Page 31 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

Her gaze took in the warm and inviting space, and guilt niggled at me again for taking it, despite contracts, broken futons, and mice.

Her smile turned a little too bright and mischievous. Whatever Rosie had in mind, I already regretted it.

“I need you to help me make someone fall in love with me.”

That was unexpected. “How?”

“Teach me how to do whatever it is that gets all those women to stare up at you while you work out.”

“You want to know how to get people to judge you?” I asked, incredulous.

She let out a snort laugh. “They were not judging you. They were all experiencing reverse-menopause out there.”

“I … don’t know what that even means.”

She leaned back with the ease of someone not afraid of futons. “They were attracted to you.”

Ick. That was almost worse. “My old English teacher was out there.”

Rosie shrugged. “You’re a fit, good-looking man.”

I wasnotgoing to smile smugly at that. “And you want me to teach you how to be a fit, good-looking man?”

“What Iwantis for you to pretend you’re in love with me.”

“Oh, that’s all.”

“Well, I’d also love some tips on how to get a guy’s attention. I can’t ask my brothers for obvious reasons, including self-respect.”

“But askingmekeeps your self-respect intact?”

She nodded. “To a degree I’m comfortable with.”

This was ridiculous. So ridiculous, it couldn’t be real.

Suspicion narrowed my eyes as I put the puzzle pieces together. It made sense. Look at her pet alien. Look at how she gave me her apartment. Look at how she painted something incredible just to give it away to a local business.

She was one of thosenurturingwomen. I knew the type. The kind who thought they could “save” me. The kind that thought with a little TLC, I’d be a beast in a rink and a teddy bear for them.

Nurturers showed up after games in droves, with their abundant cleavage, baby voices, and pouting, pitying expressions. Like I was a puppy they’d found abandoned in a soggy box on the side of the road in the pouring rain while a Billy Joel song played in the background.

After I cold-shouldered them, they muttered, accused, or straight-up yelled that I was an actual beast before storming away, and since I am who I am with the luck I have, a camera was usually close enough to capture every part of it.

Sure, Rosie promised to turn me into Gaston, which, okay, was weird and had never happened before. But I could spot a nurturer from a mile away, and this one was on my futon in my living room.

“I don’t need—or want—you to take care of me.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing. I run into women like you all the time.”

“Women like me,” she said cooly, her mouth straightening into a warning line.

“Yep.”

“And what exactly is that?”

“Women who want to fix and nurture me.” The words tasted as bitter as they sounded.

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