Three Wishes_A Second Chance at Love Contemporary Romance Page 2
"I love you." Andi gave the woman a hug before she took a seat. With a grimace, she pushed the fruit away. Breakfast was not her meal, though Mrs. Finch tried with bulldogged determination to change her mind. "Unfortunately, your critique doesn't hold much weight in the fashion industry."
"The reviews for your show glowed off the page." Bryce Benedict, her long red hair held in place on the top of her head by a number two pencil, shook her head as she walked across the kitchen. "One mildly dismissive asshole and you sink into the doldrums. Crazy."
"Says the woman who fretted for days over a single negative review of her first book."
"Do as I say, not as I do." The second the words left her full lips, one side of Bryce's mouth quirked upward. "Reviews are meant to be ignored. A bit of advice I've almost learned to heed."
"Writing and designing clothing are two different animals. Critics, especially the one from Vogue, matter."
"Fair enough." Bryce smiled a thank you when Mrs. Finch handed her a cup of steaming hot tea. "Want my opinion?"
Silly question. Andi was the oldest, but she always listened when her sisters spoke. Who knew her better? No one. The four of them were only separated by a few years, and though she took her position as firstborn seriously, they were a team, equal in every way. Besides, after a night spent tossing and turning, certain her career was over before she even started, a different perspective was welcome.
"Shoot," Andi nodded. "And don't spare the bullets."
"Your show wowed."
"Mm." Andi, her own toughest critic, wasn't convinced.
"How many sales did you make since yesterday afternoon?" Bryce asked as she speared a strawberry from the bowl of fruit—her favorite. "Didn't you say you were close to sold out?"
"Buyers from the major outlets were enthusiastic." In fact, when she checked her messages a few hours ago, the number of orders exceeded her planned output. Oddly determined to hold onto her worries, Andi shrugged. "One-time sales don't mean diddly. My designs might sell, then get returned. Or worse, sit in the stores like proverbial lumps on a log."
"Please." Exasperation dripped from Destry's mouth as she shuffled her way through the door. Bleary eyed from a late night, yet genetically unable to sleep in, she gave Andi a light punch on the arm. "The only lump was your current boyfriend."
"Wylie isn't my boyfriend," Andi corrected. Without a defense for his intelligence, she let the comment pass. "We went out a few times. Besides, we're both too busy for a relationship."
"Wylie—one name for Christ's sake." Destry rolled her eyes. "He's a model who singlehandedly perpetuates the dumb as a doorknob, pretty-boy stereotype. How busy can he be?"
"Don't judge, Destry," Bryce chided, her lips twitching. "I'm sure Wylie is more than a pretty face."
"No, he isn't." Andi shook her head. "However, he is one of the most in-demand models in the business. Last month alone, he booked five photo shoots and six runway shows. If I were interested—which I'm not—he's never in one place long enough to be more than the occasional fuckbuddy."
"So, what's the problem?" Destry asked. "Brains aren't necessary in bed. Use him when you have an itch."
Andi chuckled. Destry might be the youngest, but she was also the most cynical Benedict sister. She took her pleasure where and when she wanted, without a second thought. Sure, she used men for her own pleasure and had no problem if they returned the favor. As long as all parties were above the age of consent and thoroughly willing, her motto was live and let live—and never stick around for pillow talk.
"Unfortunately…" Andi sighed. "Wylie is a taker, not a giver."
"Meaning?" Bryce asked.
"My cue to check the laundry." Mrs. Finch hustled her plump hips toward and through the basement door before Andi could answer. The woman changed their diapers, the last thing she wanted was intimate details of their very grownup love lives.
Chuckling, Bryce's warm, gray eyes met the green of Andi's.
"Go on," she said when the door closed with a firm click. "What about Wylie's sexual prowess?"
"He doesn't have any. Took all of thirty-five seconds. A few pumps, a long yell—my ears rang for a week—and he finished. I, on the other hand, did not."
"Thirty-five seconds is pretty specific," Bryce said, fascinated in the way only a storyteller constantly on the lookout for interesting anecdotes could be.
