to join them.

I used to be more uninhibited, but the more the rejections piled up, the more closed off I’ve become. It’s hard to give 100 percent of yourself all the time. Every time. Only to be told you’re not what they’re looking for.

I zero in on a man, front and center in the Zumba class, wearing a headband, tank top, and a pair of short black shorts. He’s so into it, he looks like he’s auditioning for a J.Lo music video. If he was, I think he’d have a shot. He’s actually not half bad.

Booker keeps walking. “The pool is also really popular here—water aerobics, lap swim, community swim lessons.”

He leads me through the space and out onto the lower deck, which has a patio that opens out to the golf course, and points over to a row of parked golf carts. “We’ll take one of the golf carts. It’s easier.”

I frown. “Is this like a compound?”

“Kind of, I guess.” He sits behind the steering wheel of one of the carts.

“Oh my gosh. This is a cult. You’re in a cult.” I start dramatically looking around, as if clocking the exits and waiting for the right time to make a break for it. “Did I get hired to teach theatre to a cult? Are you their leader?” Then, under my breath, I add, “Ugh. The good-looking one is always the leader.”

He laughs. “Will you just get in?”

I slide into the passenger seat and the cart lurches forward as he steps on the accelerator, pressing me into the cushion.

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