I leave my bank and drive straight over to Rose’s Garden Thrift Shop, hoping to get answers from that very stubborn woman. It’s late morning, but it’s still a Monday, and the traffic is a nightmare. Worse yet, it’s a cold overcast day and I’m only wearing orange leggings and a floral sundress. Yep. Once again I grabbed the first outfit I saw. Now I’m cold and look like ’60s wallpaper.
I enter, and the bell over the door announces my arrival. I immediately spot the woman hanging some Hawaiian shirts on a rack.
“Be right with—” She looks up and instantly frowns. “Oh, it’s you again.”
“I need to find Marus.”
She looks over my outfit. “Are you sick or something?”
“No. I’m fine. Where’s Marus?”
“Yeah, that’s a hard no. I heard all about what you did to him.”
“What did he tell you?” I move across from her next to a rack of pants.
“Doesn’t matter. You got your wish. Just leave it at that and forget you ever met him.”
“I don’t want the money. I never did. In fact, I spent all morning at the bank, trying to give it back, but apparently that’s impossible without having real information about the person who sent it.”
She glares at me. “You’ve already done enough damage. Leave him alone.”
I have no idea what she means, but my frustration is maxed out. “Enough,” I growl. “Tell me what the hell is going on. Because there’s obviously way more to this story—his story—and I’ve inadvertently fucked things up beyond just insulting the man. A complete misunderstanding, by the way.”
“Leave.”
I place a hand on my waist. “Not until you tell me who Marus is. For real. Because I Googled him and there’s nothing.” I also Googled “Mr. Wish,” “Mr. Wish Foundation,” his license plate, and I even Googled “hot billionaire genie man” and got nothing.
“Give me one good reason why I should break my promise to him. For you.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t fucking know,” I blurt out. “I just feel a thing—or a connection with him. I have since the moment we met, and even if I don’t understand it, it’s there. Okay? It’s there, it’s weird, and it’s there.”
“Trust me, you’re not the first woman to feel attracted to him. He’s a nice-looking man. You’ll get over it.”
“This has nothing to do with his looks.” All right, maybe it does a little—those intense blue eyes always punch straight through me and grip me by the ovaries—but this feels bigger than that. “There’s something about him. I can’t say what it is because I don’t know. He seems different from other men.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Yes, but am I wrong?” I ask.
Her hard gaze softens. “No.”
“Then please help me get in contact with him.” I press my palms together.
“Look, you seem like a nice lady, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re messing with his head, and it’s the last thing he needs right now.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing. He’s perfect,” she says with a stone-cold snap.
“I don’t understand.”
She ignores me and goes back to sorting the shirts on the rack, making clacking sounds with the hangers.
“So you’re not going to help me. Fine.” I shake my head. “Then I’ll be here every day, all day. Eventually, he’ll come to see you.”
She looks up and glares. “Then I’ll be going on a long vacation.”
Would she really do that? I can’t risk it. “All I’m asking is to talk to him. Can you at least get in touch with him? Tell him I’m sorry, and I don’t think he’s crazy—not in a bad way.” What he does is insane. I mean the tricks with the bottle, the popping in and out of my house like the ghost of generosity, but I like every weird bit of it.
She inhales slowly through her nose. “I’ll tell him you came by, but if he doesn’t contact you, please just leave him alone. Okay?”
I nod.
“Not good enough. I want your word.”
“I promise,” I say reluctantly.
She goes back to her work, and I turn to leave. “Ginnie, are you sure about this?”
I look over my shoulder. “Why else would I be here?”
“No, I mean pursuing a relationship with him.”
“It’s like you said, I barely know the guy. But I want to.”
“Maybe you should go home, pour a tall glass of good scotch, and look up Mason McMillan first. After that, if you still want me to contact him, I’ll think about doing it.”
A chill washes over me, and goose bumps explode over my skin. Something about her tone just now, ominous and cautioning, gives me the distinct impression I’m going to discover something horrible. Truly horrible.
I thank her, head to my truck, and sit with the engine idling for several long, long moments. My phone is there inside my purse. I could search the name right now, which she knew. But for some reason, she told me to go home and pour a stiff drink first. Maybe because she wanted to get rid of me. Or, the more likely answer: She knows that I’ll need time to process whatever it is I’ll find.