Wish - Page 20

Maybe he was right. I was never meant to get that bottle, because I certainly regret ever meeting him. For one very brief and stupid-ass moment, I allowed myself to buy into this fantasy he’s peddling: That somewhere in this world is a man so good, so kind, that he spends every waking moment forcing people to wish for their biggest dream. And then he gives it to them.

What a fake.

Screw that guy.

Chapter Eleven

It’s Sunday, just past six o’clock, and I’m exhausted. I spent over thirty hours on Friday and Saturday finishing the beaver for the city and that custom-ordered café table, in addition to replenishing my inventory for the market today. I’m not complaining. Really, I’m not. Because the hard work paid off. I sold over fourteen hundred dollars of stuff today, and I delivered the table and beaver. I now have enough money to keep me afloat for a few months. I can finally plan that spa day with Olivia.

Standing in my kitchen, staring into the vast emptiness of my refrigerator, I take a deep breath and release. Guess I’ll have canned soup for dinner. Because there’s no way in hell I have the energy to go grocery shopping tonight.

Tomorrow. I’ll do it early tomorrow. Vi texted and said that Moose was back in town and would be stopping by to check on me tomorrow afternoon.

Ugh. Not that I don’t want to see Moose, but it’s all water under the genie bridge now. I made my wish. Mr. Wish refused. End of story. I’ll never know who he really is or why he’s doing all this. Is he insane? Is he dying and wants to make amends for his sins? Is he doing this out of the kindness of his heart for no other reason other than he can?

Ha. A fantasy if I ever heard one. People like that don’t really exist. Okay, fine. I’m being bitter. I’ll rephrase. They’re an endangered species, because I sure as hell have never met a completely selfless person. My grandmother is the closest I’ve come, but even she wanted something in exchange for her kindness. Her famous lasagna dinner on Sunday nights meant I had to do the dishes, and it took two hours. The woman didn’t believe in owning a dishwasher. Sure, the exchange was completely worth it because, Hello! Grandma’s lasagna! But my mother is the same. She opens her home to just about anyone who needs it—friends, family, members of her church, coworkers going through a divorce—but she expects everyone to pay what they can and help around the house.

I’m not criticizing either of these fantastic, resilient women who raised me. There’s something to be said about having to pay your way through life and not sponging off others who bust their asses to make a living. In my mind, freeloading should be a crime. It’s basically stealing a piece of someone else’s life, because we all know we can’t get back the minutes we spend working. In short, we give up pieces of our time here on Earth to pay for the things we need. So when someone comes along and says, “Hey, you should pay for all my shit, cuz, yeah, I think I should have more stuff and I don’t want to work for it,” well, that’s a hard no from me. I work the equivalent of two full-time jobs. If I earn more, then hallelujah. If I only get by, then that’s on me. I’m not entitled to pieces of someone else’s life to make up for it.

Regardless of all that, there are those who are either lucky enough or smarter that the rest and figure out how to make their time worth more than everyone else’s. I don’t hold it against them for being rich. That’s stupid. And I’m not going to tell them how to spend their money either. But there is something noble about the people in this world who decide to spend their hard-earned cash or finite minutes of life helping others for no other reason than it brings them joy.

Kindness is their vice.

Point is, I just don’t know anyone like that, and I found myself foolishly wishing that this Mr. Wish was exactly that. Completely selfless. A real-life saint. Or genie? Either way, the complete opposite of men like Greg.

I shake my head and grab a can of chicken noodle from the pantry cupboard and pour the contents into a bowl for microwaving. After this, I’m going to fill the tub with nice hot water and rose-scented bath salts and soak away the long, crazy week.

Crazy is an understate—

A knock at the back door startles me, and I jerk my head up.

Staring through the glass are those cool blue eyes, and my heart jumps. Mr. Wish?

I walk over and open the door but don’t say anything. I can’t just yet. My eyes slowly climb up his well-built frame. He really knows how to fill out a suit, like the damned thing was poured over his lean hard muscles. His clothes say he’s powerful and good looking, and he’s not afraid to show it. Whereas my clothes—a very wrinkled yellow summer dress and orange leggings—look like I either have the flu or I’m possibly preparing for a frolic through a field of flowers while I recite bad poetry. In my defense, I woke up late this morning for the farmers’ market and grabbed the first clean outfit in my unfolded pile of laundry. The sensible pink sneakers really give my look that added weirdo-oomph.

Tags: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Romance
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