Page 27 of The Love Losers

That does sound like Mother.

But the private investigators we hired think this might be an attempt to block me from my trust fund.

So you’re still planning to marry a stranger for money?

Yes, but finding a gold digger is harder than it sounds.

Ninety percent of the divorces I’ve worked on suggest that you’re wrong.

Maybe you’re hesitating because you’re looking for an excuse to walk away from Dad’s business.

That place has been sucking the life out of you for years.

Anthony? I saw those three dots.

I know where you live.

It’s Wednesday night. I’m supposed to meet Rosie at The Peanut Bar in fifteen minutes, but I’m still at the office. That, in itself, is not unusual. I spend plenty of time here, and at the gym two blocks away. But I’m stalling for a different reason.

I called Emma for the second time on Sunday, then for a third time yesterday afternoon, and finally a fourth time during my lunch break today. I was starting to take it personally, especially since I’dalsotexted her a link for the countdown website—unchanged except for the numbers glowing at the top.

In addition, I’d sent her a detailed email about the meeting Mother and I had with the private investigators yesterday evening. It had only felt fair since I’d had to sit through the meeting, which had included a lengthy discussion of my mother’s previous sexual partners.

Now, after all that effort to get in touch with her, I don’t want to respond.

Because there’s a good chance Emma is right.

Despite knowing that my mother has been spreading word that the New Year’s party is once again a wedding, I’ve avoidedJake’s attempts to set up another meeting with Leigh or any of his other marriage candidates. He’s pointed out, quite rightly, that I’m not giving him a fair shot at winning his bet with Rosie.

Leigh herself has texted me, her message reminiscent of some of the emails I’ve gotten from job-hopefuls after interviews.

It was a pleasure meeting you in person, Anthony. I believe there’s a lot I can bring to our arrangement, and I do hope you wish to move forward. Perhaps we can meet again to further explore the possibility of a collaboration?

I texted back an apology, saying I was busy at work but would be in touch.

I’d wondered if I was holding back because I’m drawn to Rosie. Now, I have to ask myself if the issue is actually that I don’t want to run my father’s business—into the ground or out of it—anymore.

My father ran Smith Investments like he needed the money, even though he didn’t, investing in aggressive developments that have torn up everything I love about the county we live in.

The deal I’ve been working on for the past few months is for a housing development that will ruin the traffic patterns in Asheville for the next twenty years, or possibly forever. The large, expensive houses will be clustered closely together, and I’m reasonably sure they will benefit none of the existing residents of the neighborhood.

At my insistence, a building of affordable, sliding scale units has been added to the plans, but it’s an afterthought. A sticker offered to a child after they’ve been given a painful injection.

There will be objections. Petitions, even. But I’m reasonably sure the red tape will be torn away and this project will get greenlit.

It’ll happen, and I’ll be partially to blame.

And if it doesn’t happen, I’llalsobe to blame. My board will revolt. Many of my employees will lose their jobs. My name will be mud for a different reason.

I lean back in my chair, my eyes finding the clock above the door. Eight minutes.

I’ll be late now. I’m not a man who enjoys being late to anything.

The sensible thing to do would be to text Leigh and ask for a meetup. I actually reach for my phone to do it, but I find myself thinking about Rosie and the bright, excited look in her eyes when I’d told her she’d won. The thought of letting her down is unacceptable. So I’m not surprised when I find myself messaging her instead.

I’ll be a few minutes late.

Her response is immediate:

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