Page 20 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERSIX

RACHEL

I was in serious trouble. I’d debated not returning for the second round of the contest, anything to avoid Jimmy and his six orgasms. Yet here I was, pacing in front of Crush, walking toward and away from the door at a dizzying pace.

When I saw him last week, the same vertigo had struck—the urge to turn and speed walk away—but I’d stood my ground. I wouldn’t let one man, and one silly night, keep me from fulfilling my destiny, and this contest was destined. The more I played it over, the more convinced I’d become: the blackout and the shift in the air after making our wishes was the supernatural at work. A magical twist of fate. My father, probably tired of watching me flounder in career hell, must have arranged it.

Which meant I had to prove myself worthy, finally shed my stench of failure and stick to a rewarding career. My mother would help me financially if asked, but my father had paid his own way through college to become an electrical engineer and had worked hard to support us. I yearned to be strong, like him. Self-sufficient, like him. Maybe I’d even meet a nice guy in the class.

If Jimmy and his six orgasms didn’t interfere.

Which meant I needed reinforcements. Gwen could read me like nobody’s business and always called my bluffs, but Ainsley was my go-to for advice on how to ditch men.

She answered after three rings. “Men are assholes.”

“You and Gwen share that sentiment.” I wasn’t far behind. One particular asshole, who for sure lied about a certain number of orgasms, was likely awaiting my arrival.

“My client had me order this, like, over-the-top gift for his wife. Insane diamond necklace. Then he had me buy flowers for his mistress. Watching men like him cheat on their wives is enough to change the Pope’s views on marriage.” Ainsley didn’t mention her ex, Brandon, and how he’d have fit into that boys’ club, but her disdain embittered each word.

“Disgusting assholes,” I agreed.

“It pays the bills. But forget my drama, what’s up?”

I hugged my waist and focused on the motorcycle parked on the street. Smooth leather. Black trim. I’d always wanted to ride one, not on the back like I had with Gabe. Just me and the air in my face, so I could feel all that power buzzing up my arms. My mother, however, would swallow her tongue—which is also what would happen if she saw the man messing with my head. “I need boy advice.”

“Another date with a Mr. Potato Head lookalike?”

“No, thank God. Remember the guy from our birthday? The one with the tattoos?”

“Are you kidding? I still have dreams about him, of the sexy variety.”

“Yeah, well, turns out he’s in the sommelier contest, and he’s taunting me with memories of our night together. He’s probably full of it, but I’m not sure how to handle things.”

“You don’t want to handle him?”

If it were only that easy. When he’d acknowledged the Butt Crack Incident, humiliation had burned through me. Crawling into a hole (stocked with wine), never to be seen again, would have been preferable to sitting next to the man who’d witnessed that stunt. Except he had gone out of his way to change the topic and joke about the Colon’s name, easing my awkwardness.

He was also hot as sin. A lethal combination. “I have to see this guy every week, maybe for a couple of months. Just tell me how to turn him down so I don’t make it weird.”

She barely took a breath. “Tell him you have a boyfriend. That you broke up briefly, hence the hookup, but you got back together. If he takes it well, thank him for understanding. If he doesn’t, tell him the shitty sex made you realize how much you missed your man.”

And that’s why I called Ainsley. “You are a dating guru.”

“It’s a gift,” she said, and we hung up.

Pumped, I tugged down my blouse—black instead of white, my gray skirt a cinch to mix and match. (The beauty of the nine-piece ensemble!) A roll of my shoulders later, I marched into Crush, head high, determination propelling me forward. With half the group eliminated, the day’s tasting was in the cellar below. Wafts of wet stone hit me, followed by dark fruit and that earthy scent that clung to wine cellars. It smelled of nights organizing bottles with my dad.

Two long harvest tables filled the center of the stone room, three glass walls of wine surrounding them.

And Jimmy.

He sat in a far corner, on his own, one ankle hooked over his knee, the tilt of his shoulders the picture of effortless cool. The tattoos, those worn boots, that scruff just long enough to tickle, not scratch—the man oozed dude.

A dude who was intent upon me.

I clutched my purse against my hip, his potent gaze unrelenting. I reviewed Ainsley’s advice. Boyfriend. Bad sex. Shut the man down. All I could do was return his stare, my knees weakening by the second. Did his full lips taste as delicious as they looked? Had he growled when my nails bit into his ass? No memories replied. But he did.

Bad Boy held up six fingers.