Page 99 of One Wild Wish

I used both hands and tugged until my thumbs were ready to snap.

No. No. Nononono.

My pulse thundered in my ears. The stall shrunk around me. In an instant, I was throttled back in time to the Chucky’s Chicken walk-in fridge, locked inside. Stuck. Panicked. A budding fashionista working in a fast-food chicken joint had been a recipe for disaster. My coworkers had labeled me an airhead. An outsider. Someone to mess with, which included locking me inside the walk-in fridge while I slammed my fists on the door and screamed and cried for an endless hour.

Anton Bickley and his minions had been evil incarnate.

Now I was trapped again, my claustrophobia threatening to strangle me. I couldn’t call for help or push enough air through my lungs to squeak. I fumbled harder, my saliva turning to glue. Then it unlatched.

I stumbled out of the stall and slammed my hands on the sink counter, head bent forward as I sucked back air. My eyes and throat burned. My legs trembled. Stupid step class and walk-in fridges and jammed locks. Stupid me for allowing Anton to best me all those years ago. Something that wouldn’t happen at the Habitat build.

I was entering unknown territory again, the odd woman out. But I’d purchased my face shield, respiratory mask, and safety glasses. I’d even found a hot-pink tool belt and matching hammer.

I’d never apologize for reading Vogue instead of Pride and Prejudice , or wearing sunglasses and five-inch heels to turn an outfit into an attitude. I had a bracelet for every occasion, enough shades of lipstick to keep my lips guessing, and I could transform a Zara find into a runway show stopper with the perfect accessory.

Rachel’s higher power was wine. Gwen was an adrenaline junky.

I knelt at Fashion Week’s altar.

This fashionista wasn’t about to go all granola in ratty jeans and a plaid shirt. Growing up was about owning who you were. But I would arrive at the Habitat site prepared, looking like I knew how to build a freaking house. Especially since Owen and his big hands might be there.

* * *

Monday had me hopping out of bed early. A shower, shave, and perfume later, I smoothed out my blond hair and tied it into a ponytail. I wriggled into my skinny jeans and fitted white tee, the Gucci logo hugging my breasts. No earrings were worn. No bracelets or rings. I tugged the laces of my pink Converse tight, hung my safety glasses and respiratory mask around my neck, then spent a few minutes browsing building terms in my dictionary app.

When I landed on crotch, I cackled to myself. The “V” shaped assembly of skids that holds sections of pipe in place. I could only hope and pray I eventually landed on Owen’s “V” and “pipe.”

Nerves buzzed through my belly as I drove to my first volunteering gig—partly frazzled, but mostly excited. This would be the start of a new me. A better me. Which meant my resolution would kick into action.

As I parked and reached for my face shield, my phone sang out “Daddy’s Girl.”

I hit Talk. “Hey, Dad.”

“How’s my princess?”

Most twenty-seven-year-old women would roll their eyes at the endearment. Instead, I chirped, “A client got me ballet tickets. How’d you and Mom like to see Cinderella ?”

“With you?” His words always sounded more growled than spoken.

“No. I have two tickets, and Mom adores the ballet.”

A love she’d passed on to me. She’d twirl me around the house in my tutu and tights while my brother, Jason, would groan and our father would lift me up for the big jumps. He was a bear of a man, my dad—tall and imposing, bushy blond beard, shaved head, tattooed neck. My dates would swallow hard when they’d shake his hand, but he was the man who’d play dress-up with his kids and sing me to sleep.

“Nonsense,” he growled. “You should use them.”

“They’re already in the mail.”

“Ainsley …”

“Mason …”

He chuckled. “Thanks, princess. Called to tell you I have an interview tomorrow.”

I sat straighter. “Really? Where?”

“Tesla is hiring. Production line. Could be good.”

It could be amazing . Auto manufacturing meant stability and good hours and solid wages. “What about your back?”