About thirty minutes later, me trying to keep a distance, he arrives to a grocery store in a run-down residential neighborhood.
I park at the far side of the lot so he doesn’t see me when he comes out, and I wait. Fifteen minutes later, he emerges with a shopping cart filled with bags. I have to wonder, if he’s so rich, why wouldn’t he pay someone to shop for him?
Nevertheless, the domestic imagery is pretty hot: Strong, tall, handsome man in a tailored suit, pushing a grocery cart. Suddenly, my magical genie fits the part of a sexy, completely wonderful, dedicated husband.
I hope he’s not married because—I slam the brakes on my thoughts. I mean, not that he’s on the wish list or anything, or that I want him to be. Nope. Nope. He just happens to be a very attractive man whom I’m very intrigued by. No harm in that. Right?
He loads the bags in his trunk and hits the road. I pray he won’t notice me. He definitely seems like a private man who would be extremely pissed off if he knew I was following.
Just keep your distance. It’s Sunday, so there’s less traffic and fewer cars to hide behind.
About two miles down the road, he turns left down a narrow street lined with naked trees and a few old cars. Some of the weed-covered yards have chain-link fence, but most are open patches of dead grass.
He pulls into the driveway of a one-story house with green shutters and white paint. As he gets out and grabs the bags, a little old lady in a pink housecoat comes out to greet him.
Who’s that? I wonder. Maybe his grandma? No. Not likely. If it were, he would have her living in the Bahamas, sipping mai tais with that garage sale woman.
Parked one house down and partially obscured by a bush, I roll down my window, hoping to catch their conversation.
I watch the two chat for a moment, but I can’t hear them. She’s all smiles, and so is he. My heart flutters as I watch the biggest, sexiest grin in the world stretch across his lips.
Wow. He’s a beautiful man, but seeing him smile like that is about as close to a religious experience as I’ve ever come. Even better, I realize all of the groceries are for her.
Suddenly, as he turns to go into her house, the little old lady slaps him on the ass.
Oh my! Definitely not his grandma.
Still grinning, he shakes his head at her, like he’s saying: “You’re too much.”
He quickly makes another trip to his car to give her the rest of her groceries.
He gives the woman a big hug, and she tries to grab his ass again. He politely raises her hand back to the small of his back.
Handsy little thing, isn’t she? He seems to take it in stride.
Mr. Wish gets in his car, and she waves goodbye, “See you later, sweetie! Thank you!”
“I’ll stay longer next time. Have the chessboard ready,” he says through his open window and backs out.
Awww…how sweet. He delivers her groceries and keeps her company. She must be one of his “customers.” It’s interesting, though; if that’s true, then her wish involves him.
He did say that they’re his rules and he breaks them when he wants. My heart warms knowing that he’d break them for her. She probably doesn’t have family nearby or anyone to care for her. That, or she took one look at Mr. Wish and said, “Grandma needs me some o’ that fine-lookin’ man once a week.” Now she gets her groceries delivered by a male supermodel, and he plays chess with her.
Mr. Wish just might turn out to be a good man. My spark comes to life again.
As he drives by, I duck down and hang back a bit before turning my truck around to follow.
When I spot him on the road, he seems to be heading back the way we came, in the direction of my house.
Halfway there, he pulls into a flower shop, and I park along the street at a metered spot. He goes in and five minutes later emerges with a huge mixed bouquet of beautiful flowers, purples, reds, and yellows.
I wonder who those are for. Maybe he’s going to meet his girlfriend—or wife? Oh no! Please don’t let him be married. Not that I want him.
Mr. Wish is about to get into his car when he suddenly stops. For a moment, I think the jig is up; he’s spotted me and is about to chew me out. But no.
He sets the flowers on the roof of his car and presses his hands to his forehead, like he’s in massive pain. I’m too far away to see his face, but his posture says it all. He plants his hands on the edge of the car’s roof and hunches over with his head hanging down between his arms.