His One True Wish (Counting on Love #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

BILLIE

I was raised believing in wishes. I’m not just talking about shooting stars, though I love watching those glorious beams of light streak across the night sky. Goosebumps every time. I made a wish when the clock struck 2:22. I searched for four-leaf clovers. I plucked every fallen eyelash from my cheek and blew into the air with my ask of the universe.

My mother, Moira, and my grandmother, Louise, raised me to believe I was powerful enough to move mountains with my mind. When I was older, I realized all their talk of wishing was a brilliant distraction from the parts of our life that were actually hard. My parents divorced before I could walk. My father wasn’t interested in being faithful or in being a dad.

I wasn’t bitter. It was just a fact of my life. Men cheated, and women were better off on their own. Mom and Gran taught me how to take care of myself. We were the Preston women, and we didn’t need any man to complete us.

A part of me believed the three of us would live together forever in our bungalow on Maple Lane in Denver, Colorado. After college, though, I moved to Seattle for a job in property management. One summer day in July, Gran passed away suddenly. Six months later, Mom called to say she was selling the house in Denver. She wanted to travel, cruise the Med, and explore the National Parks. Life was about to change again, and I told myself I was ready for it. Mom needed me, so I drove home to Denver. After all, I was a Preston woman. We knew how to take care of ourselves — and each other.

It was nineteen hours and change between Seattle and Denver if I drove straight through. I packed snacks, my big dumb Stanley cup, and made a playlist of my favorite road-trip music. Singing along to the one and only John Denver, as one does when going home to Colorado, I optimistically veered off of I-90, opting for a more scenic route on my own country roads.

Why? I liked the trees on I-84 more than the never-ending fast-food stops that peppered I-90. Instead of beautiful vistas, I sadly found myself at a stand-still in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam.

“All I wanted to see were pretty fucking trees.” I sighed, gripping the steering wheel. My black Subaru inched along the highway. I was one hour into this diversion with no alternate routes available. Oh, I was seeing trees. They just moved past my window at less than ten miles per hour. It was torture.

My intuition and positivity landed me right behind a semi filled with Marigold milk, which I feared might expire before any of us reached our destination. As John Denver sang, my phone beeped with a text from Mom.

You close?

Three dots appeared.

Never mind. Don’t text. You’re driving. Be safe.

Three more dots.

You’ll be hungry. Don’t answer. Hands on the wheel.

Three more dots .

I paused, waiting for the phone to ring. Right on cue, Mom called.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, answering on speaker. “I’m not texting and driving.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom said, her voice muffled. “Let me find my Pods.”

There was a loud rustling noise. Maybe the phone was in her pocket or her purse?

“Mom? You there?”

“Wait.” More rustling followed. “Hello. Hello?”

“Mom,” I shouted. “It’s fine. I hear you.”

“Billie? Are you there? Hello,” she sang.

“I’m here, Mom.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom said, her voice coming through clear as a bell. “I feel pretty amazing right now. I’m on the phone, and look, no hands! Well, you can’t look since we are not on the magical FaceTime.”

“Glad you like the AirPods, Mom,” I said, smiling.

“Like them? I love them, honey. Best birthday present ever.” My mother was not a technology person. When she bought a new Bluetooth-enabled Volvo, her voice ricocheted between her iPhone and the car on every phone call for months. She finally mastered the art of pairing, but it was a steep learning curve.

“So you must be close,” Mom said.

“Nope. I am on I-84, and there’s an accident or construction. I don’t know, actually, but I’m not close.”

“Oh, well. At least it’s a much prettier drive.” She sighed. “I do like the trees on that road more.”

And I wondered where I got it from.

“I’ll have tacos ready, so don’t bother to stop and eat — ”

“Mom don’t make me food,” I said. “You are supposed to pack up the kitchen, not cook in it.”

“I know you love take-out and ordering food from Uber people and Insta-places, but feeding you makes me happy, and you’d be proud of me. The living room is done. I have loads of boxes, and the truck’s packed. I just need to figure out where to store everything. ”

“I’ll figure something out when I get there,” I promised. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” The relief in her voice was palpable.

