Blown Away (A Romantic Comedy) (Five More Wishes Book 1) (11 page)

Hmm…I don’t feel any different. There doesn’t seem to be a wave of magic happening. No Freaky Friday, alternate universe, change of life in a non-hormonal way, woo-woo wish-granting. Nothing. Truthfully, I don’t know if wishes are even real. But it only cost me a nickel, and that’s a pretty good deal, even if things go haywire with the will. I’m reasonably sure they won’t. This is a done deal. I have the letter in my bag to prove it. I’ve got the inn. It’s for sure.

See the lawyer. Sign the papers. Get the inn. Sell the inn. Easy peasy.

With my wish made, I pick up my bag and walk the rest of the way to the attorney’s office on the other side of the plaza.

I think I’ve got the right address, but this can’t be the place. The lawyer for my aunt’s estate is supposed to be at number two Plaza Circle, but the sign over the door says this is Apple Love, which turns out to be a store for apple-headed dolls and not some weird juicing place for alternative sexual persuasions.

Inside, the store is terrifying. It’s like a horror movie on acid. Like a nightmare after eating Chinese food at midnight. Like Saw but with an abundance of lace doilies and American flag curtains. There are shrunken apple heads with beady eyes staring at me from every surface. And there’s a lot of surfaces. Multiple, multiple surfaces. There are shrunken apple heads on tables, shrunken apple heads on shelves, shrunken apple heads behind glass, shrunken apple heads piled on the floor.

It’s a massacre. I shudder and swallow down bile, which is rising in my throat. Apple head bile… the worst kind.

I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, trying to calm myself. After a few seconds, I take a peek, and they’re still staring at me. Apple heads. My heart races. Who would have thought that I would be so scared of an old apple dressed in a pinafore dress?

“May I help you?” an old woman asks, making me yelp in surprise. She’s around eighty years old, and she’s wearing a pinafore dress just like seventy-percent of the dolls. In fact, she’s a dead ringer for half of the dolls in the store. Her face and head look wrinkled and shrunken, just like a desiccated apple. Yikes.

“Miss? You okay?” she asks. “You’re awful green. You want some taffy? I’ve got some banana taffy that will knock your socks off.”

Suddenly, I’m not creeped out anymore. Anyone who offers me candy is good with me. Besides, I’m very hungry.

“I would love some banana taffy.” It’s not quite as good as ice cream, but I have a killer sweet tooth. I would happily live off of Skittles and Tootsie Pops. Putting my duffel bag on the floor, the apple-head old lady gives me a fistful of taffy. I unwrap one and put it in my mouth. It’s delicious. Sweet and it makes my teeth stick together.

“That’s better,” she says. “You look almost human.” That’s funny coming from a woman who looks like a desiccated fruit, but she’s right. The taffy is making me feel much better. I didn’t know how worn out I was getting released from prison and traveling all day. I pop another taffy into my mouth.

“Yum,” I say with my mouth full of the sticky candy. “I think I’m lost. I’m looking for a lawyer named Robinson.”

She points upward. “Second floor. The stairs are in the corner past the Fourth of July dolls and the I Like Ike dolls.”

I thank her and grab my duffel. With a mouth full of taffy, I climb the stairs. The lawyer’s offices take up the entire second floor, which isn’t that big. There’s a waiting room with a receptionist, and behind her is a door to what I suppose is the attorney’s personal office. There’s wood paneling on the walls, and the floor is covered with avocado green carpeting. The office looks like a scene from That 70s Show.

“Beryl Meyer to see Mr. Robinson,” I tell the receptionist. She looks like the prison warden of the prison I just left, and I break out into a panic sweat, thinking for a minute that this is all a practical joke, and I’m going back to the slammer.

“Please have a seat. He’s running a little late.” Her voice comes out like Glinda the Good Witch of the North, which is the polar opposite of the warden’s jackhammer gravelly voice. The difference between them breaks me out of my panic. Relieved, I take a seat in the small waiting room.

That’s when I notice him. He’s been sitting in the waiting room on the other red plastic chair the entire time. It’s the guy from the fountain, and boy is he handsome. Outside, I only noticed that he was tall and muscular, but now I can see the entire package clearly. The entire Gerard-Butler-in-300-can-eat-my-dust package. He sits with his muscular back straight and his large hands in his lap. He stares straight ahead. It’s like he’s got the whole sentinel pose down. He’s wearing fatigue pants and a Brock Lesnar MMA T-shirt. His jaw looks like it was cut by a stone-cutter, and his bone structure is sharp and perfect. Michelangelo would look at this man and give up sculpting because no way could he ever make anything close to this perfect. One look and he would take a hammer to David.

