Page 32 of The Love Losers

“No grown man likes being called cute,” I say, giving her a stern look.

“Too bad,” she says, crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing them up in her sweater, and suddenly my mouth is dry. My palms sweaty. I feel like a teenage boy again, unable to stop staring at my homeroom teacher’s breasts. “If you want me to stop calling you cute, you need to stop being so damned cute. And no. It needs to beyourbucket list, but I’m going to help you fulfill it.”

“The Rosie way?” I ask with amusement.

“The Rosie way,” she confirms, weaving the purple strand in her hair around her finger. “We’ve only got a week and a half, and Christmas is in the middle, so how many items do we choose?”

“Five,” I say. “Will you do a bucket list too? It seems only fair.”

Rosie lifts her eyebrows. “I’ve already done everything I want to. I’m not known for my self-restraint.”

I give her a dubious look. “You’re how old?”

“I just turned twenty-eight,” she says, grinning back at me. “And this is where you tell me I couldn’t have possibly already done everything I want to.”

“It is,” I insist. “And you said you’ve been thinking about your purpose. Maybe this will help you too. It’s the only way I’ll agree.”

She watches me for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. But we have to do our lists together. Because you’re way more likely to have access to a horse than I am.”

“You’ve always wanted to ride a horse?” I ask.

“A unicorn,” she says with a half grin. “Unfortunately, a horse is as close as reality will allow me.”

My mind is already summoning up ideas for how I can make this happen for her. Not literally, obviously. Money can do a lot, but it can’t make a horse a unicorn. Rosie is a woman of imagination, though—an imagination so bright and bold it can spark other peoples’ imaginations into compliance.

It doesn’t escape me that I should instead be thinking about the threat to my family or the necessity of getting married, but my mind has always preferred to devote itself to one task and pursue it until it’s thoroughly conquered. This is the path it has chosen.

My gaze glued to Rosie’s, I nod, feeling energized by this assignment we’ve given each other. “I can make that happen for you. Saturday?”

She grins. “Really?”

“Really. Should we come up with the rest of our lists now?”

There’s a loud crash, followed by one woman laughing loudly and another shouting, and Rosie shakes her head, her eyes focusing on the bar. “No. I think Dom needs us.”

I glance back and see that the Santa has fallen on the ground, his dress hiked up as if he’s giving everyone a show. Dom is rubbing the bridge of his nose while a dozen dissatisfied womenwait for their drinks. Something tells me they’re not going to be satiated by the half-flat beer in my glass.

“Well, what do you know…” I tell Rosie with a grin. “Tending bar was going to be number one on my list.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ROSIE

“You’re full of shit,” I say, grinning at Anthony.

“No, scout’s honor,” he says, making some kind of sign with his hand. Maybe it’s for the scouts. I wouldn’t know. I certainly was never a Girl Scout.

“Why did you want to bartend?”

“I liked the movie Cocktail when I was a kid.”

I narrow my gaze at him, searching for a lie, but he looks earnest and maybe a little embarrassed, and he’s even more charming like this. Which is why I barreled into this whole plan, rushing after my impulse like that very habit hasn’t bitten me in the ass before. “I believe you. I’ll let it pass. But what are you going to do when all the women want to throw their panties over the bar at you.”

“It’ll never happen,” he says, his dimples popping, and I feel another gush of awareness. It’s insane and kind of sweet that he doesn’t realize half the women in this bar would gladly go home with him, rich or not.

“Never say never.” I waggle my eyebrows, and we get up together. Anthony’s fingers brush against mine as we walk toward the bar, and he surprises me by capturing my fingers andsqueezing them. He releases them a second later, as if it never happened, but I remember. My hand remembers.

“We’re here to help,” Anthony announces, rolling up the sleeves of his sexy shirt as we approach the bar. His forearms are corded with muscle and flecked with dark hair, and I instantly decide this is my favorite look for him. Two buttons undone, sleeves rolled.

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