“And fine, you may feed me but know it’s your choice. I am tired of eating Pringles and baby carrots on this drive.”

“You know I would buy you a plane ticket — ”

“No, nope. I’m fine,” I said a little too quickly. “I love a good road-trip. It reminds me of the time you and Gran took me to Disneyland.”

“You remember that so fondly,” Mom said, inhaling. “You asked hourly when we’d arrive, and every time, Gran told you two hours.”

“Well, that may be true today.”

“See you in two hours?” Mom asked.

“Yeah, that’s about right. Love you, Mom.”

“Drive safe. Love you, too.”

I hung up the phone and looked at the sedentary Marigold milk truck. The truth was, this entire exhausting road-trip was my fault. The flight from Seattle to Denver was less than three hours, but the idea of flying over the Rockies made me want to crawl out of my skin.

The last time I’d flown was for Gran’s funeral. We hit turbulence on the way back to Seattle, and my breathing became so irregular a flight attendant noticed and called for an on-board doctor to assess me.

The embarrassment and fear of almost creating a medical emergency landing left me paralyzed and afraid to board a plane. My feet belonged fixed firmly to the ground.

If that meant I was doomed to die of starvation trapped behind a Marigold truck of spoiled milk, I supposed that was my fate. As if in answer to my question, the milk truck rolled forward. A police officer in mirrored sunglasses stepped in front of my car. He raised a fine-looking arm high in the air, signaling me to stop.

“Damn. Whatever you say, officer,” I muttered. The man’s chest was wide, strong, and a welcome break from staring at the back of a Marigold milk truck.

The officer nodded and smiled, making me feel as though I’d earned a gold star for compliance. I scanned the curve of his biceps and wondered how many abs were hiding under his tight black vest.

Daydreaming about his naked body lit a flickering flame deep in my core. It was a welcome surprise. My boyfriend Joe and I broke up three months before. He left me to drive cross-country in a Volkswagen van with Brenda from his hot yoga class. I hadn’t been with anyone since, and up until lusting after this hottie, I was under the mistaken impression I didn’t miss sex.

It was good to know my ovaries were not in total hibernation.

My break-up with Joe was a familiar but hard lesson. Joe was not the first boyfriend to cheat on me; he was just the most recent. Every one of my relationships ended with lies, starting with my sophomore year of high school. I was forced to accept that the only constant in this never-ending cheater drama was me. I was good at making wishes, but shit at picking the right guy.

Joe’s betrayal confirmed what I already knew. I was better off alone than with a cheater.

Well, if I was going to be alone for the rest of my life, at least I was stuck in traffic admiring a hot policeman’s strong jaw. He was some unexpected eye candy. As if on cue, an eagle flew over the head of the hot cop, making him look like a muscled hero from the cover of one of my beloved smutty romances. Watching the eagle fly overhead, I made a wish.

“I want some hot, uncomplicated, no-strings sex.” I sighed. Hot Cop glanced my way and gave me a commanding nod.

“Hell, yes, officer,” I purred. He dropped his muscled arm and stepped back in front of his flashing police car.

Traffic picked up, and just like that, I was driving full speed ahead. John Denver sang of Grandma’s feather bed while the eye-candy cop disappeared in my rearview.

Two hours later, I pulled in front of Mom’s house and took my roller bag out of my trunk. It was jarring to see the for-sale sign in front of her house with my own eyes.

Mom and Gran’s old truck was parked in the drive. The truck was piled high with boxes, and there was a blue tarp covering half the truck bed. Mom and Gran had used that truck to run their “Starlight Catering” business for years. Now that Gran was gone, Mom was ready to retire. She deserved to cash-in and travel. It was just off-putting to imagine another family living in my old house.

It was early November, and snowfall wasn’t predicted until later in the week. Crisp, cold air stung my cheeks as I pulled my roller bag to the front walk. Clumps of melting snow dotted the flower beds on either side of the drive. White puffy clouds decorated the robin’s-egg-blue sky like a spring-day masquerade. I packed for cold, but not heavy snow. It wasn’t like I was going to ski this visit. Mom and I had too much work to do before the open house.