I’ve known men like this before. I mean, not as good-looking, but damned close. It’s called false advertising. Mind-blowingly, drool-inducing beautiful on the outside but jerk on the inside. He’s got the false advertising down better than anyone I’ve seen before. He’s Chris Pratt on his best day mixed in with a crapload of holy wow.

“I’m not falling for it,” I tell him, jutting my chin up.

“Excuse me?” he asks. Damn. His voice is sexy, too.

“I’m not falling for it,” I repeat, slowly, enunciating every word. He furrows his eyebrows and studies my face, like he’s posing a silent question.

“Mr. Johnson is ready for you now,” the receptionist interrupts. I stand up, but the hunka-hunka guy stands up too.

“I’m sorry, but I have an appointment,” I tell him.

“I was here first.” His voice is still like velvet, melted butter with a sharp edge that slices through my pelvic region. He’s looking down at me like I’m a fly that needs to be swatted.

The receptionist stands between us. “The appointment is for both of you,” she explains, looking slightly concerned.

“Both of us?” he asks.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say. “We’re not together.”

The receptionist rolls her eyes and gives me a shove toward the office. “You are for this appointment. Go on. He’s waiting for you.”

The attorney is a middle-aged man with an old-fashioned comb over and a large pizza sauce stain on his striped shirt. My stomach growls, thinking about pizza. The lawyer doesn’t bother shaking our hands. “Sit. Sit,” he urges waving his hands at the chairs. He takes a seat at his desk and opens a file.

“I’m the executor of Eleanor Thatcher’s will.” He looks up and throws me a sympathetic expression. “Lovely woman. She will be missed.” I take his word for it. I didn’t even know my Aunt Eleanor existed until two weeks ago.

“She was a lovely woman,” the man sitting next to me says.

I check him out. He’s young and good-looking. Could my aunt have been some kind of super cougar? “You weren’t her…” I start.

“Her what?”

“No, you couldn’t be.”

“Couldn’t be what?” He never quite relaxes. His body is tense, like a spring ready to get sprung. He narrows his eyes, as if he’s daring me to say it.

“You know,” I say charitably. I don’t want to say it. He’s in his early thirties, and my aunt had to be older than dirt. Was he her gigolo? Were there still gigolos these days?

“I don’t know. Enlighten me,” he says, sounding angry.

“Thor was a friend of the family, and knew Eleanor his whole life, isn’t that right, Thor?” the lawyer says.

Thor nods. “Thor?” I ask, dragging out the word, as if it has four syllables. “Are you for real?” But I know the answer. He can’t be for real. He looks like a Greek god and has a Viking god’s name. He’s all kinds of god and no kind of real, but I don’t like where this conversation is headed. Is Thor going to hone in on my inheritance? This can’t be happening.

“What’s going on here?” I demand before Thor can answer.

“I’m getting to that,” the attorney says and hands each of us a key. “Eleanor left you the High Tide Inn, all of its contents, and all of the land that surrounds it. Congratulations.”

“Why are you giving Thor a key?” I demand.

“Because she gave it to both of us,” Thor says, his voice a dull roar. “You and me.”

“Halfsies?” I squeak.

Discover how it all began with the
Going Down
, book 1 in the Five Wishes Series:

CHAPTER 1

I clutch my lucky silver dollar firmly in my hand. I don’t want to give it up, but this wish is really important, and I can’t leave it up to chance.

I’m down to my last two hundred bucks. I’m a month behind in my rent, and I’m in pain from giving myself my own bikini wax in order to save money. Nothing can get between me and this wish coming true.

The wishing fountain is in the center of town, right next to my apartment. In fact, I can see it from my bedroom window, but this is the first time that I’m trying it out. I’ve been saving up my wish for when I’m desperate. And boy, am I desperate.

It’s the ugliest fountain I’ve ever seen, bone dry with just a few coins, dirt, and a used condom at its bottom. But it’s famous for its wishes. I’m not crazy to believe in it. It has a long history as a wishing fountain. It’s been on the news. Katie Couric. Oprah.