"I counted the seconds in my head. Had nothing better to do."
"Yikes." Bryce cringed. "Maybe he was so overcome with passion, his orgasm got away from him."
"Doubtful." Andi's expression turned wry. "Wylie turned out to be that not-so-unusual breed of man who only cares about getting off, the hell with his partner. Honestly, other than a warm vessel, my participation was unnecessary."
"Should buy himself a sex doll. Think of the money he'd save on dating." Destry sent Andi a speculative look. "Did he pay for dinner?"
"Yes."
"Point made." Destry looked pleased with herself as she poured herself a cup of coffee and topped off Andi's. "For a one-time investment, the fastest orgasm in the east can take care of his business anytime he wants. The things come in various sizes from boobs to hips to holes."
"Holes?" Though the subject wasn't a common one, Andi felt woefully underinformed.
"Mouth. Vagina."
"Ah." Andi should have known without asking. "Makes sense."
"What size is Wylie?"
Never catty by nature, Andi had her moments. Like right now.
"You know the old saying, big feet, big everything else?"
Bryce and Destry nodded.
"Doesn't apply. Wylie's foot measures size thirteen. The best way to describe his dick is gherkin territory."
"Definitely sex doll material. And, for a few dollars more, they come heated."
Andi snorted into her cup, liquid splashing onto her chin and down her neck. Luckily, she hadn't dressed for the day, and her robe was ready for the wash anyway. She wiped her face, sending her sister an inquisitive glace.
"How do you know?"
"Experience." Destry laughed when she caught the look on her sisters' faces. "Not personal. But in my line of work, I see and hear a lot of hair-raising things. Sex toys fall low on the list of the odd or surprising."
Where Destry's line of work was concerned, Andi learned to keep her thoughts to herself. Barely. Every instinct, every fiber of her being, longed to hold her sister close, protect her from the world, and most of all, insist she choose a safer profession. She might as well ask the world to stop turning. Destry was who she was. And, dangerous occupation aside, Andi wouldn't change a thing about her if she could.
"An interesting subject," Bryce conceded. She loaded a plate with Mrs. F's fresh from the oven biscuits, several rashers of bacon, eggs—scrambled, though she wasn't picky—before she climbed on the stool next to Andi. "But I need my morning fuel and the mental image of Wylie—or anyone—humping a piece of galvanized plastic isn't good for my appetite."
"You can eat through a zombie massacre filled with blood, guts, and brain matter." Destry sent Bryce an affectionate wink. "You mean to tell me your breaking point is a semen filled—"
"Enough!" Andi cried. "As usual, we start on a perfectly normal subject and segue into the realm of the ridiculous. No wonder none of us have a steady man in our lives. One meal and most would run for the hills."
"Don't blame our scattered conversations." Bryce licked a bit of bacon grease from the corner of her mouth. "With our less than stellar parental examples, why would any of us want a steady relationship?"
Bryce shuddered at the thought. Destry joined her. Andi sighed. She had nothing to add. Their mother, the oft-married Billie Benedict—currently between husbands—wasn't the kind of example any intelligent woman would follow.
Early in her twenties, Billie gave birth to four daughters in quick succession. Andi's father didn't last a year. Bryce and Calder were a medical oddity—twins wi
th different dads. As for Destry, her sire was the product of a brief but memorable bad boy stage.
Billie didn't learn from her mistakes. Her memory was brief, her dream of an everlasting love unwavering. The result impacted all the Benedict women. Andi wouldn't call them scarred where men were concerned as much as wisely cautious. Their fathers didn't help. By degrees—from horrible to ineffectual—they failed their paternal duties. Andi, Calder, Bryce, and Destry learned early on not to look to their parents for anything substantial.
Luckily, they had each other. And, Mrs. Finch. From where she sat, Andi figured they grew up just fine. The adolescent bumps had been minor. The mistakes fixable. No trips to rehab or major bouts with depression. Hardly perfect—God forbid, perfect was boring—they were upstanding, hardworking, socially conscious young women.
