Page 11 of The Love Losers

I swallow. “Right now, no one. I meant what I said. I’m taking a break from all of that.”

She gives me a dubious look. “From my experience, men don’t like going two days without sex, let alone months.” She glances down at my hand, resting on my thigh. “Then again, youdohave big hands. I’ll bet—”

“Your brother might have been right about the muzzle,” I say tersely, my dick feeling every word from her mouth. It’s not a great start to the no-sex desert I’m sprinting toward. Because she’s not wrong. If I manage to find a woman who’ll agree to a legal but fake marriage, neither of us will be able to publicly date for the duration. The thought hadn’t really bothered me before now.

She shrugs. “Oh, I know he was right.” Her gaze lingers on my face for a few seconds before she asks, “You really must have loved your ex, huh? She seemed kind of awful, but who am I to talk? I’ve always had horrible taste in men. You probably would have seen through Roman or those other jerks in half asecond. That’s the thing. It’s always easier to see someone else’s relationship problems clearly.”

I consider her words for a moment, because they deserve it, then look out the window and find myself staring at a billboard advertising a therapy business. Touché. Glancing back at her, I say, “Nina was good at pretending to be someone else. If you don’t blame me for not seeing through her, then you can’t blame yourself for the same thing. Some people are great liars. It’s what they do best.”

She leans in and wraps her hand around my arm in a light squeeze before saying, “Ooh, I wasn’t expecting that. You have really nice arms.”

“You thought I’d have subpar arms?” I ask, amused—and also thrown by how pleased I am.

“No…maybe. But thank you. That’s really sweet of you. And I agree, let’s not blame ourselves. It’s one hundred percent their fault.”

I’m smiling at her in the dim light of the car when I realize I didn’t answer her question. It seems important to set things straight, so I say, “Actually, Ididn’tlove her. Not anymore. I thought I did when we first met, but it turns out I didn’t know her at all.”

She studies me, then says, “And what happened nearly broke you anyway.”

In her voice is something unexpected: understanding.

When Nina left, it had felt like confirmation that the only likable thing about me is my bank account balance and investment portfolio. It made me want to shore up my brick walls. Because what would it have felt like to discover someone I actually loved wanted exactly what all the others had?

I keep looking for meaning, and all I find are empty wells.

Then Rosie does something unexpected. She layers her hand on top of mine and says, “You inherited your father’s business, didn’t you?”

I nod, my vocal cords no longer feeling especially functional. All I manage to get out is: “Smith Investments, yes.”

“And do you like your job?”

I give her the only honest answer I’ve ever made to that question: “No. I loathe it.”

“So what will you do if you get the money? Are you going to say to hell with it all and buy yourself a haunted mansion in Scotland?” Her tone is expectant, buoyant.

I’d ask herwhy Scotland?or maybewhy haunted?but my attention is diverted by the question itself.

Because no, I won’t. I’ll stay at my job. I’ll try to maintain my father’s legacy the way he would have wanted, even though I know nothing I do would ever please him.

But I won’t do it out of love.

The car starts to slow down, and when it rolls to a stop beside Rosie’s building, she gives me a conspiratorial look and says, “Give it some thought. I’ll be thinking about winning our wager.”

She goes for the door handle, but an impulse has me leaning in and reach for it first—like we’re playing a game of capture the flag. She looks over her shoulder, her expression startled but not displeased, and I suddenly realize how much of her space I’ve taken. I’m pressed against her coated back, my hand wrapped around to touch the door. The sweet honey scent of her hair is in my nose. I scoot away on the seat, moving so forcefully I bang my head against one of the lightbulbs on the other side.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Kidnapping me would be an extreme way to get out of the wager.” Her gaze is amused now, which is for the best, because the driver has taken a sudden interest in us and is giving me a suspicious look in the rearview mirror.

Maybe I’m like Dom, drawn to Rosie by her charisma, the one thing I’ll never be able to buy, but I know I can’t wait days to talk to her or see her.

“What’s your number?”

CHAPTER FOUR

ROSIE

Conversation with Anthony, Thursday afternoon

---