The Love Losers (Unlucky in Love #3)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

ROSIE

Conversation with Anthony, Thursday afternoon

Is ladies’ night at the Peanut Bar a go?

It’s on for Wednesday, or so Dom said when he texted at four in the morning. He claims he thinks best when he has the munchies.

You’re coming, aren’t you?

You know you want to bask in the brilliance of my idea.

I’m interested in seeing what Dom considers fancy.

And I’m interested in hearing how your fancy lunch “appointment” goes.

You’re one of those people who holds up traffic so you can get a look at an accident, aren’t you?

Confirmed rubbernecker.

Text me updates.

No.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Conversation with Anthony, Friday morning

Jake made a logo for The Peanut Bar.

Wait. Is it actually called The Peanut Bar, or are we making assumptions?

It doesn’t have a name. I’ve asked the owner. He liked the “mystique” of going nameless.

Well, I’ve officially named it. **Sends picture.**

A dancing peanut. The Planters people might take umbrage, but it fits.

Do they teach anachronistic words in prep schools?

Yes. Do you feel like a god for naming the bar?

Yes. I have it on good authority that I’m a goddess. Dom told me so. He’s having something made with the logo as a giveaway.

Are you going to advise him on what to get?

I think it’ll be more fun if it’s a delightful surprise.

“That Anthony is quite a handsome boy,” Joy tells me on Saturday afternoon as I park outside the house where we’re holding the circus-themed tea. My friend is delightful, always, and as wholesome-looking as one of those sketches of puritans you’d find in a history book. Not that I bothered much with my history textbooks. My lovely roommate is not wholesome, thank God. And right now, she’s giving me a crafty look. “And he has beautiful hands. Did you notice them?”

I imagine how Anthony would react if he were a fly on the wall…and nearly pee myself laughing.

“You’re laughing because you’ve noticed,” she says, giving me one of her significant looks. “You know what they say about men with big hands.”

“That they have big cocks?”

She swats my arm. “You’re getting your appendages confused. That’s feet. Men with big hands have big hearts .”

“You just made that up,” I say, rolling my eyes. Joy has a habit of making up idioms and folk wisdom to fit whatever point she’s trying to make.

Blame my big mouth, but I told her all about my evening with Anthony after I got home on Wednesday night. She was still awake, because she likes to commune with the full moon once a month.

Wednesday’s moon was as full as my brother Seamus’s ass when he mooned my first date out of the living room window my Sophomore year of high school.

I did not, however, tell her about all of the texts we’ve been exchanging or my many intrusive thoughts about his meeting with the accountant. I assume his not-a-date is going to be all up in his business, especially if he wears one of those suits his mother picked out. An accountant would probably go feral for a fusty suit like that.

Here’s a truth I wouldn’t dare admit to Joy: Anthony Rosings Smith is a delightful surprise, from those big, suckable fingers of his to his ownership of the warehouse and his admission that he hates the job he’s willing to marry a stranger to keep. Then there’s the way he grabbed for the door when I was about to leave the uber the other night. He did it like it was an urgent matter of life and death—and all he wanted was my phone number.

A woman can’t help but be delighted by something like that. Especially since he gave me an almost wistful look as I got out of the car. Like he hadn’t wanted the night to end. I hadn’t wanted it to end either. I’d fallen into it like Alice into the rabbit hole, but I’d wanted to stay.

I like the unexpected. I’ve always been hungry for it, ever since I was a little kid, and I had no clue how Belle was going to find her happily ever after when her prince was a literal animal.

I’m Team Should Have Remained a Beast, by the way.

“I remember feeling a connection between you two,” Joy continues. “A soul connection.”

I laugh. “Were you drinking your own tea when you sensed this? You always think everyone has a soul connection when you’re high.”

Joy tips her head as if to admit the point, but says, “We all do have a soul connection, Rosie. We just let ourselves forget it sometimes, is all. Besides. I don’t get high. I experience heightened perception.”

“I don’t have a soul connection with the circus people,” I say, gesturing to the bungalow we’re parked in front of. It’s been renovated to twice its 1920s size and is painted a cheerful purple with yellow shutters.

Joy’s mouth works, trying to hold back a smile. “Well, some soul connections are very distant. Still, I try not to discriminate. We all have our fetishes.”

Laugher gusts out of me, because I love goading Joy into being naughty.

