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

by Sally Thorne

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.

“Sounds like they didn’t put it in. Wait. It’s dark in there?” This realization has put velvet empathy in his voice now. “You’re being real brave, sweetie.”

Frank booms in his big voice, “We call him Romeo because he’s a dreamy fucking dreamboat.” “Yeah, yeah, fuck right off, Frank, you day-old hot dog. But he’s right, Rosie. I’m a dreamboat. Picture it in your mind, how dreamy I am.”

“You let her off the hook too easy. But we don’t need her. It’s you and me. I am going nowhere until you’re out. I can promise you that. I’m just glad you weren’t about to tell me you need to use the bathroom.”

He’s smiling again, I know it. “I like you, Rosie Clamshell. Half the people I rescue in a day seem to be naked. Why’s everybody so goddamn nude all the time?” “We’re heathens.”

“Heathens! Am I wasting my life, going around fully clothed?”

“Depends. That uniform is pretty nice. Is that what you’re wearing now?” “Oh, she’s getting flirty! What am I wearing?” He laughs and laughs, and his palm slaps the lid above me, like he’s helpless. It rains condensation droplets onto me. “I’m wearing a skintight fireman stripper outfit, made of flammable material.”

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

“I love your laugh,” I tell him before I can censor myself. “It’s got a color to it.” “What color is it?” “Milky pastel rainbow.”

“A slug’s stomach? Rosie, your mind. Goddamn, your mind.” “My mind? Your mind!” I start laughing.

This guy is so hot. Then I remember a point I really need to reiterate. “I’m not gorgeous like my sister.” “Was she? Is she?” He doesn’t sound very interested. “All I seem to recall is she was an abandoner of my poor Rosie.” This guy is so sweet. “Well, compared to her, I’m a late bloomer.” “I hear some roses are.” This guy is so witty. He’s in a fireman uniform.

He’s the entire package. Just like my sister.

“She’s on my shit list,” Leo says darkly. “I’m glad she left. You’d be talking to her instead.”

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

“I’ve still needed rescuing several times. Where were you?” “I’ve been completely slacking off,” he agrees.

“May I have his full name and date of birth?” Leo asks sweetly. “Social security, too, if possible? I need to commit a murder, please.”

“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.”

I raise my eyes to Bree. “That guy saved my sanity today. He’s fantastic.” “I can hear you,” Leo says from the other side of the wall. “But say more about how fantastic I’ve been.” “He was so kind,” I say louder for his benefit. “And he’s funny. He’s got a great smile, I just know it. And oh, Bree, his laugh. My lord. I’ve never heard a rainbow pastel laugh like that, and he laughs constantly, because he’s a sweet, foolish gentleman.”

“I love you, Bree. Thank you for bailing on me, so I could tell my deepest secrets to that silly dreamboat.”

“Holy shit. You’re a dreamboat, Rosie Clamshell. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I know you hear it all the time, but, Leo, you’re a dreamboat and a half!” “I’d never lie about that.” He puts a thumb under my chin and lifts my face for further inspection. “Well, that does it. Got any more jars for me to open? I like to keep myself useful.” “So many jars.”

“Husband. Leo Husband?” He’s adorably self-conscious. “Please don’t give me shit for it. The guys calling me Romeo are bad enough. If I ever get married, I’m taking my wife’s name.” “Whittaker,” Bree supplies.

“Leo Whittaker, now that’s got a nice ring to it.”

“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.”