Page 97 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I like it.

Peter used to call mebaby, which always made me cringe.

I remind myself of the many reasons I’ve been cautious where Booker is concerned: (1) He looks like he just stepped off a movie set. (2) He lives in Wisconsin. (3) This is the most important reason. If I give in to the feelings I’m having for him, I will lose control of all my senses. I meet his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. “Did Evelyn tell you that?”

I nod. “She pulled me aside yesterday after rehearsal to make sure I knew you weren’t on the market.”

He smirks, and then I remember the first time we met Evelyn.

“She’s the one with the daughter, isn’t she?” I ask, realizing. “So she was—”

“Trying to get you out of the picture,” he says. “I’m not sure how much clearer I can be. I mean, do I just say, ‘I don’t want to date your much-too-old-for-me granddaughter, the accountant, because she looks exactly like your husband’?”

I laugh out loud at that. “Ouch.”

“If you saw Alvin Derry, you’d understand.”

I giggle, but then his face turns serious.

And I think Iamreading this right. And hedoeslike me. And pretending I don’t understand would be dishonest.

He watches me, and I suddenly become very interested in the condensation on the outside of my glass. I turn it around in my hands. “This is a bad idea.” I look up. “I’m leaving when the show is over.”

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“So... there’s no point.”

A casual shrug. “Could be fun.”

There’s that word again.

“If fun is what you’re looking for”—I narrow my gaze—“Then I’m not your girl.”

“I didn’t mean—” He looks away. “I mean, I like being around you. I likeyou, Rosie. I think you’re... interesting.”

“I’m really not.”

“You really are.” He watches me for so many seconds, a quiet intensity behind his green eyes, that I almost believe him.

The music changes, and he says, “Let’s dance.”

“Uh, I thought you weren’t dancing tonight.”

“I told you it had to be the right song.” He slides out of the booth and holds out a hand.

I listen for a beat but don’t recognize the slow melody playing through the speakers. Still, it’s not lost on me that his “right song” is slow, the kind that requires touching.

“We’ll lose our seats,” I say, not because I care about the seats but because I’m nervous. This feels like a moment. A decision that could change everything.

“A price I’m willing to pay.” He makes acome ongesture with his hand.

I stare at it for a moment, then look back up at him.

Time to take a leap.

I slip my hand in his and stand, facing him, avoiding his eyes but unable to avoid the way his nearness makes me feel.

---