I focus on my wish, pull my arm back, and release the coin.

Please let me get this role.

Please let me ace this audition.

With my wish out into the universe, I shut my eyes and throw the silver dollar into the fountain. It lands on the cracked plaster, making a loud clanking sound in the town square.

A breeze blows, which I take as a good sign. I swear I feel different, like I’m infused with good luck. I sure need some good luck. I open my eyes, half expecting an angel to appear, or at the very least, a leprechaun.

But I’m on my own. The sleepy little town of Esperanza isn’t exactly bustling with people on its busiest day, and today it’s particularly dead.

I step down from the fountain and go on my way. I don’t have to go far. Just across the street to the diner, which is located on the bottom floor of my apartment building.

Built in the 1950’s, the building is no-frills and covered in pink stucco. There are twelve units and four flights. I’m on the top floor, next to the landlord.

This location has its good points and its drawbacks. I get woken up every morning with the smell of fresh coffee brewing from the diner downstairs, which is a good point. However, I’m also tempted to eat a slice of Mack’s homemade cherry pie to go along with it, which is a drawback.

And that’s the other plus and drawback: Mack.

I open the door to the diner, making the bell ring. The diner is enjoying a lull in the day, that time between breakfast and lunch where everyone is busy at work or at home. Mack is wiping off a table but looks up when I enter.

“Sit anywhere,” he says.

I take a seat by the window. Without having to order, Mack fills my mug with coffee. He looks like he does every day. He’s a scruffy, thirty-something guy with perfect bone structure, thick dark hair, and blue eyes that will laser beam right through any woman directly to her uterus.

“I got pie,” he says.

“I don’t want pie. I’m an actress. Actresses don’t eat pie.”

“You’re an actress?”

“You know that I’m an actress. So no more out of you.”

At least I’m trying to be an actress. I’ve never actually gotten a job, but I’ve taken three classes, and a casting agent, who I met while shopping at The Gap, told me at the pocket tee table that I have what it takes to become a star.

“How about a sandwich?” Mack asks.

“I have to be skinny.”

“You are skinny. You’ve got no ass, no boobs, and your collarbones are sticking out.”

“I do too have boobs.” It’s true. I do have boobs. I’m a 36C, which is huge on my small, five-foot-two frame. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Is he blind?

Mack takes a step back and studies me. Most specifically, he studies my chest. He cocks his head to the side and squints, as if he’s having a really hard time finding my cleavage.

It’s not hard to find. I’m wearing a tank top and a push up bra. I’m the queen of cleavage. I’m cleavage and nothing else. I could signal ships at sea with my breasts.

He shrugs. “Yeah, maybe you do have boobs. But last time I looked, you don’t have an ass.”

“What the hell do you know? You don’t understand what Hollywood wants. I need to be skinny.”

“Okay. Okay. How about a salad?”

“No! Salad will bloat me.”

“So, you’ll fart. Problem solved.”

“Mack, you don’t understand. Being an actress is very demanding.”

He plops down on the chair across from me and leans forward. His eyes are big and they suddenly turn dark and focus entirely on me. My heart does a little hiccup, which I try to ignore, but Mack always has this effect on me. If he was on the menu, he would be the house special. Delicious and probably very bad for my health.

“I’m not going to leave here without feeding you,” he says. “I’m sure Meryl Streep eats.”

“Nobody cares about Meryl Streep. They care about Angelina Jolie, and she doesn’t eat.”

At least I don’t think so. I mean, she’s awfully skinny. No bloat there.

“What the hell do you mean nobody cares about Meryl Streep? Deer Hunter? Sophie’s Choice?” he says, counting on his fingers.

“Tomb Raider, Mr. & Mrs. Smith,” I counter, sticking my fingers in his face. Mack shakes his head.

“Even skinny Angelina Jolie eats,” he says, obviously annoyed with me.

“No, she doesn’t.”

“If I have to shove the food down your throat, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“That’s charming, Mack. Violence against women. Not your most attractive quality.”

Mack grins and raises an eyebrow. He drags his chair on the linoleum floor and puts it down next to me. He sits down so close that his knees graze my legs. I clamp my mouth closed, in case he really is going to shove food down my throat. But I’m not exactly scared. First of all, I’m hungry. Hungrier than Angelina Jolie. Second of all, Mack’s chest is stretching the fabric of his t-shirt, making my hormones do the Take Me Mambo.