Our sweet, blue-and-white bungalow was a little worse for wear, but winter cabbages filled the window boxes, and a fresh coat of paint shone on the shutters. I told Mom to paint and add flowers out front. I was happy she listened to both my suggestions. I made it a point to add touches like this to The Holiday Apartment building I managed in Seattle. It made a big difference attracting and keeping tenants.

On the porch, the front door stood propped open by a trash bin.

“Mom?” I called, pulling the front door shut and stepping inside. “The new paint looks great. I wonder what genius told you to do that?”

“Billie, is that you, honey?” Mom’s voice carried down the hall. I guessed she was in the kitchen making the promised tacos.

“Yes, and it’s freezing in here. You really shouldn’t heat the great outdoors,” I sang, mock scolding her.

Mom stepped into the hall from the kitchen, her smile wide. Cheeks flushed, her silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail and baseball hat. She wore baggy, pink sweats and a Broncos jersey, her favorite team. Old-fashioned, green dishwashing gloves masked her hands.

“Oh, honey, thank you. I couldn’t figure out why it was so cold,” she said, enveloping me in a big hug. Mom kissed my cheeks. Her warm lips pressed against my skin no doubt left enormous, red lip-stains.

“Look at you,” she said, cradling my face with her wet, sticky fingers.

“Mom, the gloves. Ew,” I said, playfully swatting her hand away.

She peeled her gloves off like a surgeon. “I just finished the dishes, and your tacos are ready.”

“Thank you for the tacos, and you know you can totally afford a dishwasher, Mom.”

“Nonsense,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I know how I like to clean. It soothes me, like meditation.”

“Just think about all the real meditation you could do with all the time you save not washing dishes.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. You know I like to do things myself. Come on into the kitchen.” I followed Mom down the hall, inhaling the smell of Pine-Sol, taco seasoning, and unexpectedly, fresh chocolate chip cookies.

I sniffed the air. “Were you baking?” I asked, my stomach growling.

“Of course I was.” Mom glanced back at me over her shoulder. “Sweet treats and tacos.”

In the kitchen, Mom set out a bowl of meat, shredded lettuce, beans, cheese, and taco shells. There was a plate of fresh cookies already on the round kitchen table.

“Did I tell you that Abby said I don’t need to put any more money into the kitchen?” Mom said.

“Really?” I asked, surprised at this news. Mom’s kitchen was a time capsule from the fifties.

“Abby says it’s better to keep the space vintage and let the new buyer invest.”

“Is Abby the agent?” I took a seat at the kitchen table and picked up one of the cookies. It was still warm. I broke it in two, stretching the melty chocolate chips apart.

“Oh, yes. She’s a real go-getter.” Mom took a seat across from me. “ And don’t worry. You are not in trouble for eating dessert before dinner.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, taking a bite of the cookie. “I thought Shelia from Zumba was your agent.”

Mom’s eyes grew wide for a moment. She leaned across the table. “Oh, I didn’t want to stress you out with the drama.” She waved her hands in the air.

“Zumba drama?” I took another bite.

“No.” Mom leaned in closer, and I knew I was about to get a heaping serving of gossip, revealed in my mother’s effortless “gossip” whisper. “Real estate drama.”

“Wow. Sounds intense, Mom.”

“Oh, honey. Don’t make fun. I felt terrible about it. I’m actually glad this came up. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Abby. Shelia was my first pick. I thought she was the right agent, and I almost signed, but you know almost every other woman at Zumba is a real estate agent.”

“Wow.”

“Word got out that I picked Shelia, and I could tell that the other ladies were miffed. Even Laurie seemed upset with me, and everyone knows that she has the longest fuse of us all.”

“Not Laurie, ” I said.

“Yes, Laurie,” Mom repeated, stone-cold.

“Mom,” I said, chewing my cookie, “nobody should tell you which agent you can work with. That is your decision. If you want Abby, you get Abby.” It felt so good, coaching my mom with a big dose of girl power.

