Page 92 of One Wild Wish

That made one of us. “I’ll consider it.”

“That’s the spirit. Oh—and Jimmy went to the city last night to meet some restaurant people. I’m joining him tomorrow. I have to see my family and spoil my niece, but we’ll squeeze in some girl time.”

“Roger that.”

I hit End and stared at my dashboard. The fact that Rachel sensed my wish without me breathing a word of it was a testament to our friendship. I was also a step ahead of her. I’d made a list of Ainsley-tailored volunteering:

Doing makeovers.

Helping fashion victims.

Saving discarded haute-couture items, one Dior at a time.

Soup kitchens involved touching meat. Animal shelters made me sneeze. Working with the elderly reminded me of my grandparents; I’d probably spend my time bawling on some granny’s flower-print lap.

That left the Habitat build. Rachel had mentioned it once before. I’d been too anxious to sign up, but if Rachel—who’d held enough jobs to employ half the city—could fulfill her resolution and stick with a career, I could wear sneakers and dirty my hands. Plus, working on a Habitat project didn’t require experience, and I’d be helping put a roof over a family’s head.

Something I was already familiar with, but paying my parents’ mortgage wasn’t bettering society. It was taking care of my own. Like the framed condom.

Confidence growing, I turned my ignition and pointed my car away from Nob Hill’s Victorian homes and headed for the address I’d driven past too often this month. Each drive-by had involved me slowing down, my heart revving up, then I’d peel past the construction site. It was ridiculous. I was an adult. Doing something new, by myself, shouldn’t have reduced me to a stage five stalker. Still, each time I’d contemplate stopping, I’d be transported back to high school and the last time I’d stepped outside my element.

That shit show had involved a Chucky’s Chicken paper hat, enough grease to drown a small country, and me praying to the porcelain gods before my shifts. Each yack fest was followed by a thousand screw-ups, then co-workers would lob insults my way, like they were spectators watching me die a glorious Roman Gladiator death, cheering for blood.

But I was done creeping the building site. I wouldn’t drive by out of fear again, or put off volunteering by claiming I’d sign up online. No. This time I’d force myself out of the car. I would put the “con” in contractor and fake it until I made it. I would study my dictionary app and learn every construction term there was. I wouldn’t make a fool of myself, circa 2006. (The Chucky’s Chicken Maggot Incident was responsible for my vegan ways.)

By the time I parked at the curb, it was late afternoon and the Habitat build was winding down. When construction had begun a month or two ago, people were always scurrying about. Today there were only a few volunteers around, most looking ready to leave, but I wouldn’t let that stop me.

According to their website, twelve two-bedroom townhomes and eighteen three-bedrooms were being built. Affordable houses for the less fortunate. A serious karmic opportunity. The orange hardhats were a concern—not my greatest color—but wearing one would be my first sacrifice.

I looked down at my cleavage and frowned. Walking up in my Michael Kors dress would have me labeled Pampered Princess next to the T-shirts and ripped jeans worn on site. The museum-worthy nails and Blahniks wouldn’t help, either. They’d assume I dished out thousands on my wardrobe and appearance, when in reality I could sniff out sample sales better than a Chanel-trained bloodhound, a handy superpower when bartering for manicures and haircuts.

If I didn’t look volunteer-ready, I would at least sound it. I scrolled through my dictionary app and studied up on construction terms.

Boom. Brace. Framing. Fuse. Infiltration.

The latter sounded more special ops than volunteer work.

Hammer. Circular Saw. Drill. Screw. Nail.

I laughed at the last one, horny-coverings quite the focus of my day today. English hadn’t been my best class in high school, but the language had become a fascination since playing my crossword games. One word could have so many definitions. I even watched spelling bees and loved the part where they’d have to use the word in a sentence.

My manicured nails deserved a two-page Marie Claire spread.

I would hammer nails like a regular Bob the Builder.

As I gripped my door handle and prepared to earn my Girl Scouts’ Good Samaritan badge, I noticed an unfamiliar man on the site, or, more accurately, an apparition in the form of a dirty, sweaty, panty-melting hunk.

If this were a music video, mist would be floating up from the ground, the sun setting, this man wiping his brow as Faith Hill sang about bare feet, country nights, and skinny-dipping in a rambling river. In worn jeans and work boots, he looked part-cowboy and all rugged. His ratty white T-shirt clung to his broad chest, biceps bunching as he lifted wood planks. Cheekbones I’d kill for upped his hot factor. He didn’t talk to anyone, just went about his work. The pinched lines of his face hinted at a broody nature, and I liked me some tormented heroes.

My hormones sparked to life, Aazam’s recent rejection and my dry-spell fanning the flames. A new definition popped into my mind, sending a smile skipping across my face.

I wanted to nail that man.

2

Four-letter word meaning the vertical height between stairs.

Or to become stiff and erect.