Chapter 24
It seems like the universe—and everyone in it—has concocted plans for Booker and me to end up alone together.
I’m stunned by how easy it was for Daisy to make that decision—to tell Louie exactly how she feels with no fear of the consequences.
She didn’t overthink it or make it into something it didn’t need to be. She just said it. Out loud.
One glance at Booker, and I’m bombarded with feelings, none of which I can say out loud.
“So...,” I say, feeling suddenly awkward. “Apparently, Daisy doesn’t need Friday questions.”
Booker’s eyes flicker. “I don’t think most people need Friday questions,” he says. “Most people just say how they feel.”
I meet his eyes. “What’s wrong with us then?” A dry laugh escapes.
“There’s a lot of things wrong with me, for sure, but after watching you on that dance floor, I can’t think of a single thing
wrong with you.”
The words stop me. “That sounds like flirting,” I say. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Friends don’t flirt.”
“Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
Flirting or being friends? I wonder. Because I don’t want to stop either.
He takes a drink from his bottle, which I only now look at.
I frown at it. “You’re drinking an alcohol-free beer?”
“I’m driving,” he says. “No way I’m going to risk not getting you home safe.”
And there’s that swoop in my stomach again.
“Besides, I want to have all of my senses tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because if I only get you for the summer, I want to be fully present for all of it.”
Am I imagining this? I’ve never been great at reading signs, and I don’t want to misinterpret, but... “Can I confirm that
you are, in fact, flirting with me?”
He doesn’t even twitch as he says, “I thought that was obvious.”
I frown. “I thought you were anti-romance.” I stir the ice cubes around in my glass with the straw, only now realizing that
Booker must’ve gotten me a refill before he came to the table.
“Ah,” he says, like he knows. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Ro.”
Ro .
It’s what my friends call me.
I like it.
Peter used to call me baby , 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 I am reading this right. And he does like 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 like you , 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 a come on gesture 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.
The heat between us is charged, like there are tiny zaps of electricity no matter which way I move.
He brushes my hair back away from my face, his eyes searching mine. Without permission, my gaze reaches his lips. They’re
good lips. Full. Soft. And for a fraction of a moment, I’m certain he’s going to kiss me.
And I’m certain I’m going to let him.
But then he gives my hand a tug, and we make our way out onto the floor, through the crowd of people around us dancing like
no one’s watching. They make it look so easy.
And I think about all the moments in my life that have been defined by this overwhelming concern about what other people think.
And tonight, I don’t want to care. So I close my eyes, fold into his arms, and start to dance.