Page 67 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERTWENTY

JIMMY

Rachel walked into the living room—cheeks flushed, head bent—like her butt shot had just gone viral. Mitch was sharing a priceless story about the time twelve-year-old Rachel had peed her pants on a family trip to Mexico. Their father’s weak Spanish had led to him asking a waiter for polla, thinking he’d ordered chicken. Turned out, he’d asked for a “woman.” The conversation that followed had Rachel laughing until she’d wet herself.

As much as I wanted to hear more embarrassing stories, her look of mortification deepened as the gist of our conversation sunk in. She gawked at her brother. “Seriously? The polla story? Can I still file for emancipation and sever ties with this family?”

Cora giggled, the airy sound matching her appearance. She had boy-cut blond hair and big blue eyes. Her pink dress hung loose over her sprite-like frame. She placed a dainty hand on Mitchell’s knee. “You should stop. It’s not fair to Rachel.”

“Was it fair when Rachel told you about the pot brownies and my bathing session in Huntington Park fountain?” He quirked an eyebrow. When no one answered, he said, “Consider us even.”

But the evil look in Rachel’s eye as she sat next to me and glared at her brother said otherwise. She settled into my side, hand on my thigh. I shifted, stretching my arm behind her on the couch. Stanley took advantage of the move and tried to shove her nose between my legs, again. The damn dog was relentless. I held her off with a calculated knee shift.

“She must have a thing for souvlaki,” Rachel murmured. Her maniacal laugh erupted, and she slapped her hand over her mouth.

Lydia entered then, a tray of dip in hand. Her face was an emotionless mask. “Contain yourself, Rachel.”

Her reproach sent her daughter cackling harder, a sound that had me wanting to pin Rachel down until I kissed her raw. Lydia, however, was unimpressed—with her daughter and her daughter’s choice of boyfriend. A situation I’d have to resolve. Winning Lydia over was important to Rachel, so it was important to me.

Rachel leaned into my ear. “My mother might take a while to warm up, and I don’t recommend the dip.”

I eyed the thick, white mixture warily and heeded her advice. Where her mother was concerned, I wasn’t about to back down easily. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Kates.”

She sat opposite us, straight backed, her answering smile nowhere near pleased. “Thank you. Rachel tells me you’re a”—she cleared her throat—“bartender.”

A chuckle came from Mitchell, and my shoulders bunched. When I first met him, he’d seemed more genuine than his pressed shirt and gold cufflinks. He’d shaken my hand warmly and hadn’t flinched at my ink. It didn’t mean Rachel’s brother wasn’t judging me. I glanced his way now, braced for his disdain, but he was shaking his head at his mother, not me, like Lydia was a petulant child.

“Come on, Ma.” Amusement laced his voice. “The Healing Hearts luncheon isn’t far, and you mentioned something about a bartending issue. You should hire Jimmy.”

Lydia’s eyes widened in fear, and I nearly laughed. Instead of watching her squirm, I jumped in to save her. “Not sure I’m the right man for the job, but I know the event. It’s an impressive fundraiser, and a great cause. Must take a ton of work.”

That won me a head tilt and closer inspection. “It does,” Lydia said. “I’ve helped organize the event since David passed. Or, more to the point, Rachel forced me into it.” She winked at her daughter, nothing but love in her eyes. “She was worried I’d lock myself indoors, which might have happened if it weren’t for my kids. They were here daily for those first couple of years.”

They all shared a sad smile, and I cupped Rachel’s shoulder.

During some of our quiet moments, she would whisper stories, her voice melancholy as memories spilled out: her and her father snorkeling in Mexico, their father/daughter school dance, how his hearty laugh had filled a room. She’d been Daddy’s little girl, and he’d likely been wrapped around her finger. His passing must have crushed her, but she’d held it together for her mother, had made sure Lydia pulled through. When things got tough, they’d banded together. As a family should. My father’s property had been threatened, not his life, and all he’d done was lash out.

Rachel’s phone buzzed, breaking the moment. Lydia turned her focus to Cora, asking about her teaching job. Rachel fished her cell from her purse and checked a text. Her face fell.

“You okay?” I asked.

She stuffed her phone away. “Yeah. Fine.”

Except her left cheek hollowed. She was stressed. “Who was it?”

She slumped into me and lowered her voice. “Alonzo. I was eliminated from the contest. But I’m fine,” she added before I could speak. “I was expecting it.”

Didn’t mean it hurt any less. Rachel didn’t like to fail. No one liked to fail. Every soccer match lost as a kid had me cursing and pouting, until my grandfather had sat me down and told me real men used their frustration to improve. Turn that anger into success, he’d say.

I angled toward her and dipped my head to catch her eye. “You might not have passed that round, but you proved yourself in that contest. You have more passion for wine than anyone in there, me included. Please don’t let it slip away.”

The corner of her mouth curved up. “I have passion for someone in that group, and his jewelry, if that’s what you mean.”

One teasing word from her and my lust awakened, the jewelry in question ready for a tug. My dirty princess. “You’re damn right you do, and the feeling is mutual. But don’t brush this off. You’re smart and your palate is amazing. We’ll figure this out together.”

She touched my cheek and said a quiet, “Thank you.”

Guilt, familiar in its discomfort, coated my chest. And the way she looked at me? There was something deeper in her eyes, something I wanted to dive into. Bask in.