Page 63 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERNINETEEN

RACHEL

I was a new woman. Well, not new, new. I still had my wash-and-wear wardrobe. My straight hair hadn’t gained unexpected volume. There was still no career on the horizon. But my hips swayed when I walked, a perma-smile plastered on my face. I was sickeningly happy.

The treadmill pushed me into a slow jog, my arms pumping at my sides. Ainsley and Gwen were finishing their yoga class, and I was humming along to One Direction (because I was twenty-seven going on sixteen), my mind on the man responsible for my current state of bliss, Jimmy Bad Boy Giannopoulos.

It had been two weeks to the day since we’d fought and kissed in the rain and gotten dirty in his shower. Two weeks of (holy hot) sex and (heart melting) talks and (delicious) sleepovers. We flirted openly at the contest sessions now and held hands on the street. The more time we spent together, the more I craved, never questioning my feelings, never caring if I slipped from proper to wild. I hung out with him at Rudy’s Tavern; he picked me up on his motorcycle from the gym. We’d effortlessly slotted into each other’s lives.

“The boy situation, looks like things are good.”

I started at the gruff voice and gripped the handrails. “George. I didn’t notice you.”

911 was on the treadmill beside mine, a common occurrence these days. We’d built a friendship of sorts. I’d berate him for not dieting, and he’d ask me about my “boy.” Never pushing his opinion on me, only passing the time. I had a tendency to overshare. I’d told him about Jimmy’s love of wine and how we could talk for hours or not talk, and how Jimmy surprised me with another picnic last week—that one on my apartment floor, blanket down, fresh pasta made by his strong hands. I didn’t share how my bad boy had pushed up my skirt and used his talented tongue until I was incoherent, but George had become an unlikely confidant.

“What makes you think things are good?” I asked.

He started the machine himself, even using the incline. He increased his speed. “The look in your eyes. That is the look of love.”

I couldn’t fight my giddy smile. “Maybe,” I said, unwilling to analyze the extent of my happiness. I hadn’t even told the girls how hard I’d fallen for Jimmy. My feelings were intense, but something kept me from sharing those three words with him. Fear, maybe, that the second I let it all flood out, it would drown me.

George marched, his focus on the windows in front of us. Pedestrians strolled by. “Nonsense. I may be old, but I know love. Thirty-two years ago today, I married the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Reverence coated his voice, love for his wife evident in his husky tone. “It’s your anniversary, then?”

He nodded, and I slowed my treadmill, matching his speed. Each year on my parents’ anniversary, my father used to book a hotel room. He would buy my mother flowers and treat her to a fancy dinner. She would walk on air for a month afterward. He died a week before their twenty-fifth year. When the hotel emailed to confirm the booking, my mother’s keening could be heard across the city.

I blinked rapidly and steadied my breaths. “What have you planned for the occasion? Flowers? Chocolate? Wine?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I am not an amateur.”

For a grumpy old man, his sweetness was endearing. “What does a professional husband buy his wife to celebrate their love?”

“A weekend away from me.”

I choked on a laugh. “You booked your wife a private getaway for your anniversary?”

Smug, he increased his incline. “Of course.”

He obviously knew the woman. If a pampered weekend alone would make her happy, more power to them. “I’m sure she’ll love the gesture,” I said.

He harrumphed, clearing his throat as though it were lodged with rocks. “I cannot gift her the one thing she wants. It is the next best choice.”

“What does she want?”

He paused briefly. “To reverse time.”

His wife must be one of those obsessive women, fighting age, filling her face with creams and Botox. I caught my reflection in the window, a transparent view of myself. I had my gran’s freckles and her slender build. My straight brown hair was all my father, along with my large eyes. The bend in my nose matched my mother’s, as did my fuller bottom lip. I was a living puzzle, my pieces shaped by my family. Altering even a bit of myself would be unthinkable.

Plus, Jimmy said he couldn’t wait to add laugh lines to my eyes.

As George and I walked in silence, I imagined Jimmy’s reflection next to mine—so different, so rugged. Yesterday, during our contest session, his hotness had distracted me. His hotness always distracted me, but this time I botched the tasting. The basement cellar had felt cavernous, only eight contestants left before the final round next week.

Mr. Master Sommelier was a shoo-in. Jimmy never broke a sweat, the tastings and serving tests like taking candy from a baby for him. I had my money on the Schnozinator for his competition. Although the blond, April, seemed competent, too. She nailed every service exercise, making me feel like I’d sprouted extra thumbs.

The tastings had been my strength, until yesterday. Not just because of how Jimmy’s T-shirt had clung to his biceps. My palate had been off. Glasses of Syrah were lined up before us, a grape I’d always admired. I should have discerned the acidity and earthiness of the old-world wines no problem, noted the fruit-driven qualities of those from Australia and the U.S. Instead the flavors melded, my answers more guesses than fact. It had been worse than my multiple choice psych exam back in college. I’d spent that painful hour circling letters based on the women present, guessing their bra sizes.

Any minute, I expected a termination email in my inbox.