Page 14 of One Wild Wish

Normally his blatant flirting would be cute. His strong nose and sharp cheekbones made him easy on the eyes, but attraction eluded me. I couldn’t help thinking of the tattooed back and sexy behind I’d left naked in bed two mornings ago. My mind may have been a blank where that night was concerned, but it was as though my body had perfect recall, my pulse revving for another glimpse of him. I shook the unpleasant thought away and ordered a glass of Riesling.

My no drinking motto lasted a whole two days.

My mother took the moment to latch onto the other thing I’d have preferred to avoid like the plague. “Have you spoken with your boss about a raise? You’ve put in three months, and no one works harder than my girl. If he doesn’t give you a raise soon, you’ll have to demand one.”

Time for the lies. “Three months isn’t that long, Ma.”

“Nonsense. Three months is long enough for him to know you’re a star.”

“I think you’re biased.”

“It’s God’s honest truth, Rachel. Any competent boss would see it.”

“That’s not how the business works.”

“Of course it is. You just need to stand up for what you deserve. Prove you’re not a wallflower.”

Pretty sure I’d proven that with my butt shot. “Enough, Ma. I’m not demanding a raise.” But her faith in me warmed my heart.

She lifted her chin, squinting in her all-seeing way, and that warmth seeped out. The woman knew something was up. The time I’d told her I was staying at Lexi Wallcott’s, my eyelid had twitched so incessantly my mother followed me to the house party and dragged me out by my ear.

My lying skills were up there with my ability to moonwalk.

I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. I rearranged my cutlery next, avoiding my mother’s gaze. The flirty waiter brought me my wine, and I took a lengthy sip. I didn’t stop to smell the bouquet or swirl my glass, didn’t pick apart the nuances. But as the liquid slid down my throat, an image flashed, sharp and short: Bad Boy’s body against mine as he licked wine from my lips. Heat spiked between my thighs, the sensation potent and lingering. I could almost taste him, almost feel his fingers digging into my hips.

“Did you get fired?”

I plunked my glass down so hard, liquid sprayed my face. My mother didn’t miss a darn thing. I dabbed my nose with my napkin, planning my reply, but part of me wanted to savor that fleeting glimpse of my one-night stand. Flustered, I excused myself to the bathroom.

Where I washed my hands three times.

I could keep up my ruse, attempting to lie about my job, but there was no point. I’d played job roulette, and I lost. And maybe this was my destiny. Maybe my wish, the blackout, and Reckless Rachel had all happened for a reason. Inexplicable twists of fate occurred all the time. Just like my father’s final voice message.

Our last physical conversation had been a fight over Gabe, an encounter I hated to relive. But Dad had left me a message afterward. The day he passed away, he called to apologize. To say he loved me, only wanted what was best for me. Two hours later, he fell on his treadmill, his heart too weak to keep him with us. He’d treated my brother to a surprise lunch that day, had sent my mother flowers. He’d almost said his goodbyes as though he knew his time was up.

Maybe my actions were subconscious, too. The blackout at the club could have been more than coincidence. It could have bewitched our wishes, a higher power guiding our lives. The embarrassing stunt that had led me here could have been a mortifying type of fate.

Fate that became clearer when my eyes locked on a poster.

The same flyer I’d seen at the bar with Bad Boy was taped to the wall—the sommelier contest to earn a position at three San Francisco restaurants. Vibrating with nerves and the urge to touch Bad Boy that night, I’d busied my hands by plucking at the corner of the page, reading and re-reading the advertisement. I read it again now, more intently.

Working in a restaurant wasn’t ideal—my waitressing gigs in school had involved many forgotten orders and bad tips—but my current predicament shrunk my options. I had no job, no prospects, and being a sommelier wasn’t like being a server. Talking wine with customers could be fun. Exciting even.

A seed of possibility planted itself behind my breastbone and grew. There was no going back from here. Only forward.

I also had a resolution to fill by next April.

I returned to my seat and clasped my hands on the table. “I wasn’t fired,” I told my mother. “I quit.”

Which was in fact true.

Her hand shot to her heart. “You were doing so well. Finally working toward something. I’m sure if you explain it was a lapse in judgment, your boss will rehire you.”

“Ma…”

“Tell him you haven’t been well. Take a week off if needed.”

“Ma…”