Page 1 of The Love Losers

CHAPTER ONE

ANTHONY

“Shelickedyour hand?” asks Jake, leaning back in his side of the booth. It’s Wednesday evening, and we’re at The Peanut Bar—a dive bar just outside of Asheville with piles of unshelled peanuts in bowls on each of the tables and the bar, and hundreds upon hundreds of shells strewn across the floor. Ever since its inception ten years ago, this bar has fascinated me, mostly because I grew up in a house with a drawing room, several sitting rooms, and a rotating staff. It breaks my brain to think about eating a peanut and throwing the shell on the floor, but there’s also something freeing about the notion.

I still haven’t done it. Can’t bring myself to.

As if Jake can read my mind, he plucks a peanut from the bowl, shells it, and tosses the shell on the floor while he chews on the nut. He looks relaxed while doing it, and I feel a familiar stab of envy. He’s someone who’s comfortable with himself—a man who fits in his own skin.

My skin has always felt like someone else’s, but maybe that’s what happens when your fate is written out for you before you take your first step.

I sigh and rub my temples. Right now, there’s nothing I’d like better than to go home, pour myself some scotch, and relaxin front of the fireplace in my living room. Maybe read a book. Probably disassociate. And if that makes me sound like I’m eighty-four instead of nearly thirty-four, then so be it.

But I agreed to accept Jake’s help in finding a woman who’s willing to marry me for my money, and these post-interview rehashes are part of our deal.

Jake and his girlfriend, Lainey, run a business called The Love Fixers—services for people who’ve been burned or broken by relationships. I qualify because Nina, the woman who wasoriginallygoing to marry me for money, decided she’d prefer to marry my friend for money. If I don’t find someone to take her place by New Year’s, I’m going to lose my trust fund, which was contingent on me marrying by thirty-four—the year my father “built his empire,” in his words. It’s an ironic twist that brings me no joy that his real estate investment company might fold if I don’t get the money, because the Hail Mary deal I’ve been working on for months will fall through. True, I could sell some of my personal investments, but I’m guessing it would amount to nowhere near enough to make a difference.

To put it bluntly: I’ll be fucked.

So even though I’d like nothing better than to slide right past middle age into retirement, here I am. Trying to choose a fake wife, since the past decade of looking for a real relationship hasn’t worked out. The idea is to find someone who’ll agree to a fake marriage in exchange for a set payout.

Jake thought this would be easy to accomplish, but it’s complicated by the fact that he can’t publicize who I am. If the board of directors of my company finds out, they’ll want to get rid of me, Smith or not. If the people I know find out, I’ll be a laughingstock.

Which leads us to another problem: only an insane person would agree to marry a stranger, even if it’s for a million dollars.

Jake’s still staring at me, silently asking for details about the licking, so I sigh and add, “Like it was a lollipop. Then she sucked on my ring finger for a solid ten seconds.”

“Did it feel good?” he asks, his eyes twinkling. He always has this careless expression of mischief, as if he’s on the verge of doing something that could get him into trouble and is looking for an excuse to tip over the edge.

Nothing, it felt like nothing.

I smile despite myself. “Not really. It felt like a complete stranger was sucking on my finger. Usually, I prefer to get through the appetizer course before that happens.”

“None of the food had come out yet?” he asks, sounding more amused by this than a friend probably should.

“No, I didn’t even have a drink to drown my sorrows in. I introduced myself, and when I held my hand out for a shake, she said, ‘I hear you’re looking for a wife.’ Then she lifted my hand to her mouth, ran her tongue down—”

His shoulders are shaking.

“You’re such a dick,” I say, laughing. “You know, she ordered an appetizer and dessert. I was forced to sit there for an hour and a half with a wet finger.”

“Surely it dried.”

“And yet the memory persisted. Maybe because she kept trying to feed me from her plate. I had to make an excuse so her dessert would be boxed up to go, and she still told me I should come over after dealing with my pretend work crisis so she could lick her chocolate mousse off my body. Didn’t you interview her before setting this up?”

He lifts his palm, silently requesting a second, and since it seems like he’ll spend the next five minutes laughing, I take a sip of my beer. It’s exactly the sort of beer you’d expect from a place like this—unpretentious and basic, and strangely reassuring because of it.

Finally, Jake says, “I did. She seemed to understand it wasn’t supposed to be a romantic relationship. Maybe the beard did it for her.”

“Very funny.” I run my hand along my jaw.

After Nina left, I spent several days in a fog. I didn’t shave, didn’t go to work, didn’t eat. By then, I didn’t love her anymore, if I ever had, but there’s something inherently depressing about being left by a woman who was only marrying you for your money. One day, I looked in the mirror and realized I had a beard, and I decided to keep it.

It was different, and different felt…

Well, it felt like something, which was better than the nothing I’ve been running on empty with for years.

“Or maybe there’s something irresistible about your fingers,” Jake continues, wiggling his brows. “Remember that last woman? She kept saying you had the hands of a pianist.”

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