Page 13 of The Love Losers

I did not, however, tell her about all of the texts we’ve been exchanging or my many intrusive thoughts about his meeting with the accountant. I assume his not-a-date is going to be all up in his business, especially if he wears one of those suits his mother picked out. An accountant would probably go feral for a fusty suit like that.

Here’s a truth I wouldn’t dare admit to Joy: Anthony Rosings Smith is a delightful surprise, from those big, suckable fingers of his to his ownership of the warehouse and his admission thathe hates the job he’s willing to marry a stranger to keep. Then there’s the way he grabbed for the door when I was about to leave the uber the other night. He did it like it was an urgent matter of life and death—and all he wanted was my phone number.

A woman can’t help but be delighted by something like that. Especially since he gave me an almost wistful look as I got out of the car. Like he hadn’t wanted the night to end. I hadn’t wanted it to end either. I’d fallen into it like Alice into the rabbit hole, but I’d wanted to stay.

Ilikethe unexpected. I’ve always been hungry for it, ever since I was a little kid, and I had no clue how Belle was going to find her happily ever after when her prince was a literal animal.

I’m Team Should Have Remained a Beast, by the way.

“I remember feeling a connection between you two,” Joy continues. “Asoulconnection.”

I laugh. “Were you drinking your own tea when you sensed this? You always think everyone has a soul connection when you’re high.”

Joy tips her head as if to admit the point, but says, “We alldohave a soul connection, Rosie. We just let ourselves forget it sometimes, is all. Besides. I don’t get high. I experience heightened perception.”

“I don’t have a soul connection with the circus people,” I say, gesturing to the bungalow we’re parked in front of. It’s been renovated to twice its 1920s size and is painted a cheerful purple with yellow shutters.

Joy’s mouth works, trying to hold back a smile. “Well, some soul connections are very distant. Still, I try not to discriminate. We all have our fetishes.”

Laugher gusts out of me, because I love goading Joy into being naughty.

“You think they’re doing this to satisfy a fetish?”

She gives me a flat look. “Dear, they asked us to bring ten pounds of peanuts, circus-inspired decorations, and my special tea. I’m assuming it’s for some sort of orgy.”

“Did they say what they’re using the peanuts for?” I would have pressed her on that part sooner if I hadn’t been so distracted by Anthony and his glorious hands.

She shrugs. “No, but I’m guessing they plan to copulate on top of them. Possibly while dressed like circus animals.”

“Do you think they expect us to watch?” I ask, fascinated.

“Do you want to?” she asks with a chuckle.

I consider the question seriously, then shake my head. “I don’t think so. But if you ask me, it seems like a waste of good peanuts. The guy who gave them to me said they were top notch.”

She shrugs. “Maybe they’ll serve them up as an after-orgy snack. I suspect they’ll be easier to crack after all that rolling and pounding.”

I shake my head, smiling at her. “You’re the best kind of surprise.”

She reaches out to cup my cheek. “So are you, dear girl. I never imagined any of this was possible.”

I laugh again as we pile out of the car, Joy grabbing the picnic basket we packed earlier from the backseat while I go for the sack of peanuts. “You mean you never thought you’d hold a psychedelic tea party for swingers who want to screw on peanuts?”

She gives me a sly smile. “You know how to make people’s dreams come true. That’s your talent, Rosie. Your goddess-given gift.”

I smile at the compliment, because I know she means it as one, but part of me wonders if this is how it’ll always be—helping other people make their dreams a reality because I don’t have any of my own.

As we approach the door, I hug the peanut bag in one arm so I can check my phone.

Joy gives me a sidelong look. “You’re hoping to hear from that boy again. I feel it as clearly as if it were a message from Mortimer.” Mortimer was her long-time partner, and she paints such a clear picture of him that he sometimes feels like a third roommate.

“Only because I want confirmation that I won my bet with him,” I hedge, disappointed to see there’s only a dumb meme from my brother Seamus, who mostly communicates in memes and YouTube shorts. “He said he’d text me updates.”

It’s not exactly true, but I’d very much like to believe it.

“Oh, you’ll win that bet all right,” she says with a broad smile. “And I hope you’ll take it as a sign that you should marry him yourself. None of those girls you drink with would be a good fit.”

“Me, marry him?” I ask, laughing, but something stirs inside of me.

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