“Not really, but right now my biggest concern is trying to figure out if you’re real.” If he is, then what should I do? Because that would mean there’s a strange man in my kitchen, and I’m just standing here like an idiot, checking him out.
Do something, Ginnie. I flash a glance at the knives sitting a few feet away on the kitchen island in their wooden block.
“No need to arm yourself,” he says, reading my thoughts. “I’m perfectly harmless.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not in the habit of trusting men who break into my house.” I suddenly realize that my heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest, though I’m not entirely sure it’s out of fear.
“I didn’t break in. I walked in. Because you do have the habit of leaving the back door unlocked.”
Really? Dammit. I need to be more careful. “Well, feel free to leave the way you came.”
“Ah, but you and I have some unsettled business.” He walks over to my coffee maker, on the counter next to the sink, which is already done brewing. He grabs my favorite daisy mug from the cupboard behind him as if he’s been here a million times. Perfectly at home. Like he belongs here. With me. He sets the mug next to the coffee machine and adds a splash of creamer from the fridge, followed by two sugars.
He knows how I take my coffee? Why does this not surprise me? What is shocking, however, is how I suddenly feel so aware of him—the way his large body takes up space and his raw masculine energy fills the room. My body knows he’s here, but it’s at the cellular level, and those cells are vibrating and humming with excitement. There’s something about him that’s…I don’t know. Maybe it’s that he’s so perfect looking. Perfect hair with just the right amount of messiness. Swagger. A deep, sexy masculine voice. Tall and nicely put together. That’s it! He’s not real. That’s why I’m not afraid when I should be. That’s why he looks like he just walked out of some dreamboat catalog.
“I knew it. I’m asleep,” I mutter to myself. “You only happen to look like the guy who’s been coming to my door asking me to wish.”
“Afraid not.”
“Ah! But that’s just the thing a figment of my imagination would say.”
He pours coffee into the mug and slides it across the butcher-block counter toward me. I take it and sip. A perfect cup. Not too much sugar. Rich and creamy. I inhale, realizing that maybe this isn’t a dream. The coffee tastes too real. So does the warmth of the liquid sliding down my throat.
So why am I just standing here, talking to a man I don’t know in my kitchen?
I set the cup down. “You have to leave. Now.”
“I’ll be on my way just as soon as you make your wish.” He folds his thick arms over his chest, the muscles stretching the black fabric of his expensive suit.
“I wish for you to leave my house. How’s that?”
He smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “I see you haven’t read the instructions.”
My mind searches. “If you’re referring to the fine print on the piece of paper I found in that bottle, then no. I threw it away.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket. “I figured you might say that.” He places a folded piece of paper on the counter. “I advise you to read the instructions.” He turns and heads for the door. “You have until tomorrow.”
“Or what?” He said I’d forfeit my wish, but did he really mean it? Because maybe I’m starting to change my mind about wanting one.
“You want me to go away, don’t you?”
I’m not so sure. Ginnie, what are you saying? Of course you want him to go!
“Don’t forget to lock your door,” he adds and walks out like a cool breeze, leaving behind his crisp, masculine scent in the air. His cologne is subtle, but the impact on my body is not.
When I go to lock the door, I can’t help peeking outside to watch him walking. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to stare at his tall frame and broad shoulders.
License plate number! If I have any hope of finding something out about this man, I’d better get it.
I rush through the house, open the front door, and shuffle outside onto the porch, but I don’t see him or his car. What the…?
All right. Don’t panic. I’m sure you just missed him, that’s all, my calmer self tells my wild-imagination self.
I go back inside, shut the front door, and stumble over something on the floor. I look down and the damned bottle is sitting there intact.
“Nooo.” I don’t believe it. I kick the thing, and it goes spinning across the hardwood floor into the living room.