“You think they’re doing this to satisfy a fetish?”

She gives me a flat look. “Dear, they asked us to bring ten pounds of peanuts, circus-inspired decorations, and my special tea. I’m assuming it’s for some sort of orgy.”

“Did they say what they’re using the peanuts for?” I would have pressed her on that part sooner if I hadn’t been so distracted by Anthony and his glorious hands.

She shrugs. “No, but I’m guessing they plan to copulate on top of them. Possibly while dressed like circus animals.”

“Do you think they expect us to watch?” I ask, fascinated.

“Do you want to?” she asks with a chuckle.

I consider the question seriously, then shake my head. “I don’t think so. But if you ask me, it seems like a waste of good peanuts. The guy who gave them to me said they were top notch.”

She shrugs. “Maybe they’ll serve them up as an after-orgy snack. I suspect they’ll be easier to crack after all that rolling and pounding.”

I shake my head, smiling at her. “You’re the best kind of surprise.”

She reaches out to cup my cheek. “So are you, dear girl. I never imagined any of this was possible.”

I laugh again as we pile out of the car, Joy grabbing the picnic basket we packed earlier from the backseat while I go for the sack of peanuts. “You mean you never thought you’d hold a psychedelic tea party for swingers who want to screw on peanuts?”

She gives me a sly smile. “You know how to make people’s dreams come true. That’s your talent, Rosie. Your goddess-given gift.”

I smile at the compliment, because I know she means it as one, but part of me wonders if this is how it’ll always be—helping other people make their dreams a reality because I don’t have any of my own.

As we approach the door, I hug the peanut bag in one arm so I can check my phone.

Joy gives me a sidelong look. “You’re hoping to hear from that boy again. I feel it as clearly as if it were a message from Mortimer.” Mortimer was her long-time partner, and she paints such a clear picture of him that he sometimes feels like a third roommate.

“Only because I want confirmation that I won my bet with him,” I hedge, disappointed to see there’s only a dumb meme from my brother Seamus, who mostly communicates in memes and YouTube shorts. “He said he’d text me updates.”

It’s not exactly true, but I’d very much like to believe it.

“Oh, you’ll win that bet all right,” she says with a broad smile. “And I hope you’ll take it as a sign that you should marry him yourself. None of those girls you drink with would be a good fit.”

“Me, marry him?” I ask, laughing, but something stirs inside of me.

Me …marry him ?

For what must be the fiftieth time, I think about the wistful way Anthony watched me as I left that smelly uber on Wednesday night. I’ve been stuck on it ever since, like one of my parents’ old records. But there’s at least one good reason why I absolutely cannot marry Anthony Rosings Smith. And even if I could…

I’ve promised myself I’ll be more cautious about my love life moving forward. I won’t get my head turned topsy-turvy and upside down anymore, thank you very much. And getting involved with a man who needs to get married within a couple of weeks or else lose multiple millions of dollars is the definition of rushing in.

The timing is all wrong. Maybe, in a year or two, when all of this is over, something can happen between us. In the meantime, I’d do better to help him find a platonic wife.

So I say, “Anthony and I are just friends.”

She clucks her tongue. “I know a thing or two about just friends. I’ve been just friends with many men.”

Sighing I say, “Let’s table your attempt to get me engaged and throw the best damn sex party anyone’s ever attended.”

“Well, that was disappointing,” I say after we head out to the Jeep I’m long-term borrowing from Claire.

It turned out our customers were not, in fact, planning a circus orgy. They just wanted to drink Joy’s tea and bliss out while watching footage of graphic nature shows. The dude who’d organized the whole thing had taken one look at the bag of peanuts, laughed, and said, “Oh no. Did I tell you ten pounds? I meant ten ounces.”

So they’d sent us packing with nine pounds of peanuts. I’m bringing them to Claire, because when I texted her from the house, she agreed that she could indeed use some “high quality nuts” at the bakery—a response I immediately took a screenshot of and sent to my group chat with my brothers so Seamus—Shay—and I could give Declan hell about having low-quality nuts.

Sometimes you have to make your own fun.

Like the two couples inside, who’d sung “A Circle of Life” enthusiastically while watching a couple of lions eviscerate a water buffalo on their big screen TV. Or the dude wearing the Simba mask who’d danced around the couch.

