Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

ANTHONY

Conversation with Emma

Are you sure Mother didn’t create the website herself to get attention?

Oh, you finally saw fit to get back to me.

I don’t think it was her. She pointed out that the website is really low quality.

She could have put it together like that intentionally to avert suspicion.

That does sound like Mother.

But the private investigators we hired think this might be an attempt to block me from my trust fund.

So you’re still planning to marry a stranger for money?

Yes, but finding a gold digger is harder than it sounds.

Ninety percent of the divorces I’ve worked on suggest that you’re wrong.

Maybe you’re hesitating because you’re looking for an excuse to walk away from Dad’s business.

That place has been sucking the life out of you for years.

Anthony? I saw those three dots.

I know where you live.

It’s Wednesday night. I’m supposed to meet Rosie at The Peanut Bar in fifteen minutes, but I’m still at the office. That, in itself, is not unusual. I spend plenty of time here, and at the gym two blocks away. But I’m stalling for a different reason.

I called Emma for the second time on Sunday, then for a third time yesterday afternoon, and finally a fourth time during my lunch break today. I was starting to take it personally, especially since I’d also texted her a link for the countdown website—unchanged except for the numbers glowing at the top.

In addition, I’d sent her a detailed email about the meeting Mother and I had with the private investigators yesterday evening. It had only felt fair since I’d had to sit through the meeting, which had included a lengthy discussion of my mother’s previous sexual partners.

Now, after all that effort to get in touch with her, I don’t want to respond.

Because there’s a good chance Emma is right.

Despite knowing that my mother has been spreading word that the New Year’s party is once again a wedding, I’ve avoided Jake’s attempts to set up another meeting with Leigh or any of his other marriage candidates. He’s pointed out, quite rightly, that I’m not giving him a fair shot at winning his bet with Rosie.

Leigh herself has texted me, her message reminiscent of some of the emails I’ve gotten from job-hopefuls after interviews.

It was a pleasure meeting you in person, Anthony. I believe there’s a lot I can bring to our arrangement, and I do hope you wish to move forward. Perhaps we can meet again to further explore the possibility of a collaboration?

I texted back an apology, saying I was busy at work but would be in touch.

I’d wondered if I was holding back because I’m drawn to Rosie. Now, I have to ask myself if the issue is actually that I don’t want to run my father’s business—into the ground or out of it—anymore.

My father ran Smith Investments like he needed the money, even though he didn’t, investing in aggressive developments that have torn up everything I love about the county we live in.

The deal I’ve been working on for the past few months is for a housing development that will ruin the traffic patterns in Asheville for the next twenty years, or possibly forever. The large, expensive houses will be clustered closely together, and I’m reasonably sure they will benefit none of the existing residents of the neighborhood.

At my insistence, a building of affordable, sliding scale units has been added to the plans, but it’s an afterthought. A sticker offered to a child after they’ve been given a painful injection.

There will be objections. Petitions, even. But I’m reasonably sure the red tape will be torn away and this project will get greenlit.

It’ll happen, and I’ll be partially to blame.

And if it doesn’t happen, I’ll also be to blame. My board will revolt. Many of my employees will lose their jobs. My name will be mud for a different reason.

I lean back in my chair, my eyes finding the clock above the door. Eight minutes.

I’ll be late now. I’m not a man who enjoys being late to anything.

The sensible thing to do would be to text Leigh and ask for a meetup. I actually reach for my phone to do it, but I find myself thinking about Rosie and the bright, excited look in her eyes when I’d told her she’d won. The thought of letting her down is unacceptable. So I’m not surprised when I find myself messaging her instead.

I’ll be a few minutes late.

Her response is immediate:

Good, me too. I should probably warn you that I’m not on time as a general rule.

Amusement rolls through me, and I find myself gathering my things to leave. Just before I get up, five knocks land on my door in a familiar musical pattern. My mood plummets.

“Come in.”

It’s my second-in-command, Simon, walking in with a jocular smile that doesn’t meet his flinty eyes. He’s a big man with a head of thick brown hair he pretends he doesn’t color and eyes so dark they’re almost black, small and buried beneath thick eyebrows. He always wears suits and suspenders and a different bow-tie every day of the week.

Everyone who works here, from the admin assistant at the front desk to the cleaning staff, worships him.

He remembers their names, their birthdays, and their children’s names and birthdays.

My mind doesn’t work that way, which isn’t to say I haven’t tried. One week, early on, I made flashcards—and I still bought birthday cupcakes for the wrong person on the wrong day. Which led to me having the nickname “Cupcake” for a year.

I know Simon was the one who started it, although he’d never admit to it, and no one would ever tattle on him.

I’d fire him, but the other employees would revolt.

They’d ask the board to push me out.

They’d tar and feather me.

They’d send me petitions signed by thousands.

“You’re still here too, I see,” Simon says, pulling on the suspenders he’s wearing under his suit jacket.

“Big few weeks for us.”

“We’re making the right call.” He gives me a nod. “This deal is going to save us.”

Of course he thinks so. He’s not the one who has to give up his dream, his money, and his sense of dignity to back it. Though, as far as I can tell, Simon has no sense of dignity.

“Why don’t you come home with me for dinner, Anthony?”

Odds are his daughter will be there. Possibly with three or four friends of appropriate ages and differing appearances, like the time he invited me out for a man-to-man lunch a week after Nina moved out…and surprised me with five guests.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I have a date.”

His smile looks more displeased than he probably realizes.

