Page 46 of The Love Losers

I hope you and Joy are hungry.

This is excessive, but I’m not going to complain.

Good. Be prepared for excess.

How’s your list coming along?

It’s a good list. It’s the best list.

You still only have items 1-2 and 5, don’t you?

I’d like to go back to being a man of mystery now.

It’s too late. The glass has been shattered.

Also…I’m still working on mine.

Nothing out of the ordinary was found in the warehouse when the police searched it on Thursday. Then again, if someone called the police because they were worried about Rosie and me finding something, they probably broke in to get it as soon as Officer Richards pulled out of the lot.

I had some handymen come in and install security cameras, but if something was in there it’s long gone. The wear by the door suggests there have been break-ins, just like Nutman said, but there’s no way of knowing who was behind them or when they happened.

Simon knows about the whole thing, of course, and at my last meeting on Friday, someone blares “Time After Time.

I have no idea how he found out about the song. But he’s good at buttering people up and pretending to be their best friend. My best guess is that Officer Nutman is going to be eating a pot roast dinner at Simon’s house sometime soon.

Normally, this kind of behavior would tweak my last nerve and I’d blow up, but I’m surprised by how little I care. Despite what’s happening, my mood has been lighter lately. Easier.

So I grin at my employees and say, “If you’re going to give me a new nickname, I’d prefer ‘Dancing Queen’ to ‘Cyndi Lauper.’”

For a second, silence reigns in the room—so complete and pure, I almost laugh—then someone else laughs, and suddenly everyone is laughing. I get a few backslaps as people file out of the room.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell them. “The Dancing Queen will see you next week.”

Simon hangs back, giving me a shit-eating grin as he rocks on his feet. “Come on, it was just a joke,” he says as the last person filters out. He makes no move to leave.

“I know,” I reply. “It was funny.”

He looks like I’ve just blown his mind and left him with only half of his brain.

“So,” he says, adjusting his weight from one foot to another. “Is the woman you were with the other night the future Mrs. Smith?”

“Maybe,” I say, my heart thumping faster at the thought.

I haven’t even kissed Rosie yet. But the thought of claiming her…of making her mine…

It stirs something deep within me.

And yet, I know from very recent experience that trying to weave a marriage for money into something more is a dangerous game.

“Well, well,” he says, patting his broad chest. “You know I’ll help you if you need it, son.”

“I know,” I say, somewhat meaning it.

He’ll help me if it benefits him. Of that, I have no doubt.

“And how is your mother?”

I try not to visibly bristle.

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