Page 9 of The Love Losers

“You should,” I say. “A man should know what he’s up against.”

Sunburned Pate stirs again, scratches his pink head, and glances at the TV. The gameshow that was on earlier has slid into paid programming, but the bartender is still watching it with sulky, glazed disinterest. It hits me that even though I’ve been here a lot over the last several months, I’ve never thought to ask for his name.

“I need to go talk to that guy about the peanuts,” Rosie says, smacking the table again. “He looks like a man who’s about to give me a deal counter to his interests.”

I wonder if that’s what I looked like to her too.

But, for the life of me, I can’t think of what Rosie James would stand to gain by helping me find a wife before the end of December.

“Would you like a ride home?” I ask. “I’m going to call a town car.”

Her face crinkles with amusement. “Why don’t we take an uber together?”

I’m already shaking my head. “The last uber driver in Marshall turned out to be a murderer. I’d prefer it if you took a town car.”

“Neither of us live in Marshall,” she says, rolling her eyes. I guess she has a point, but it’s where my mother and her brother live, and it’s kind of hard to forget a thing like that. “And you should come with me if you’re sodesperatelyworried,” shefinishes, totally unfazed by my reference to the murderer. Too bad—I’d thought that was my ace in the hole.

“Why don’t you want to take a town car?” I ask. Truthfully, I’m a lot less worried about getting picked up by a murderer than someone whose car smells like unwashed feet, or perhaps the pot-smoking son of someone on my board, but I don’t need to tell her that.

She gives me an amused look. “Because I want to seeyouin an uber. But first I’m going to get myself a deal on some peanuts.”

She gets up and sidles over to the bar, where the bartender slowly animates—as if he could hardly help himself with Rosie close. And even though this is a matter between her and the stoner bartender and is arguably none of my business, I find myself getting up and following her. Like I could hardly help it either.

Ten minutes later, the bartender, Dominic—“Dom”—is her best friend. Five minutes later, he’s telling us all about his dead-end job at the bar we’ve been at all evening.

He says the owner wouldn’t let him decorate the bar with nutcrackers and a tree-nut medley for Christmas. I guess he was worried about the possible liability issues of having a bunch of drunk people around nutcrackers. According to Dom, the building is also owned by a “slumlord,” an accusation I listen to with tongue in cheek, because here’s the truth…

Iown this building.

Iown it, not my father’s company. I bought it several years ago with some money I’d earned from my savings and investments, because I’d looked at it and seen not what it was but what it could become. In my mind, it was something special—a community, a haven, ahome.

But my life is nothing if not a story of stalled potential. I allowed the bar to stay, and the rest of the building housesnothing but rats and stored building materials for some of the builders we work with. My dream is a warehouse full of other peoples’ building supplies.

“What about a ladies’ night?” Rosie asks, glancing around as if she, too, is taking in the potential and ignoring the blaring lack of charm, from the spiderwebs in the rafters to the slight unwashed funk that might be from the bar itself or the man who tends it. “Have you ever tried one of those?”

“You think women would comehere?” he asks in awe, as if he’s not talking to one of the most naturally gorgeous women I’ve ever seen. Still, there’s no denying he has a point. I don’t think women would come here—mostly because Rosie is one of the only women I’ve ever seen in here.

“If you offer half-priced drinks on a weeknight, they will,” she says with a wink. “People will do a lot for a half-priced drink.” She gives the place another glance, this one absorbing the obvious deficits. “Maybe give it a little lift, though. Women like pretty things.” Her eyes light up. “Ooh, you could give away some kind of swag with the bar’s name on it. That always works well at parties, and they can share whatever you put out with their friends. You know, spread the word. Why don’t you give me your number, and I can help you build some buzz. Our friend Jake kicks ass at design, so I’m sure he could sketch up a logo for you.”

Both Dom and I are gaping at her now.

“Youwantmynumber?” he asks, his blood-shot eyes widening.

“Of course,” she says, “we’re friends, aren’t we? I’m going to help you. And when ladies’ night is a huge success, maybe the owner will be willing to take some more unconventional risks.” She winks at him, and he looks like he’s on the verge of passing out.

Her gaze shifts to me for a half a second. She gives me a sly, knowing grin, then glances back at Dom, “Hey, where do you get the peanuts? These are the best peanuts I’ve ever had in my life…so crunchy and delicious…and my friend needs to acquire some for this event she’s holding.”

“How many do you need?” he asks without hesitation. “Whatever you want, they’re yours. On the house.”

I stare at Rosie James with awe.

For years, I’ve struggled to win the loyalty of the people who work for me, most of whom have been there long enough that they worked for my father. All of whom see him as some sort of God of real estate investment. Me, not so much. Hell, last year, my HR rep informed me bluntly that morale was low and convinced me to hold a team-building exercise at a retreat in the mountains.

No one caught me in the trust fall.

I’m too closed off, I’ve been told. Cold. Reserved.Dead inside, according to Nina and probably the vast majority of the people I’ve met.

But it took Rosie all of fifteen minutes to win this bartender over so thoroughly that he gave her exactly what she wanted. Only…

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