“Well…if you change your mind, feel free to drop by whenever. You know you’re always welcome.”

I nod.

“How’s your mother doing?” he asks, rocking back on his heels. I can feel my mood curdling again, like milk squirted with lemon juice. Because Simon was on my mother’s list of previous lovers. After telling us so, she made a face and shrugged, saying, “Curiosity killed the cat. Suffice it to say, I know why he’s divorced.”

After which Nicole made a comment I immediately tried to scrub from my brain.

“She’s well,” I say flatly.

“Good, good. I look forward to seeing her at your wedding.”

He gives me a pointed look.

I give him a pointed look. I don’t bother asking whether he got a phony phone call from my mother. I doubt he did—he’s underscoring what he sees as my duty to my father, the company, and himself.

“Well. I guess I’d better go put in some work on that count.”

“Remember,” he says. “Come over whenever you’d like. Anytime.”

Thankfully, he leaves. I wait, listening to his retreating footsteps, before I depart the office and walk toward the Peanut Bar, which is about ten minutes away by foot from our South Slope office.

At first, I feel stiff and uncomfortable, the way I always do at the office, but those feelings start to fall away, even as the cold sneaks under my coat. I pass strangers and familiar faces—people who are heading home after work or wandering the South Slope toward the bars, breweries, and other entertainment available. Wreathes hang on the streetlights, and it seems like there’s a special energy hanging in the air. An anticipation. Before long, I’m humming as I walk.

Rosie’s not there when I arrive, but the bar’s more crowded than usual. There’s maybe a dozen people gathered around the space in clusters—women, mostly. A hand-drawn Women-Drink-For-Half-Off Wednesday sign hangs from above the bar, drooping in the middle.

The bar is as lackluster as usual, but something about the dim lighting behind the door on the cold night makes it more appealing. I enter to the usual scent of spilled beer, but tonight there’s also a different scent hanging in the air. It takes me a second to identify it as pumpkin pie.

The place is shaped like a letter L. The bar, lined with stools, is across from the door, with a few clustered tables opposite it, and booths are arranged along the long side of the L, which ends in a single-person restroom. I head straight to the bar to get a drink from Dom, who seems only about half as stoned as he did on my last visit.

“Look at this, man,” he says excitedly, gesturing to the people gathered around and then the bar itself. I notice a bowl full of hot pink condoms is sitting beside the usual peanuts, the wrappers printed with Jake’s logo and the words Cover Your Nut. In another nod to the special event, the animatronic Santa has been shoved into a doll dress.

It’s a half- or maybe quarter-hearted effort, but still an effort, I suppose.

“ Rosie did this,” he continues.

I’m guessing he means it metaphorically, because something tells me she’d plan a better party—or at least a wilder one.

“She inspired it,” he continues, “all of it, and she posted my graphic in a bunch of Facebook groups and bought the pumpkin spice air freshener.”

My face creases into a smile, because of course she did…and of course it didn’t work.

“This is the most people we’ve ever had here at one time.” Dom gestures to Sunburned Pate, sitting in the same booth as usual. “Of course, Gene’s always here. Don’t tell him yet, but I’m having a plaque made for his table for Christmas. Nobody else wants to sit there anyway because he’s made a permanent divot in the cushion. But yeah. Rosie’s only been here once, and she’s already turning this place around.”

“Sounds like Rosie.” I’ve known her less than a week, so I shouldn’t be able to say that statement with any kind of confidence. And yet, it does sound like Rosie.

“You both drink for free,” he says with a sloppy smile lifting his stubbled cheeks.

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s on me,” he repeats, pouring me a beer that’s half foam. It’s not really what I want, but I take it anyway, thank him for his trouble, and head to the booth where Rosie and I sat for hours last week.

Five minutes later, a woman with dark brown hair and red lipstick approaches me, holding a pint of beer. Despite the cold, she’s wearing a miniskirt with stockings. “Can I join you?” she asks with an inviting smile.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for someone,” I say, my gaze finding the window. No sign of Rosie, but there are more people heading into the bar. Younger people. Anticipation fills me. Dom will probably worship at Rosie’s feet when she finally arrives.

The dark-haired woman looks confused, but she turns and heads back to the bar without saying anything. I pull out my phone and check the threatening website. Nothing has been added, but the countdown has progressed.

Five minutes later, there’s still no Rosie. I check my phone for the fifth time, but the effort is interrupted when someone clears their throat beside me. I glance over and see a pretty woman with long, curly red hair.

“Hello, handsome,” she says, putting a hand on her shapely hip. “You look lonely.”

I hold back what I’m thinking— I’m not —and say, “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

She gives me a look of patent disbelief.

“There are plenty of free stools at the bar.” I nod toward it. There aren’t. Several people have come in, but I won’t get a chance to have a private conversation with Rosie if someone else is sitting at our table.

The woman gives me a dick-withering look and stalks off, giving me a chance to check my phone.

Another throat is cleared beside me.

I glance up, sighing, prepared to defend my dick from the redhead, but this time it’s another woman with a hand on her hip. A blonde angel of a woman with a purple streak weaving through her golden hair. She’s wearing a long-sleeved purple dress that hugs her curves, and for a second, all I can do is stare at her, speechless.

It feels like I’ve been waiting for her for a hell of a lot longer than ten minutes.

“Dude,” Rosie says, sliding into the other side of the booth. For half a second, her knees brush against me, and a wave of awareness threatens to pull me under. “I sent over two hot women who would have been perfect fake wives, and you sent them away without even a hello. We’re not off to a great start.”