Chapter 41

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ANTHONY

“Well, that’s done, thank goodness,” my mother says. “Let’s go home, Emma. I need to take a bubble bath. Possibly two.”

My sister nods, but her eyes are on me. “Are we good?”

I consider her question and then nod. “But don’t do me any other favors involving my wife without asking first.”

Rosie kisses the side of my face. “I was glad to sign it. I’d sign it again. I’d sign it as Rosie Rosings Smith.”

“Oh, to be young and foolish and in love,” my mother says drolly, and then she and my sister leave the bar.

I’m still staring at Rosie, soaking in the fact that she’s here and she’s wearing my ring, and she’s going to be my wife.

“Let’s sit,” Damien says, indicating the evacuated booth, which has a spray of the vinegar wine across the tabletop as if an actual battle took place here. Rosie and I sit back down, our thighs touching—as if we’re physically holding each other up. Maybe we are.

I reach for her hand under the table, and she weaves her fingers with mine. Despite what we just sat through, I feel peaceful. At ease. Comfortable in my skin. I’m living my life, finally. My life.

And I get to spend it with her? How lucky can one guy be?

Nicole slaps a bowl of pretzels down on the table before sliding into Nina’s vacated spot. Damien sits down next to her.

“So, Nina obviously told me the truth,” Nicole says, popping one of the pretzels, clearly less worried about hygiene than Nina. I won’t be eating any of them—I’ve seen what’s behind that bar. “She was much too freaked out to lie to me.”

“Which means someone else set up the website,” Damien continues.

I’d assumed as much, but it’s still displeasing to hear it. I want to stride toward our future now, leaving all the unpleasantness behind us. My father. Simon. Nina and Wilson. But they’re right. This problem isn’t going to go away if we choose to ignore it. It will snowball, the way problems do.

Rosie squeezes my hand. “Go on.”

“We did learn something interesting. One of the investors in the rival builder’s deal is Leigh Dalton.”

“Leigh the accountant?” I ask in disbelief, thinking of the messages.

“I knew something was fishy about her,” Rosie says, nudging my arm. “She wasn’t impressed by your shirts.”

Nicole snorts. “Neither am I.”

“We already know you’re not normal.”

“True,” she says.

“She might have wanted to marry Anthony to sway things,” Damien says, nodding to me, “or maybe she wanted to leave you at the altar so you wouldn’t get the money.”

I shake my head, pulling up the text exchange, and show it to them. “She did try to get in touch with me a few times after Christmas, but I’d expected her to. Nina shut her down.”

Nicole snorts again. “That had to hurt.”

“But Leigh’s a professional,” I say. “It’s hard to imagine her setting up that website, sending me the link, and then doing nothing with it.”

“It is odd,” Damien agrees with a nod. “Then again, she might have done it that way on purpose, to avoid suspicion.” He taps the table. “Hopefully the point is moot. Your deal’s not going through as is, and you’ve decided to keep the building. Presumably they’ll have to change their strategy too. If that’s what motivated this person, then there’s every chance they’ll back off.”

“And if not?” I ask.

“Expect lots of objections during your wedding ceremony,” Nicole says with a grin. “I hope we have some surprises left over.”

“I don’t,” Rosie says. “I’m hoping the biggest surprise is who gets the drunkest and how many details Anthony’s mother kept from the original terrible wedding.”

I smile, reaching for the purple streak in her hair and tracing it with my fingertips—it’s like the wildness weaving through her. The part of Rosie that makes her so…Rosie. “We’re doing this right someday. This is only a dress rehearsal.”

“Eh, terrible weddings are the best kind,” Nicole says casually. “Damien and I got married at a pawn shop.”

“Of course you did,” Rosie says fondly.

Then she kisses my cheek and turns to them. “Can we go now? I just added something new to my bucket list.”

“How long is it going to be?” I ask with a grin.

“Endless. Especially now that I get to be Chief Bucket List Head Honcho at The Ware when we open.”

“Will that be your official title?”

She taps her chin with a finger. “How about Mrs. Rosie Rosings Smith, Chief Bucket List Head Honcho at the Ware?”

“I love it,” I say, pressing her hand to my chest. “I love—”

“Yeah, we’re leaving,” Nicole says.

“We’ll see you at the wedding,” Damien adds. “If we hear anything else, we’ll let you know.”

I nod at them, but I don’t follow them out. There’s something special about this place. This booth where we first connected.

Looking at Rosie, I say, “I think maybe the curse is broken.”

She laughs. “You think there really was a curse?”

“It felt like one,” I tell her, smiling. “Maybe it was tied to that tree.”

“It’s a fanciful thought, but it turns out I’m fanciful these days.”

“Joy would agree with you. She said she felt a dark force leaving after it came down. Do you think your mother felt it too?”

I think about the lightness I felt after the tree finally came down—and the closeness I’ve felt with my mom and Emma lately. I nod slowly. “Yeah, I do. But don’t try to find Husband Number Four for her.”

She laughs. “Why not? You know I like a challenge.”

“You do,” I say, brushing my fingers over her cheek. “Awakening statues and staging paint battles and setting up other people’s businesses. You’re some woman, Rosie. And I’m the luckiest man alive to have you wearing my ring.”

She takes my hand and kisses it on the knuckles, just like I’ve done to her any number of times. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She glances around, pretending to make sure no one’s listening in. “I’m pretty lucky, too.”

I lean in and kiss her, softly, quickly, because I don’t want Dom to start tapping on glasses or ringing bells. “Let’s get out of here and get bucket list-ing.”

“Oh, I like it as a verb.”

I slide out of the booth and help her up. We head for the door like that, hand in hand, to grab our coats from the rack.

But Dom waves us down from behind the bar. There are still a few people scattered here and there, and the way they’re sneaking covert glances at us suggests that our confrontation with Nina and Wilson didn’t go unnoticed. But I feel no self-consciousness over that. No worry about the board finding out. It doesn’t matter if they find out.

We walk over to him, and he scratches his head. “Your friends left quickly. Did I screw up, man? The wine’s a little old, but—”

“How old?” I ask out of curiosity.

“I don’t know, maybe four months? Five?”

“I’ll make sure the owner gets some new bottles, but you’ve got to throw those out.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I know you’re right, man. But she asked for it, and I panicked, and now they left in a hurry. I’m sorry if I messed things up for you, Rosie. I heard what that guy was saying about her being your best friend.”

“My best friend wouldn’t order wine in the Peanut Bar,” Rosie says with a laugh. “Now, show us that sign you had made for Gene.”

He beams at us as he circles around the bar and leads the way to Gene’s booth.

Gene’s sitting there in a beanie tonight, wonder of wonders, with a poorly rendered reindeer on it. He gives us a nod and asks me, “Did you pull out the roots, son?”

I’m surprised silent, because I hadn’t believed that moment had mattered to him the way it had to me. Then I nod back, my throat tight, and squeeze Rosie’s hand again. “I think I did.”

I glance at the plaque and do a double take.

Remus Eugene Matthews.

He’s the owner of this bar—the one who pays me the rent on time, every month.

And then it hits me.

Gene is the one who set up that website.