Page 8 of The Love Losers

Confessing to Nina that I was from a wealthy family and would be very wealthy if I found someone to marry before I turned thirty-four.

Agreeing to marry Nina when she enthusiastically offered.

Realizing Nina was exactly the same as the other woman who’d used me for my father’s fortune…

Through it all, Rosie listened intently.

Now, she makes an amused sound, not quite a laugh, then says, “You know, I’ve heard your mother designed a real horror-show of a wedding for you.”

My mouth lifts. “I don’t even know the half of it. Like I said, I stayed out of it. She made the arrangements as terrible as possible because she was trying to get a reaction from Nina.” I pause, but a few too many beers has me admitting, “My mother hasn’t cancelled it yet. She’s told everyone it’s going to be a New Year’s party now, but the arrangements are still in place.”

“Seriously?” she says, leaning forward, her whole countenance buzzing with life. She’s so invested in my ridiculous life story, I can’t help but laugh again.

“Seriously. She says she’s only doing it to be supportive, but I expect she wants it to go forward because it would be a real slap in the face for Nina.”

“It would be,” she says, her eyes sparkling with wicked amusement, “if you use her wedding to marry another woman. Would you invite her and your traitor friend? Tell them it’s a New Year’s party, and whoops, it’s a wedding after all? You could cross out her name on all of the favors and sub in the bride’s name.”

I shrug. “Maybe. Jake suggested it too. But I figure I’d better find someone to marry before I get ahead of myself. As my mother keeps reminding me, I’m running out of time. New Year’s is less than three weeks away.”

She watches me for a second, dozens of things dancing in her blue eyes, and for a moment I’m transfixed by them. By her. I’ve never met anyone thisalivebefore. Maybe I’m drunk, but it seems to me that she could hardly help but animate everything she touches.

“I really want to see that happen,” she finally says. “I want to see the look on her face when she realizes her wedding has been coopted.” Another second of silence passes before she says, “I’m going to find you a wife.” Then she smacks the table open-handed. The booths all have low backs except for the two closest to the bathroom, presumably there for shady business deals, so I can see Sunburned-Pate Guy flinch awake. He makes a startled sound before recognizing where he is and settling back in for dreams of sugarplums and warmer climates.

My lips twitch with amusement. “I don’t want to double-dip.” Rosie starts to laugh, clearly amused by this phrase, and I add, “Jake set up a meeting for me this weekend. An accountant.”

Her lips press together. “He’s going about this all wrong.”

Bemused laughter bursts from me again. “Why’s that?”

She gives me an assessing look, her eyes a little glazed, and I realize we’ve each had four or maybe five beers. More than enough that I’ll have to call a town car and bear the indignity of coming back in the morning to retrieve my car. “Mark my words, you are for a female accountant what a sample sale is for rich white ladies. She’s going to be all over you.”

I’m oddly offended by this. Maybe because Rosie is nothing like what I’d imagine an accountant might be, so it’s as if she’s saying I’mveryresistible for her.

“Care to make a wager?” I ask before I can stop myself.

New energy seems to zip around inside of her, as if this mention of a wager is feeding some unseen hunger, and I feel…

I feelsomethingagain.

I’m definitely not bored. I haven’t been bored this entire evening.

“What kind of wager?” she asks, her eyes lighting up.

“If this meeting goes south on Saturday, then I’ll let you find someone for me. But if it goes well, then I get to find someone foryou.”

I’m not sure what possessed me to say that. Most of my friends are married or happily coupled-up, and my one habitually single friend is now banging my ex-fiancée. Besides, I don’t like the idea of setting Rosie up with anyone. Maybe it’s because I have trouble imagining anyone who’d be able to keep up with her, and I don’t want her to be bored either.

But she gives me a broad grin and holds out her hand. I take it, feeling a surprising stirring inside of me, but I ignore it and give her a firm but gentle shake. My father always said you could take the measure of a man through his handshake, and he used to make me practice it with him—squeezing my small bones until they ground together, because being a man also meant taking a hit and not letting it show.

“I’m going to win,” she says, her eyes bright with the prospect. “Ialwayswin wagers.”

“I believe you. Something tells me you have a victory dance too.”

“Of courseI do. It’s obscene.”

I can’t not smile at that.

“Do I get to tell Jake about the competition?”

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