Page 29 of The Love Losers

Thankfully, he leaves. I wait, listening to his retreating footsteps, before I depart the office and walk toward the Peanut Bar, which is about ten minutes away by foot from our South Slope office.

At first, I feel stiff and uncomfortable, the way I always do at the office, but those feelings start to fall away, even as the cold sneaks under my coat. I pass strangers and familiar faces—people who are heading home after work or wandering the South Slope toward the bars, breweries, and other entertainment available. Wreathes hang on the streetlights, and it seems like there’s a special energy hanging in the air. An anticipation. Before long, I’m humming as I walk.

Rosie’s not there when I arrive, but the bar’s more crowded than usual. There’s maybe a dozen people gathered aroundthe space in clusters—women, mostly. A hand-drawnWomen-Drink-For-Half-Off Wednesdaysign hangs from above the bar, drooping in the middle.

The bar is as lackluster as usual, but something about the dim lighting behind the door on the cold night makes it more appealing. I enter to the usual scent of spilled beer, but tonight there’s also a different scent hanging in the air. It takes me a second to identify it as pumpkin pie.

The place is shaped like a letter L. The bar, lined with stools, is across from the door, with a few clustered tables opposite it, and booths are arranged along the long side of the L, which ends in a single-person restroom. I head straight to the bar to get a drink from Dom, who seems only about half as stoned as he did on my last visit.

“Look at this, man,” he says excitedly, gesturing to the people gathered around and then the bar itself. I notice a bowl full of hot pink condoms is sitting beside the usual peanuts, the wrappers printed with Jake’s logo and the wordsCover Your Nut.In another nod to the special event, the animatronic Santa has been shoved into a doll dress.

It’s a half- or maybe quarter-hearted effort, but still an effort, I suppose.

“Rosiedid this,” he continues.

I’m guessing he means it metaphorically, because something tells me she’d plan a better party—or at least a wilder one.

“She inspired it,” he continues, “all of it, and she posted my graphic in a bunch of Facebook groups and bought the pumpkin spice air freshener.”

My face creases into a smile, because of course she did…and of course it didn’t work.

“This is the most people we’ve ever had here at one time.” Dom gestures to Sunburned Pate, sitting in the same booth as usual. “Of course, Gene’s always here. Don’t tell him yet, but I’mhaving a plaque made for his table for Christmas. Nobody else wants to sit there anyway because he’s made a permanent divot in the cushion. But yeah. Rosie’s only been here once, and she’s already turning this place around.”

“Sounds like Rosie.” I’ve known her less than a week, so I shouldn’t be able to say that statement with any kind of confidence. And yet, itdoessound like Rosie.

“You both drink for free,” he says with a sloppy smile lifting his stubbled cheeks.

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s on me,” he repeats, pouring me a beer that’s half foam. It’s not really what I want, but I take it anyway, thank him for his trouble, and head to the booth where Rosie and I sat for hours last week.

Five minutes later, a woman with dark brown hair and red lipstick approaches me, holding a pint of beer. Despite the cold, she’s wearing a miniskirt with stockings. “Can I join you?” she asks with an inviting smile.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for someone,” I say, my gaze finding the window. No sign of Rosie, but there are more people heading into the bar. Younger people. Anticipation fills me. Dom will probably worship at Rosie’s feet when she finally arrives.

The dark-haired woman looks confused, but she turns and heads back to the bar without saying anything. I pull out my phone and check the threatening website. Nothing has been added, but the countdown has progressed.

Five minutes later, there’s still no Rosie. I check my phone for the fifth time, but the effort is interrupted when someone clears their throat beside me. I glance over and see a pretty woman with long, curly red hair.

“Hello, handsome,” she says, putting a hand on her shapely hip. “You look lonely.”

I hold back what I’m thinking—I’m not—and say, “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

She gives me a look of patent disbelief.

“There are plenty of free stools at the bar.” I nod toward it. There aren’t. Several people have come in, but I won’t get a chance to have a private conversation with Rosie if someone else is sitting at our table.

The woman gives me a dick-withering look and stalks off, giving me a chance to check my phone.

Another throat is cleared beside me.

I glance up, sighing, prepared to defend my dick from the redhead, but this time it’s another woman with a hand on her hip. A blonde angel of a woman with a purple streak weaving through her golden hair. She’s wearing a long-sleeved purple dress that hugs her curves, and for a second, all I can do is stare at her, speechless.

It feels like I’ve been waiting for her for a hell of a lot longer than ten minutes.

“Dude,” Rosie says, sliding into the other side of the booth. For half a second, her knees brush against me, and a wave of awareness threatens to pull me under. “I sent over two hot women who would have beenperfectfake wives, and you sent them away without even a hello. We’re not off to a great start.”

CHAPTER TEN

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