Olivia smiles, her eyes beaming with sisterly love. “I would wish to see you happy.”
I blink. “Oh, come on.”
“I’m serious, Ginnie.”
“But why that? Why not money or a perma-twenty body? Or a million bucks?”
“Honestly?”
I nod.
She shrugs. “I figure my life is already damned great—I’m in love, I have my dream job, I have my health, and my mom’s happy with all her retirement activities back home. Moose is doing his thing and happy, too. The only piece missing from my life is knowing you’re okay. Better than okay.”
My eyes tear. Not because I’m sad, but because it feels good knowing that if I am incapable of wishing for good things for myself, someone else would do it for me.
“Sweetie,” she says quietly, noting my watery eyes, “don’t get all fucking soppy on me now.”
I drag my fist under my right eye. “Can’t help it.”
She pats my leg. “I know, my awesomeness is overwhelming, but you and I have a bottle of wine that needs a home. A warm, welcoming tummy home. You’re not going to let it down, are you?”
“No,” I mumble, “wine needs love, too.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Can you do me a favor first?” I ask.
“Sure, Ginnie. Anything for my best friend.”
“Please take that genie bottle and bury in the yard,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because if it shows up tomorrow morning in the kitchen, I want a witness when I make a statement to the police.”
She stares for a moment. “We are totally burying it, but they’ll think we’re nuts if we complain about a possessed bottle. If it shows up again, I’ll run over it with my car, put the pieces in a box, and mail it to Siberia.”
“And if the bottle comes back after that, all brand-new shiny and standing in my living room?” I ask.
Vi rubs the back of her neck. “Then I’d have my wish ready, because that thing is magic.”
I don’t believe in magic, but I still feel the need to prove nothing supernatural is going on here. “So what are we waiting for? I have hammers.” Twenty-eight different sizes ranging from mallets to small rock hammers meant for chiseling incredibly hard materials. That tempered glass won’t stand a chance. “Let’s break the bottle.”
She stares for a moment. “Okay. But can we have wine first? Just in case a man pops out, all pissed off?”
Chapter Eight
“Dear fermented grape gods. My head.” The next morning, I slowly sit up in bed and press the heels of my palms to my throbbing temples. What the hell did I drink last night?
I wince at the sunlight pouring through my gauzy white bedroom curtains and then glance to my side, where Olivia is passed out snoring. I’m pretty sure her head is also a casualty of last night’s overindulgence. Wine. More wine. And when that ran out, we switched to the ultimate enemy of decent women everywhere: tequila. Which I only had in the cupboard because it cost three hundred dollars, and she bought it as a housewarming gift when Greg and I moved in.
Never had the heart to throw it away. After all, it wasn’t the tequila’s fault that Greg turned out to be a two-ton dingleberry.
Now I’m regretting last night’s beverage choices. I’m also questioning if I should let her sleep. According to my phone on the nightstand, it’s eight twenty-two in the morning, and she already missed the big 7 a.m. meeting she told me about while we were cracking the shit out of that bottle with a hammer. Yes. It took a few good whacks, but we were able to finally break it. Afterwards, we buried the pieces in the garden.
Jesus. The bottle. I press my hand over my heart. Did our efforts work to permanently rid the world of it? I really, really don’t want to know, but also, I really, really want to know.
I get to my wobbly feet, pull my hair back into a messy bun, and slip on my big white bathrobe, wincing every step of the way. Coffee. I need coffee. I slide into my slippers and stagger to the foyer.
No sign of the bottle. A good sign.
See, Ginnie, nothing supernatural happening here.
I zombie march to the kitchen to start coffee.
“Think you can get rid of me so easily?” says a deep, smooth voice near the back door.
“Holy crap!” I jump in place, almost losing my balance. It’s bottle man. “Where the helldyou come from?”
From the looks of him, I’d say a photo shoot for Armani—sleek black suit tailored to perfection around his large male frame, a crisp light-blue shirt that matches his eyes, and a royal blue tie. His beauty is unreal. Wait. Maybe I’m dreaming. Men as good looking as that don’t pop into your kitchen.
With a displeased gleam, he scratches the auburn stubble on his chin and ignores my question. “You know why I’m here. Don’t you, Ginnie?”