“Yes, I’ll admit the whole thing seemed a bit unsavory to me,” says the woman who’d thought they were going to have group sex on top of peanuts. “But then I’ve never been a fan of violence.” She sniffs. “Still, they seemed to enjoy themselves.”

I put the nut sack in the backseat, and Joy gives me a knowing look as I tug out my phone again.

“I’ll drive the Jeep,” she says before I can check the screen.

“But you drive like a banshee,” I object.

“So do you. And you’ll drive even worse if you’re trying to check your phone while doing it.”

When she’s right, she’s right, so I hand over the keys, my heart thumping. I’m still in purgatory, unsure of whether or not Anthony has texted, and in some ways I’d prefer to stay in purgatory.

What if the meeting went great, and he’s already asked her to marry him?

The thought is upsetting, although I can’t tell if it’s because I’m a sore loser or if I my little crush has gotten deep enough that I don’t want him to get married.

We stuff ourselves into the car, and once Joy starts driving, I finally take a deep breath and lift the phone.

My breath whooshes out of me when I see Anthony’s message:

I wore a collared shirt, like you said. What do you think? Am I in trouble?

A grin spreads across my face, and Joy gives a knowing cluck that makes her sound like a chicken.

I ignore her and type back:

Photo or it didn’t happen.

Three dots appear, disappear, and then Anthony Rosings Smith sends me a selfie .

Ho- ly shit.

He’s sitting in some fancy-looking restaurant with a white-on-white color scheme that’s aggressively unappealing, but it certainly puts the spotlight where it belongs. Anthony’s wearing a light blue collared shirt, the first two buttons undone. The color brings out the blue in his gray eyes, and the fit is perfect. It’s slightly snug around his upper arms, hinting at the surprise I got the other night in the car, and the opening at his neck…it’s subtle, but it seems like an invitation. Open me.

He has a self-effacing smile, but I detect the slightest glimpse of one of his dimples under his trimmed beard.

Wait, did he undo the first two buttons of his shirt just to screw with me?

Oh, I hope so.

Is this the first selfie you ever took?

Why, is it bad?

No, but you don’t seem like a selfie guy. I was hoping I’d popped your cherry.

You’re nearly twenty years too late for that.

Heat washes over me. Holy shit, he went for it.

It feels like we’re flirting, which we shouldn’t be, all things considered. But also…

Holy crap, you were only fourteen when it happened?

I didn’t say it was any good.

Laughter spurts out of my mouth and nose, and I feel Joy looking at me—mostly because the whole car swerves with her.

I glance at her, find her smiling, and say, “Well, I definitely won’t be able to marry him if I’m dead.”

“Good point,” she says with a chuckle.

I look back at my phone, feeling my smile drop at his next text:

She’s here.

The spike of jealousy I feel catches me off-guard. I’m not usually a jealous person. When I found out about Roman, I wanted to give him concrete sneakers and sink him in the bay. I wasn’t jealous ; I was angry that I’d been duped again. It had seemed wildly unfair for it to happen twice to one person. I was also furious for his poor wife.

I’d wanted to do something hurtful, like dose him with ex-lax or key his car, but in the end I’d settled for writing a heartfelt letter to his wife. I didn’t tell her who I was, but I explained what had happened, and how he’d lied to both of us.

They’re still together, according to the overlords of social media, so maybe she never got the note. Maybe she didn’t believe it. But I’d felt it was my duty to give her all the pertinent information so she could make the choice that had been taken from both of us.

This feeling is different. It’s sticky and gross, like when you put used gum in a wrapper and stick it in one of the storage wells of your car, only to accidentally dip your hand into it when it’s melted and hot.

I shake the feeling off and tuck my phone away.

“Well?” Joy asks expectantly.

“I guess she just got there.”

“And you’re worried she’ll take one look at him and throw her underpants across the table.”

Maybe.

“I don’t know what I’m worried about,” I hedge.

Joy makes a knowing sound that is at least ten percent more annoying than her chicken sound. Then, angel that she is, she intuits that I don’t want to talk about this right now and turns on my Cyndi Lauper CD. Within twenty seconds, we’re both singing along at the top of our lungs. I’m actually feeling pretty good by the time Joy parks in front of my brother’s cabin.

Still, I pull my phone out of my bag before leaving the car.

My mood dips when I see there’s nothing else from Anthony.

