Page 119 of One Wild Wish

Ainsley pushed out her breasts. “I like the sound of that.”

What in the ever loving fuck? The asshole was flirting with her, and she was playing along. No. Not playing along. She was instigating. Could be she was into kinky sex. Maybe she wanted a threesome with this joker. She knew Emmett was gay, probably figured I leaned that way, too. Maybe she’d hoped I was bi. As a teen, I’d debated the idea of being with men. Contemplated my brother’s sexuality and wondered what it would be like. I even kissed a guy once. It never did anything for me, and threesomes weren’t my bag. I liked being with a woman, and I didn’t like to share.

Seeing this side of Ainsley was a bucket of ice water on my nuts.

Our server left to get dessert menus, and Ainsley bounced on her seat. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”

I guess things could get worse. “Not my type.”

She swatted the air, unconcerned by my irate sarcasm. “Obviously. What about for me? I mean, his beard is hot and he has a bit of an accent. English, maybe? Should I ask him out?”

I crossed my arms, part fuming and all sexually frustrated. If she wasn’t after a threesome, then what? More games? More hot and cold? Or maybe I’d been right from the start—she wasn’t into me. She seriously just wanted to be friends. If that was the case, then fine. I liked her. She was fun to be with and easy to talk to, but right now I was riled up and needed space. If I confronted her and asked her outright, I’d wind up saying something rude for leading me on. Better to end this night without putting my bruised ego on display.

“You were right before,” I said, forcing my voice steady, my face placid. “I’m not feeling great. Best if we go.”

She fussed over me for a beat, then proceeded to give our waiter her number as we paid. I sat there like a schmuck, swallowing my anger. Still burning with desire for a woman who wasn’t interested in me. She was the first person I’d connected with since leaving Tessa, and my chest felt like it had been steamrolled. Disappointment sat heavy in my gut.

I drove her to her car, barely a word spoken between us; my frustration didn’t leave much room for conversation. She snuck furtive glances my way, but I couldn’t speak. Wouldn’t. I’d fallen for Ainsley. Beyond the attraction, I’d started imagining us eating breakfast in bed and swimming in the ocean. Doing dishes. Some people found day-to-day life mundane. I reveled in the idea of walking down a grocery aisle, teasing my girl, stealing kisses. I’d actually wondered if Ainsley was my missing piece of glass.

That dream would be a tough bubble to break.

Once I accepted she wasn’t interested in me, I’d apologize. When I was sure I wouldn’t say something hurtful, I’d explain. For now I needed to lick my wounds.

9

Four-letter word for the part of a truck’s crane used to hoist heavy materials.

Or the sound your heart makes when you realize your crush is straight.

B O O M

Ainsley

Although I couldn’t afford college and had missed the wild frat parties that accompanied higher learning, I’d come a long way since my teen years. I now ran my own business. I was still close with my parents. I’d since met Gwen and Rachel, two best friends who would take a bullet for me. I’d also found redemption with my pink tool belt.

Unfortunately, my life still felt like it was spiraling down a storm drain.

The waiter I’d met while hanging out with Owen hadn’t wasted time asking me out. We’d met for drinks and talked about his burgeoning acting career and our shared love of Game of Thrones (aka: my love of Jon Snow), while a trio performed White Stripe covers, but it was work. Effort. Conversation would wane then disappear, awkward smiles traded, until we’d stumble back on track. He’d also use any excuse to brush his fingers against my arm. His flirting should have had my heart fluttering, but there wasn’t so much as a limp flicker.

Nothing like my dinner with Owen.

I’d relived those details the past five days. The memory of him describing his ideal BJ still reduced me to hot flashes, and the way we’d laughed and joked had been as comfortable as chatting with Gwen or Rachel. Except it was nothing like chatting with Gwen or Rachel. With them, I didn’t zone out, fantasizing about us kissing frantically. Or groping. Or groaning. Or fucking our brains out. I loved my friends, but I was all about the cock.

And so was Owen.

Which was fine. It really was. I was determined to ignore my raging attraction to the man and maintain our friendship, if he didn’t currently hate me. I’d had a pit in my stomach since my dinner with him. Maybe I shouldn’t have broached our sexual conversation. Maybe I’d crossed a line. All I knew was he’d shut down afterward, and his cold shoulder left me more confused than ever.

Then came my father’s call this morning. Their house had mold. A dent in the bedroom wall revealed rotting wood and unhealthy spores. It had to be fixed. It would cost money. He’d refused my offer to cover it, so I suggested I find someone through the build to help out. Total lie. I would hire someone, pay them, and tell Dad it was pro bono. If it meant keeping his dignity intact, a little fib wouldn’t hurt. It also meant putting any clothing purchases on hold for a while.

As pleased as I was to be volunteering in the community, my parents were sinking farther in debt, not digging themselves out. The Anton Bickley situation was a whole other ball of wax likely to plow over me. I hadn’t seen him since that first sighting. I still wasn’t sure what I’d do if he turned up. With my stress rising, I could have thrown in the towel and admitted bettering myself wouldn’t alter my life in any grand way.

Instead I upped my game.

I found myself in my favorite client’s office, asking Felipe to donate the stereos and TVs for the Habitat build. My motto: If at first you don’t succeed, find a way to outdo all do-gooders. (Cue “Eye of the Tiger.”) Following our twenty-minute meeting, I left Felipe’s office in brighter spirits. The gold Jimmy Choos I’d scored at a recent sale certainly helped matters, but philanthropy was some high-level stimulant.

I strutted out the door like I was walking a Fashion Week runway, positive that things were looking up. Felipe’s assistant, Cindy, was at her desk. Normally I’d gossip with her, bragging how Felipe had agreed to my request with gusto, but Cindy’s dark eyes flitted about. She waved me over in a flurry of aggressive hand gestures.

Not her usual behavior.