Someday, they might have a long-term relationship. Or not. Love and marriage, in Andi's estimation, were highly overrated. She had work, good friends, the occasional lover, and the best sisters anyone could ask for. What else did she need?
Out of nowhere, a face popped into Andi's head. Good bones, strong features, a killer smile, and heart-pounding, turquoise eyes a woman of any age would be hard pressed to ignore. And, boy, oh, boy, could the man kiss.
Noah. He hadn't asked for her phone number. She hadn't offered. A tinge of regret colored the memory. But, she knew the way they parted was for the best.
Calder, never a morning person, wandered in. The last piece of the Benedict sister puzzle. Andi felt a wave of contentment she only experienced when they were all together.
Smiling, she sipped her coffee. What else did she need? Absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER THREE
~~~~
"KIND OF A shit-ass job. Moving boxes and such. Pay is standard—no bonus. But all you must do is supervise the crew and sweat for a few hours. Easy money." John Mahoney held a piece of paper between his sausage-like fingers. "You interested?"
Normally, Noah Brennan would have grabbed the address from his boss' hand, no matter the compensation. Small amounts or large, money was money. A man in his position, where every penny counted, didn't have the luxury to quibble.
Unfortunately, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. For once, his unending source of energy bordered on zero. The tank was empty. The needle read zero. Weeks of long hours and little sleep finally caught up with him. If he didn't get some rest—preferably eight solid hours of undisturbed unconsciousness—his young, healthy body would rebel.
"Give the job to Unger."
The words pained him like a sucker punch to his kidneys. Damn, he felt old. Twenty-five years on earth and most of them spent scratching and clawing for every inch of ground. Looking back, Noah had come a long way from the snot-nosed orphan with a chip on his shoulder the size of a Redwood.
Yet, sometimes, like now, the progress felt glacially slow. He wanted so much. Not just money, but security. The need to feel he would never have to worry about his next meal or if he could pay the next month's rent gnawed at his soul.
He wasn't afraid to work hard or scuffle along the way. He started with nothing and wanted everything. Maybe his dreams were too big. Maybe he should shoot for something lower. Something closer to his level. Maybe he should settle.
Like hell. The day he stopped fighting was the day the world might as well lay him six feet under and shovel on the dirt; the only way Noah Brennan would quit was if he were dead.
"You sick?" Mahoney's brow furrowed. "Must be serious. Worked here since you were nineteen and in all those years, you never turned down a chance at easy money. Or any money for that matter."
"Must be getting old."
Mahoney, a man pushing sixty with a big belly, droopy jowls, and an ever-present cigar chomped between his teeth—unlit since his heart attack three years earlier—gave Noah a jaundiced once over.
"Kid, even in my glory days, I didn't have half your energy. If twenty-five is old, I'm freaking Methuselah."
"Not the years," Noah confessed. "Too much mileage."
"Mm." Mahoney nodded. He knew a bit of Noah's story. Enough to garner understanding, if not sympathy. "Ever look in the mirror, kid? Women line up just to catch a glimpse of you when you walk out of here."
"Shit, Mahoney." Noah felt the closest thing to a blush he'd ever experienced tingle under his skin. Sheer force of will stopped the red from creeping across his cheeks. "What does my face have to do with anything?"
"Women keep you young." Mahoney snorted. "Or send you to an early grave. Depends on how much angst comes along for the ride. You, kid, know how to love 'em, and leave 'em smiling. No better fountain of youth than a drama-free, revolving-door love life."
"Says the happily married man who tied the knot right out of high school."
Mahoney shrugged.
"Don't need to play the game to know the rules."
Noah shot him a puzzled look.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Hell if I know." Laughing hard enough for his belly to jiggle under his extra-large, stark-white Hanes t-shirt, Mahoney removed his cigar long enough to wipe a bit of spittle from his chin. "Ain't supposed to question the wisdom of your elders, kid. Just nod, smile, and keep your thoughts to yourself."
