Page 5 of The Love Losers

He shrugs, and it’s my turn to laugh. “Why do I think you’re about to say, ‘Not handsome enough to tempt me?’”

He gives his head a micro-shake. “I’m not Mr. Darcy.Hewouldn’t have any trouble finding a wife.”

I give him a dubious look, taking in the whole of him—those unexpected dimples, the short beard and thick, full hair. The gray eyes. There’s still emptiness behind them, but I’m pretty sure it’s not because he’s a secret serial killer. It’s the look of a man who’s not living his truth.

I’d like to know more about him—to find out what his truth actually is. Then again, I’dalwayslike to know more. It’s what gets me into seven out of ten of my scrapes.

“I know all aboutPride and Prejudice. I have a younger sister,” he explains, as if I’d questioned his knowledge of Austen.

“Good for you. You know, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding a wife either. Finger lady would’ve married you in a heartbeat, I’ll bet.”

His lips lift again. “Ah, but I wouldn’t have married her.”

“Not even a fake marriage?”

“My fingers might not have survived it.”

My lips arc upward as I glance down at his hands, resting on the tabletop. Theyarenice hands, strong but elegant, like he should be in one of those ads for watches or Fitbits. “You don’t think she’d be able to keep her hands off you? And this is a problem?”

He shrugs. “I’m not ready for anything like that yet.”

“Poor you, so attractive the ladies just can’t keep away.” I glance back up at him. “You know, if you’re looking to keep things chaste, you should do away with the beard. Beards make women think about oral sex.”

He’d just cracked open a peanut, and it falls through his fingers as he stares at me.

I laugh reflexively. “Sorry. I can’t help myself. My brother Seamus says I should be muzzled. I think my other brother, Declan, agrees with him, but he’s too much of a gentle giant to say so.”

Anthony lifts one of those strong, elegant hands to touch his beard, and I feel an unexpected shiver course through me. He’s not my usual type, but I can see why he’d besomeone’stype. “Why?”

“The oral sex thing or the muzzle?”

“The former.”

“Oh, because it feels really good against a woman’s inner thighs.” I shrug. “My guess is that you’d be getting less of a feral vibe if you shaved the beard and went back to those fusty suits.”

I’ve surprised him again. To be honest, I could see this becoming an enjoyable game—making this man who thought he’d seen everything gape at me. “Fusty?” he says with as much offense as if he’d spun the thread himself. “They’re nice suits. My mo—”

He cuts himself off, but not quickly enough to elude me. “Were you just about to say your mother picked them out?”

His smile crests, almost as if those dimples found an excuse to pop and now they’re so dizzied with their success they want it to happen again. “No,” he lies. “It was just a word that sounded like mother, but I can’t think of it right now.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He sobers. “Sometimes. I can keep a secret when I need to.”

I can relate to that a little too much, so I don’t push.

Instead, I say, “Anyway. Your mother might have respectabletaste in suits, but they’re not reallysuit daddysuits. You’ve got a sexier vibe going on now—like some kind of beat poet gone wrong. But I have to say, I could also see you rocking a collared shirt, no tie. Maybe a few buttons undone. Are you sure youdon’t want some action? It might help you get over—” I wave my hand.

“My ex-fiancée leaving me two months before the wedding so she could be with my friend?” he says dryly. “Or the fact that she was only marrying me for money, and she still left?”

“Both of those things,” I say, feeling a surge of sympathy for him. “Maybe take advantage of the hot beard and have some fun.” His eyes hold mine for a beat, and something molten passes between us. So I hastily add, “That’s not an invitation, to be clear. I’m not looking for that kind of thing either.”

“A fake spouse or sex?” he asks, his voice a pitch lower.

“Either. I left behind a…situation when I hightailed it from New York City.” Maybe I shouldn’t tell him something so personal, but I want him to know that I understand. I’m not some well-wisher sitting on the sidelines eating snacks while I watch him struggle. I’ve been in those trenches of heartbreak. I painted murals on the walls.

He cocks his head. “What kind of situation?”

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