Page 69 of The Love Losers

“I don’t like thinking about you and Joy being alone in that apartment,” I say. “I’m going to hire a guard to keep watch.”

She gives me an unimpressed look as I park the car. “You’re going to hire a bodyguard for Joy and me the day before Christmas Eve?”

“Motivated criminals don’t care about the holidays. I’ll tip him well.”

“If Nina and Wilson are behind this, we’re in the clear. I’m quite certain they’ll be busy at their pig roast.”

“I’m not going to let you be in danger.”

Her eyebrows wing up and she pulls her hand from my leg, leaving it cold. “Anthony Rosings Smith, let’s get one thing straight. No oneletsme do anything.”

“No shit,” I say, rubbing my temple. My head’s starting to ache again—a headache dancing at the edges. I feel anger welling inside of me, wanting to spill out like bile or poison. “But you didn’t give me a choice about spending half of the morning with two people I hate. I figure I should get some kind of a say in keeping you and your friend safe.” I swallow and take a deep breath, holding it for a second before letting it out, something Emma taught me years ago. “Icareabout you being safe,” I add, my voice losing its harsh edge. “If something happened to you because of me…”

I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence or the thought.

Something has shifted on Rosie’s face, and she takes my hand and squeezes it. “I can convince her to go over to my brother’s place for a couple of days. Christmas is coming up anyway, and Joy’s basically a Christmas elf. They’ll be overjoyed to have us. But I don’t want a bodyguard. And If some weird dude starts following me around without my permission, I’mgoing to pepper spray him, so don’t pull the guy thing where you say you’re not going to do it, but you do it anyway.”

“What if it’s a woman?” I ask, quirking my brow.

“I’d pepper spray her too, but I’d feel worse about it.”

I smile at her. “That’s sexist. You said your brother’s a big guy?”

“Huge,” she says, her lips tipping up. “Speaking of which…are you going to ask my brothers’ permission to fake-marry me?”

There’s a confusing ache in my chest, a cataclysmic crush of emotions. “So you’ll really do it? You’ll marry me next weekend?”

She watches me for a second, something flickering through her gaze, then nods. “I’m not going to be the reason you don’t get that money, Anthony, but I think you should use it for your dream, not someone else’s.”

I think of the other night, of floating through the halls of the warehouse and seeing it as something different. As The Ware.

I think of my father, falling from that tree. Of watching him go down. Of knowing he never would have climbed up if not for me…

I glance away. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You won’t be happy if you let them tear that warehouse down,” she says, her eyes beating into me. She wraps her hand around my shoulder, her thumb rubbing. “You’ll always regret it.”

“Probably,” I say, lifting my hand to hers even though I can’t bring myself to look back yet. The doubt from earlier drifts away, because I can tell she’s being earnest. She cares about my happiness. “I can add it to my pile of regrets.”

“If you let it get too high, it’ll bury you.”

I glance back and find her still watching me. My angel. She’s a woman who deserves more than to be anchored to me and my problems. But I have to marry someone next weekend, andselfishly, I want it to be her. I need it to be. Whatever it ends up meaning.

I swallow and say glibly, “What about your brothers? Aretheygoing to bury me?”

“The drive from New York is long enough that Seamus would cool down by the time he gets here. Declan might try, but I have pepper spray, and I’m not afraid to use it. Even on friends and family.”

“So you’d avenge me, bunny?” I ask, mimicking Wilson’s voice.

She laughs and shifts her hand so her palm is curled around the back of my neck, the sensation spooling outward as if I’m turning into gold. “Yes.”

I undo my belt, then shift to face her in the seat, feeling like I’m caught between the past and future, stuck like a bug trapped in amber. I want her to help draw me out, and I also don’t, because there’s a chance she’ll get caught too. And if I’m responsible for changing her, for drying up her joy, I don’t think I would be able to live with myself.

I reach over and unbuckle her belt, my hand glancing off her hip. I remember the feel of it under my fingers—the dizzying joy of twirling her through the air as if we were kids. The worries I carry are still there—they’ll always be there, lurking in the background. But they’re no longer in the foreground, because I trust this woman. I believe that she genuinely cares about me, and I genuinely care about her too. This thing growing between us feels magical and real, and there’s a chance it will be beautiful and transformative for both of us. Hope beats through me.

Taking her other hand, I say, “It may be a fake marriage at first, but I want it to be a real relationship. I want to try this with you.”

Her lips part, close, and then part again. “What if it doesn’t work out, but you’re stuck with me, and you still have to introduce me to everyone as your wife?”

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