Rosie and the Dreamboat (The Improbable Meet-Cute, #3)

by Sally Thorne

“Maybe I’ll meet my husband today.”

Your future husband needs to worship the ground you walk on, okay?”

“Worshipping is optional. I just hope he’s willing to hold my hand everywhere.

“I’ll recognize him the moment I see him.”

Bree looks like a nineties supermodel with her wet hair scraped back. I’m in my sea otter era.

All my almost-husbands out in the wild have met my gaze, then looked over at her. I would, too.

Leo’s laugh has a color. It’s all the colors, actually. They’re rainbow and melting, filling my pitch-black world like opalescent soap bubbles.

“Are you trying to set me up with her? Because I saw her true colors. Nothing could drag me from your side, Rosie Clamshell.”

Hinge? More like ‘Unhinged.’ Why does my account keep getting reported?”

“I have no idea what a peace lily is, but I’m googling it. Okay. What’s so embarrassing about that?” “They’re the Basic Bitch of indoor plants, but I just like the way they’re so dramatic. You’ll walk by one, and it’s drooping flat. You’ll think it’s just about dead. Run over by a truck, surely. Then you soak it in a sink for an hour, and suddenly it’s upright, saying, I’m fine, I’m fine, I can live. Until the next time it’s nearly dead. They’re the fainting Victorian ladies of the plant world.”

“Hey, we have keeping things alive in common. I must have been a peace lily in my past life.” “Why?” “As Ma would say, I have my moods. Some days, I really need to be soaked in a sink for a while.”

“My parents, and all my potential soulmates, look at my sister, rather than me. But that’s okay, she’s the full package. My stomach is growling like crazy. That’s about it. All my petty grievances are officially aired.”

He’s the entire package.

“She’s on my shit list,” Leo says darkly.

“I don’t think I’d let her tease you.” He sounds . . . flat? No, wait. He’s protective of me.

“I’ll say it again. Are you listening to me? You’re being really, really brave right now, and it turns out, you’ve always been brave.” “Sure. I should have recorded it all. I should have made a police report, filed for a protection order—” He sounds commanding now. “Stop. You did the best you could, just like now. You didn’t let it ruin you. You stayed funny and smart and kind. You survived. A lot of people don’t. Take my word for it.”

The hug is everything I’ve needed: it’s dry, firm, there are so many points of contact, and I can hear more than my heartbeat. I can hear his laugh through the padded wall of his chest. We laugh and laugh. My feet aren’t on the floor anymore.

“Mr. Husband,” Bree says to him with supreme satisfaction, “I can’t tell you how long we’ve been waiting for you to show up.”