Page 111 of The Love Losers

We spendthe rest of the afternoon playing board games and stuffing ourselves with Claire’s baking. The snowplow driver is nearly mythical at this point, with Joy adding new details every time someone asks a question.

Pat owns an iguana and grows his own mulberry trees so he can make organic cough syrup.

He has a pet parrakeet that says Joy’s name.

He once saved a man’s life by plowing the way to a hospital.

Jake and Lainey go home, and since the cat is out of the bag with Declan, I don’t hesitate to tell everyone else that I’m heading to Smith House to visit Anthony.

“Are you still hoping to find him a wife?” Claire asks, with an innocence I don’t really believe.

“I think I might have found just the gal for him,” I say.

“If you’re not back by midnight, I’m storming the gates,” Declan tells me.

I salute him and leave, and ten minutes later, I arrive at the gates of Smith House and am admitted entry by a wizened guard in a fur-lined hat and the ugliest scarf I’ve ever seen. Normally, I’d ask him half a dozen questions, but my nerves are abuzz with the need to see Anthony.

Before I reach the door, it’s opened by a woman whom I only recognize from her portrait above the fireplace. Emma Rosings Smith. She has dark, shoulder-length hair, slightly wavy, and the same eyes as Mrs. Rosings. It’s frankly alarming in a person who’s probably only a couple of years older than me. She’s also wearing one of those fancy tunic dresses Mrs. Rosings loves, shapeless and bag-like yet classy.

For a second, it feels like I’ve walked through the door of Smith House twenty-five or thirty years ago. What secrets would I have found then?

I shake off the fancy, and introduce myself.

“Oh good, I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, which doesn’t discourage the strange feeling of timelessness. Then she ushers me into the familiar drawing room, which thankfully looks just as it did when I last left it, and asks if I’d like a drink.

When I hesitate, she makes her way to the bar and starts pouring one. “You’ll need this. Sit down, and I’ll swap you for your coat.”

I do, and she gives me the drink before disappearing into the huge house with my coat. There’s no sign of Anthony or Mrs. Rosings, just a fire in the hearth. Next to it, their Christmas tree stands sentry.

I take a sip of the drink, which is bracingly strong, and a moment later, Emma comes back with a sheaf of papers in a folder.

“You need to sign this,” she says briskly, slapping it in front of me. Then she sits across from me as if she wants to watch me do it.

“Aren’t you going to at least get yourself a drink?” I ask, disarmed.

“Oh,” she waves a hand. “I’ve been drinking all day. I don’t drink when I’m on the clock.”

“And you’re on the clock now?”

I open the folder, and something inside of me sinks. It’s some kind of prenup. It’s not that I have any issue with signing one—Anthony’s money is his—but I figured he’d talk to me about it personally rather than ask his sister to ambush me. Actually, that doesn’t sound like him at all…

“Does Anthony know about this?”

“No,” she says, staring at me with an open challenge in her eyes. “My brother is a bit of a romantic. He doesn't see himself that way, but I do. He’s sensitive. Sometimes too sensitive. He needs someone to protect him from himself. That’s going to be me. Is it going to be you, too? Or are you after the same thing Nina wanted?”

I stare right back at her, even as my heart bursts for him.

“Do you shop with your mother?”

“What?” she asks, confused, then glances down at the tunic and bursts out laughing. “It was a Christmas gift,” she says with amusement. “Everyone knows you only have to wear a bad Christmas gift once, in front of the person who got it for you.” Her smile slips into a firm look. “I can’t make you sign it. He won’t make you sign it, but—”

I flip to the last page without reading any of it and sign on the dotted line, then shove the folder across the table to her.

“Done.”

“You should always read the document before signing,” she says, lifting her eyebrows. “I feel the need to tell you that as your lawyer.”

“Mylawyer?”

---