With a chuckle, Noah slipped on his denim jacket. The material was what some might call fashionably distressed. He called the garment what it was—old. Ten years, hard time on the back of a man who didn't baby his clothing, and multiple washings wore the material down. Frayed at the cuffs, threadbare elbows, he said a silent prayer of thanks to Levi Strauss. The guy made clothes to last.
Mahoney followed Noah from his office. The reception area was little more than two plastic chairs, a small oak table, and three dog-eared copies of Sports Illustrated. The receptionist—John's wife—looked up with a pair of sharp, see-everything, brown eyes. Pretty as a picture, neat as a pin, and unlike her slightly unkempt husband, rail-thin. The woman's smile made everyone around her feel like they were the center of the universe.
"Did you ask him to dinner?" Celia Mahoney smoothed back her already perfect, light-brown, shoulder-length hair.
"Didn't get the chance."
"How much of a chance do you need? You were shut up in your office for almost a half hour." Celia rolled her eyes at the love of her life. "Come to dinner, Noah. See? Four words. Simple and concise."
Mahoney gave his wife a superior smirk.
"My office is for business, woman. Not socializing."
"Where do you play poker with your cronies every other Thursday?" Celia didn't wait for an answer. "Your office. Sounds like socializing to me."
"Been some pretty big deals finalized over a pair of kings. Paid for the cruise to the Mediterranean we took last fall."
"More shenanigans than business," Celia countered. "Stop right there, mister."
Noah sighed. Used to their banter, he tried to ease out the door. He should have known Celia would catch him. The ultimate multi-tasker, she could trade quips with her husband, balance the books, and keep an eye on a wandering employee without breaking a sweat.
"All I want to do is go to bed." Noah caught the knowing glint in Mahoney's eyes. "Alone."
"At three in the afternoon?" Celia's long legs ate up the distance between them. Frowning, she placed a hand on his forehead. "You don't feel hot. Open your mouth."
Uncomfortable, Noah stoically received Celia's ministrations. He didn't want to offend or upset, but he never knew what to do when she shifted to protective mode. He could barely remember his mother or father and spent his formative years in and out of foster care where the so-called caregivers were more interested in a paycheck from the state than the welfare of their charges.
Celia Mahoney was the first woman he met whose maternal nature was so innate, she would have wrapped the whole world in a hug if possible. As compensation, she did her best to take care of anyone who wandered into her orbit. Including a full-grown Noah.
"I'm tired, not sick." Noah smiled to temper his abrupt movement.
"You work too hard." Celia gave her husband an accusatory look. "A hearty meal followed by a good night's sleep and a few days off is what you need to get back in tip-top form."
"I've offered." Mahoney held up his hands as if to ward off Celia's wrath. "Boy doesn't believe in a vacation—mini or otherwise."
Celia frowned, first at her husband, then at Noah.
"But—"
"An afternoon off is all I need."
"One afternoon is a start." Celia's frown deepened. "What about the other jobs? The six or seven you work at when we don't run you ragged?"
"Part-time stuff."
Noah didn't explain to Celia his definition of part time. Eyes open meant a chance to either work on the project he was certain would catapult him to success or make money to fund said project. Nothing else mattered.
"Speaking of jobs," Mahoney interjected before his wife could berate Noah further. "I have one on the books. Get Lars Unger on the phone, Celia. See if he can get hopping, pronto. You have the address."
"The Benedict job?" Celia asked as she picked up the phone.
"Right."
The name made Noah freeze as he reached for the doorknob.
"Anderson?" he muttered.
"No, Benedict. Big mansion off Central Park." Mahoney shook his head. "Lack of sleep shouldn't affect your hearing, kid."
Noah felt the blanket of fatigue drop away as he pictured a tall, slender blonde with the softest skin he'd ever encountered. And her lips. Only one kiss, foolishly taken. Yet, he could still taste her—just the right combination of sweet and hot.
Don't, the logical side of his brain warned. Anderson Benedict was the worst kind of trouble. The kind of woman a man doesn't easily forget though he had no business remembering.
Noah always listened to logic. Until now.