What if they took one look at each other, decided to hell with platonic, let’s do this thing , and headed straight for city hall? They might be boning in the bathroom right this second, husband and wife already.

I’m tempted to Google how easy it is to get a marriage license in North Carolina, but I can feel Joy watching me.

“It’s no big deal,” I tell her. “You know me, I’m curious about everything, and I have an addiction to being right. That’s all this is about. I definitely don’t have a thing for him.”

She has the decency not to call me out on my lie except for making another of her knowing sounds. I sigh and get out of the car, pausing at the back to grab the sack of peanuts before I head onto the porch.

I knock on the front door, and my brother answers it half a beat later, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He pulls me into a half hug before covering the speaker with his hand. “Claire’s still at work,” he says in an undertone. “Stay for a minute if you can. I’m on the phone with a client, but this conversation can’t possibly go on much longer.”

There’s a hint of impatience in his voice. Probably because he prefers the plants he works with to the people he tends them for. He’s also not much of a phone talker, and he thinks ninety-nine percent of people talk too much. Claire is probably the only exception—not because she doesn’t talk too much but because he’s obsessed with her.

He steps out of the way for us to come inside.

We take off our coats, hang them, and Joy pats my brother on the back. “I’ll just make us a pot of tea,” she says with a smile, then slips past him and enters his kitchen.

My brother’s expression shifts from worried to deeply alarmed, and a laugh escapes me as I follow her in.

Declan is still on the phone by the time we finish, and from his expression you’d think he was being tortured with thumbscrews instead of talking to a client who might be coerced into spending an unreasonable amount of money on landscaping.

So Joy and I start arranging the tea things on the coffee table. I’m about to suggest we open the bag of peanuts we put out when a knock lands on the door.

By then, my brother looks like he’s about five seconds away from blowing an eye vessel or being brutally honest with the person on the other line, so I figure I’ll do us both a favor and answer the door. Besides, I lived here for over a month before moving in with Joy. I figure that gives me leave to take some liberties.

I’m not surprised to see Jake and Lainey. They’re Claire and Declan’s best friends—I’m getting them friendship bracelets for Christmas to make it official. They live right next door and have a tendency to pop over whenever they feel like it. But Nicole and Damien, the private investigator couple who co-run The Love Fixers with them, are right behind them. It’s not odd for them to be here—Claire is Nicole’s half-sister—but it feels less like a casual drop-by.

I open the door, and Jake nods at me. “I saw the Jeep. We’ve got news concerning a mutual friend. I figure you’d be interested.”

“You’re talking about Anthony,” I say, picking up on the hint. He knows about my hangout with Anthony the other night, on account of I had to ask for his help with the peanut logo. It has to be Anthony he’s talking about, because all of our other mutual friends, with the exception of Claire, are present and accounted for.

It hits me that Jake looks serious.

Jake never looks serious.

Fear floods me, and my mouth drops open. “Holy shit, did something happen? That accountant didn’t murder him at the lunch table, did she?”

He watches me for a second, his face twitching, then bursts out laughing. I shove his arm, but relief floods me as I swing the door open, inviting them into my brother’s house. He’s an introvert and a half, and he’ll obviously be super pleased to have six guests when he finally gets off the client phone call from hell.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Nicole says, shoving past me and moseying up to the spread on the coffee table. She gives the tea a doubtful look and then grabs the sack of peanuts as the others filter in and shut the door.

“Aren’t you going to ask where it’s from?” I ask as she opens it and start riffling through them.

“Don’t care,” she says, cracking one open and letting the casing fall to the floor. She has her own special privileges as Claire’s sister, but she’d probably take liberties even if she didn’t. It’s her way. “I’m in a celebratory mood.” She chomps the peanut down, shrugs, then pulls out her phone and hands it to me.

“This isn’t porn, is it?” I ask, taking it.

“Not today, but I make no promises about tomorrow. Someone sent this website to your friend Anthony.”

I lift the phone up.

Well, butter my biscuits. The website is a countdown, with only a couple of sentences on the screen in an aggressive, glowing red font:

Dahlia Rosings –

You may have gotten away with it three times, but everyone’s luck runs out eventually. Here’s the countdown to yours running out.

The countdown ends at midnight on New Year’s Eve, two weeks and one day from today. It’s the day and time of Anthony’s would-be wedding.

Dahlia is his mother.