Page 21 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“I’m not apologizing for it,” I banter, mock flexing. “That was comedy gold right there.” It wasn’t, but he doesn’t say so.

When I walk inside the clubhouse, I go silent. It’s massive. Andornate. And not what I was expecting. Finally, after gawking for what feels like three acts, I look at Booker. “What is this place?”

“This is Clubhouse Village,” he says. “It’s sort of the social epicenter of Sunset.”

“The theatre has an epicenter?”

“No, the theatre is just one part of this place.” I can hear his confusion as he frowns. “Didn’t you look it up when you applied for this job?”

I don’t even remember applying for the job, but in my desperation, I’m sure I didn’t read closely. I’m a skimmer on a good day, so at best I looked it over like it was the seventeenth page of mortgage paperwork.

“Uh,yeah.Of course. Yes, I... totally did that.” I hitch my bag up on my shoulder and push a hand through my hair, knocking my sunglasses off the top of my head. They clatter to the ground, and Booker and I both bend over to pick them up at the same time.

On the way down, a vision flashes—we’re two cartoon characters about to bonk heads.

Thankfully, the vision is just my overactive imagination and not a premonition, and we’re both quick enough to react before we knock into each other.

However, this results in us both stopping short of picking up the glasses but looking up simultaneously, faces—and lips—inches away.

He doesn’t move, and of course neither do I. Mostly because my heart is caught in my throat. He slowly reaches down and picks up my sunglasses, handing them to me before I breathlessly stand back up.

In my mind, this all looked like a romantic meet-cute, even though it was neither romantic nor cute.

“Well,thatwas close,” he says lightly.

Yes. It was. Can we do it one more time from the top, please? I need another take.

“Thanks,” I say, finding my breath and my footing. I gather myself and look around. Thisepicenteris huge. “This place reminds me of the kind of fancy vacation resort I’ve never been able to afford.”

He smirks. I bet his full smile is nice. I bet it crinkles the skin around his eyes just a tiny bit. I look away before I say something stupid like,“I can’t wait to see your eye crinkles.”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” Booker says. “There’s a golf course, tennis courts, now pickleball courts—seems like that’s the sport of choice. Those are all out back.” He walks over to the opposite side of this lobby/atrium area we’re in, then points out the giant floor-to-ceiling windows. Sure enough, I can see everything he said I would and more. Pools. Hot tubs. A large wraparound patio on the opposite side of this clubhouse that’s lined with exercise machines, and I really start to wonder what I’ve signed up for.

Is this theatre at a country club? For rich lonely women and their tennis pros?

“There’s also a restaurant, a pavilion for weddings and parties, a full gym on the lower level with yoga, Zumba, step aerobics, the works. It’s really important for the members to keep moving. That’s sort of my domain down there. I’m the resident physical therapist, but I’m also the head of health and wellness. The facilities are all open to staff too, so you’re more than welcome to work out if you want.”

I glance over at him. Important for the members to keep moving? Health and wellness? “I’m so confused—where is the theatre?”

“Booker! You’re back!” A woman’s voice, complete with a pronounced Southern lilt, turns us both around.

Rushing toward us is a short older woman with dyed blond hair and a full face of makeup.Rushingis a bit of a stretch. She’s definitely in the third act of her life.

When she meets my eyes, she smiles. “You must be Rosie!” She pulls me into a tight hug and claps her hand on my back. “I’m Connie! We exchanged emails! Oh my word! You are just thecutestthing.” She stands back and looks me over. “The cutest.” Then, to Booker. “Isn’t she the cutest?”

He appears to think for a second, then says, “I mean, for a theatre person, she’s not bad.” Totally deadpan, perfect delivery.

I’m simultaneously insulted and impressed.

Wait. Is he flirting? Should I flirt back?

I raise my eyebrows. “Not bad?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and I swear I see the hint of a smile behind his eyes. “You know. For a theatre person.”

“So a compliment then?” I ask lightly.

“If that’s how you want to take it,” he says.

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