Chapter 6
Booker smells good. Darn it.
There’s no way to think that and not feel 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.
“Have you driven one of these before?” I tease.
“Have you?” He rests his hand on the steering wheel like he’s out for an evening cruise. Somehow, he even manages to make
driving a golf cart look cool.
I scoff. “No.” I point at myself. “Not a golfer, remember?”
“Ah, right. Well, it’s easy to learn,” he says, then clarifies, “the cart, not the golf. Golf will take a lot longer to learn.”
“Do I need to learn?”
“What, golf?”
I make a face. “No. Driving this cart.”
“You don’t have a car in your suitcase, right?”
Shoot. No. In New York I didn’t need a car, but here? Add that to the growing list of things I didn’t think about before I
took this job.
Two old men walk by as we pull away from the row of parked carts. “Booker! Nice score!” He nods at me, wags his eyebrows,
and I frown.
“ New employee , Dennis,” he says, correcting him. “You doing your exercises?”
Dennis waves him off, and Booker shakes his head as he presses on the accelerator. “He’s a salty one. Harmless, but he likes
to flirt.”
“Is he around a lot?” I ask as Booker drives us away from the clubhouse, past the tennis and pickleball courts.
“He lives on the property, so yes,” he says. “Most of the people you’ll work with live here, but some of the amenities are
open to the community, so it’s a little bit of a mix.”
Lives on the property? Something’s niggling at the back of my brain about this place, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I agree with Luke Skywalker... I have a bad feeling about this. Especially considering how little research I did before
applying and before taking this job.
He slows the cart to a stop in front of a building with a sign outside that says Community Center.
“Every weekend, they do events here. Cooking classes. Bingo. Mixers for the people on-site to get out and be social. There
are book clubs, knitting clubs, swing dance lessons—”
“Swing dance? Definitely a cult.”
“I’m pretty sure cults don’t have event planners.” He presses the accelerator, waving to an older couple in a golf cart as
it passes. “The Abernathys,” he says. “They’re new here.”
As we drive down the wide sidewalk, he points out the Sunset dining hall up ahead and explains how my employee meal swipes
work. “Basically, you’ll have plenty of food. Sunset is great about taking care of their employees. It’s honestly a great
place to work.” As we pass by the building, he adds, “Oh, and you’ve got to try the frozen custard in there. Hot fudge, marshmallow, and a sprinkle of nuts...” He presses his fingers to his lips
and does a pronounced chef’s kiss.
Two women wave at him as they walk past. “Morning, Booker!”
“Do you know everyone here?” I ask.
“It’s like a small town, and I work with pretty much everyone at some point,” he says. “You’ll see.”
“Very different from New York,” I say absently.
“Couldn’t be more different, actually.” He looks at me. “Are you going to be okay with that?”
“Me? Yeah, totally.” Which I hope is true but might not be.
He quirks a brow and nods at my small suitcase. “Because you’re holding on to your bag like it’s a life preserver.”
I relax my grip. “I’ll be fine.” My laugh sounds nervous in my own ears, so I fill the space with an obvious observation.
“It’s so... green here.”
His eyes are back on the road, but I still feel his attention as if they’re fixed on me. “That’s what we call ‘nature.’”
“Har, har.”
He smiles. “You’ll love it.”
“I don’t have a great track record with nature,” I say.
“Too much of a city girl?”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m more accustomed to the concrete jungle.”
He leans across the cart and points to something in the distance. “Over there, there’s a bike path and a walking trail that
span the entire perimeter of the grounds. An early morning walk outside every morning would be a great way to start your day.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” I deadpan.
He tosses me a sideways glance. “Why, yes, it is.”
He drives us over to the opposite side of the compound, where the grounds become a neighborhood, and he stops in front of
a rounded building. “And that”—he points to the building—“Is your theatre.”
I stare at it. It’s unassuming, almost like a converted barn, but like the rest of the buildings, this one seems to have been
well maintained.
I feel a familiar pull, an excited flicker, like... coming home, somehow.
“They do some art classes and dance classes in this building,” he says. “But you’ll mostly have free rein of the place.”
His phone buzzes, and he gets out of the cart to answer the call. I sit, staring at the building in front of me, and after
a few seconds, Booker is back.
“Sorry,” he says. “Pickleball injury. I’m going to have to cut this short.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I tell him, not wanting to be a burden. “If you point me toward my digs, I can walk.”
He pulls away from the theatre building, steering the cart back onto the path. “No, I’ll drive you over, and tomorrow I can
take you inside the theatre.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
“Not a problem,” he says. “I don’t like to leave a job undone.”
I nod, my eyes scanning the landscape in front of us,
I laugh to myself. “I have a feeling this isn’t actually your job.”
He shrugs. “Keeps it interesting.”