Page 19 of The Love Losers

“Well?” she whispers in a conspiratorial undertone. The word comes out husky and expectant, for my ears only. She’s not moving, but her whole being seems to hum—from the hair that’s tumbling from her ponytail as if it can’t be contained to her toes, tapping against the floor like they can’t bear to stay still.

It’s only been a few days since I last saw her, but Imissedher. I’ve thought about her more than is logical, and for the first time in my life, I’ve been excited by the buzzing of my phone. In fact, I’ve made certain it has always been within view—in business meetings, at dinners, and in bed.

I lift my eyebrows. “I take it you heard about what happened?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, tucking some of the escaped hair behind her ear. “I forced my company on them. I’m not sorry. But you’re in good hands with Nicole and Damien.”

“That’s what Jake said. There’s not much the police can do in this kind of situation.”

She makes a puckered face. “Yeah, the limitations of law and order. Luckily, Nicole and Damien don’t care about that sort of thing.”

“Yes, lucky us.” Still, she makes no move to follow the others, and it occurs to me that she joined her friends for a very specific reason. “You came because you wanted to know if you won your bet,” I say, smiling now. The thought pleases me, even if she only wants to be assured she was right.

Her mouth lifts into a sly return smile. “I was going to wait an appropriate amount of time to ask.”

“Of course you were,” I murmur, my mind whirring. I should admit that Leigh is probably the perfect fake wife for me—a woman whom I’ll easily be able to keep at a distance. A woman who wants a business deal, not a marriage.

To buy myself time, I say, “Let me help you with your coat.”

She gives me the wry look of a woman who knows how to remove her own coat, thank you very much, but she slowly unzips it—my senses hooked on watching each track of the zipper go down, revealing the dress underneath. Then she turns, giving me her back. “Thank you,” she says. “I can never manage this part all by myself. I need help from someone withverynice hands.”

“I live to serve.” I cup my hands around her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her nestled inside. We stand there like that for several seconds before I can bring myself to lift the cloth. She slips her arms out, and I’m left holding a shell, and for some reason that’s when I know what to say.

I hang the coat up in the closet closest to the door, and when I return, she’s watching me with wide eyes. A little unnerved, maybe. Hopefully for the same reasons I am and not because she thinks I’m a psychopath with a thing for coats.

I clear my throat as I come to a stop in front of her, tucking my hands into my pockets. “You win. It’s not going to work with her.”

It’s not a lie, precisely, because now that Rosie’s here, standing in front of me, itfeelstrue. I’m not willing to give up the possibility of finding something real, even though my father’s timeline is breathing down my neck and the countdown on that website is literally ticking away my last moments of freedom.

Her eyes glimmering, Rosie reaches up for the collar of my shirt—a simple blue button down. Her fingers trace it, the contact sending a wash of hot awareness through me.

“I was right about the shirts too,” she says, her fingertips rubbing. Her eyes are a crystalline blue, like the ocean in a sunny place. “I knew it as soon as I saw your selfie. This shirt looks like it was made for you. I’ll bet she couldn’t help herself.”

She holds my gaze, her pupils slightly dilated—and all I can do is stare back.

I’m confused.

I’m turned on.

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

There’s something freeing in that, though, so I don’t question myself too hard when I say, “Who are you going to set me up with, Rosie? Who’s going to be immune to mycharm?”

My voice sounds rough and ragged, not at all cool and collected like I was in my meeting with Leigh earlier. I both hope and don’t hope that Rosie will answer my question with her own name.

She drops her hand, her mouth lifting. “It turns out I don’t actually have that many single female friends unless you’re intomarrying Joy. Sheisa very good baker. That being said, she had some complimentary things to say about you and those hands of yours. I’m not entirely convinced she wouldn’t jump you.”

Laughter shakes my chest. “That’s a shame. I guess she’s out, then.”

“Suit yourself. If you refuse to marry my perfectly acceptable candidate, then we should go out to a bar together. I’ll be your wing woman.”

There’s part of that sentence I like a lot—we should go out together.

I’m less fond of the second part, but based on what she told me about her dating history last week, she’s probably not eager to jump into another messy situation. My situation is indubitably messy. I don’t know where any of this will—or even can—lead, but I’m not willing to step away.

I clear my throat. “Where to?”

“The peanut bar, of course,” she says. “We couldn’t possibly miss Dom’s first-ever Women-Drink-For-Half-Off-Wednesday.”

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