Page 14 of The Love Losers

Me…marryhim?

For what must be the fiftieth time, I think about the wistful way Anthony watched me as I left that smelly uber on Wednesday night. I’ve been stuck on it ever since, like one of my parents’ old records. But there’s at least one good reason why I absolutely cannot marry Anthony Rosings Smith. And even if I could…

I’ve promised myself I’ll be more cautious about my love life moving forward. I won’t get my head turned topsy-turvy and upside down anymore, thank you very much. And getting involved with a man who needs to get married within a couple of weeks or else lose multiple millions of dollars is the definition of rushing in.

The timing is all wrong. Maybe, in a year or two, when all of this is over, something can happen between us. In the meantime, I’d do better to help him find a platonic wife.

So I say, “Anthony and I are just friends.”

She clucks her tongue. “I know a thing or two about just friends. I’ve beenjust friendswith many men.”

Sighing I say, “Let’s table your attempt to get me engaged and throw the best damn sex party anyone’s ever attended.”

“Well, that was disappointing,”I say after we head out to the Jeep I’m long-term borrowing from Claire.

It turned out our customers were not, in fact, planning a circus orgy. They just wanted to drink Joy’s tea and bliss out while watching footage of graphic nature shows. The dude who’d organized the whole thing had taken one look at the bag of peanuts, laughed, and said,“Oh no. Did I tell you ten pounds? I meant ten ounces.”

So they’d sent us packing with nine pounds of peanuts. I’m bringing them to Claire, because when I texted her from the house, she agreed that she could indeed use some “high quality nuts” at the bakery—a response I immediately took a screenshot of and sent to my group chat with my brothers so Seamus—Shay—and I could give Declan hell about having low-quality nuts.

Sometimes you have to make your own fun.

Like the two couples inside, who’d sung “A Circle of Life” enthusiastically while watching a couple of lions eviscerate a water buffalo on their big screen TV. Or the dude wearing the Simba mask who’d danced around the couch.

“Yes, I’ll admit the whole thing seemed a bit unsavory to me,” says the woman who’d thought they were going to have group sex on top of peanuts. “But then I’ve never been a fan of violence.” She sniffs. “Still, they seemed to enjoy themselves.”

I put the nut sack in the backseat, and Joy gives me a knowing look as I tug out my phone again.

“I’ll drive the Jeep,” she says before I can check the screen.

“But you drive like a banshee,” I object.

“So do you. And you’ll drive even worse if you’re trying to check your phone while doing it.”

When she’s right, she’s right, so I hand over the keys, my heart thumping. I’m still in purgatory, unsure of whether or not Anthony has texted, and in some ways I’d prefer to stay in purgatory.

What if the meeting went great, and he’s already asked her to marry him?

The thought is upsetting, although I can’t tell if it’s because I’m a sore loser or if I my little crush has gotten deep enough that I don’t want him to get married.

We stuff ourselves into the car, and once Joy starts driving, I finally take a deep breath and lift the phone.

My breath whooshes out of me when I see Anthony’s message:

I wore a collared shirt, like you said. What do you think? Am I in trouble?

A grin spreads across my face, and Joy gives a knowing cluck that makes her sound like a chicken.

I ignore her and type back:

Photo or it didn’t happen.

Three dots appear, disappear, and then Anthony Rosings Smith sends me aselfie.

Ho-lyshit.

He’s sitting in some fancy-looking restaurant with a white-on-white color scheme that’s aggressively unappealing, but itcertainly puts the spotlight where it belongs. Anthony’s wearing a light blue collared shirt, the first two buttons undone. The color brings out the blue in his gray eyes, and the fit is perfect. It’s slightly snug around his upper arms, hinting at the surprise I got the other night in the car, and the opening at his neck…it’s subtle, but it seems like an invitation.Open me.

He has a self-effacing smile, but I detect the slightest glimpse of one of his dimples under his trimmed beard.

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