“I am so relieved you agree,” Mom said, her voice still a half-whisper. She leaned back in her chair. “Well, Abby emailed me out of the blue, and once I knew that she was doing real estate, I couldn’t pick one of the other ladies. I mean, I may move, but I don’t want to ruin Zumba.”

“Who would?”

“Abby works for one of those brokerages where I pay a lot less, and that matters to me,” Mom said. “She grew up here, and I remember how you two used to hang out?”

“Wait. What?” I stopped chewing.

“Working with her kind of made me miss you a little less. It was like old times when she used to come by and hang out with you after school. That was such a long time ago.”

I held a cookie in front of my mouth. My eyes narrowed, and my body tensed. “Wait. You are talking about that Abby? Abby I-went-to-high-school-with Abby?”

“Yes.” Mom rocked back in her chair. “Abby Brix. How many Abbys do we know, honey.”

“You asked Abby Brix, my ex-best friend, to be your agent?” I said, my head spinning as uncomfortable memories of high school flooded over me. Abby and I sitting in the kitchen talking about boys. Abby hugging me when Travis dumped me for another girl. Abby crying when she confessed the other girl was her.

I wanted to tell my Mom to fire Abby and hire Shelia from Zumba, but I’d just given her my “you do you” girl-power speech. I couldn’t go back from that.

“She’s a good agent,” Mom said. “Gran even mentioned her to me. She said Abby finds the right person for the right home.”

“You do remember she is the one Travis dumped me for,” I said. I put down my cookie and crossed my arms.

“Billie, high school was a very long time ago,” Mom said, biting her lip. “I do not remember that, and you were better off without that boy anyway.”

“He was an idiot,” I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Travis was a wrestler and addicted to Super Mario Bros. I knew he wasn’t the love of my life, but thinking of those days, I still hated how insecure and jealous I felt.

“Honey, I did the best I could, and she impressed me. She’s going to come by later. I think it would be good for you two to reconnect.”

“It’s fine, Mom,” I said, picking up the plate of cookies. I knew that I was probably being stupid, but I did not feel like reconnecting with the girl who stole my first boyfriend. “I will skip tacos for now. I am going to unpack, then check out the boxes and storage situation.”

“Okay, honey,” Mom said. “Tacos will be warm and ready for you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. Managing a smile, I exited the kitchen, a plate of cookies in hand.

I went upstairs with my cookies and suitcase. I felt like an idiot. So what if Abby Brix was selling my mom’s house? It was my mom’s house. She was right. I was better off without stupid Travis. Abby did me a favor my sophomore year. Still, Abby’s pending arrival was proof-positive I couldn’t pick a boyfriend who would stay faithful to me.

I lay down on my childhood bed, holding the plate of cookies on my belly. Mom was surprised but nonplussed to learn Abby was the “other woman” in my big breakup. It wasn’t entirely her fault. I’d been so embarrassed about the whole situation, I never told Mom why I broke up with that dumb boy. The truth was, it wasn’t about the boy. It was about me. I was afraid that there was something wrong with me.I closed my eyes and ran my fingers over the star-covered quilt covering my bed. A gift from Gran, the quilt was her way of making sure my wishes would never be stopped by the weather. At least that is what she told me when she gave it to me. Gran’s favorite wish was always on a shooting star. This quilt ensured the sky was always accessible to me in this room.

I needed to remember to take this quilt home with me.

“I wish,” I whispered, running my finger over the golden tail of a star, “I wish I could go back to the way things used to be.” The shutters clattered open with a bang.

I jumped to my feet and raised the window, pushing the shutters back into their open position. I locked them into place. The air felt cold and crisp on my skin.

Outside and across the valley, the Rockies stood tall and proud. Their peaks shone in the early evening light with freshly fallen snow. The Rockies always took my breath away. They represented more than a view to Mom, Gran, and me. In part, they belonged to us.

When I was six years old, Gran took my late grandfather’s government pension payout and purchased our family a cabin in the town of Smoke River. We spent every summer and a portion of every winter in that one-bedroom cabin.

I shut the window tight. My eyes stayed glued to the mountains. Gran talked about renting the cabin or hiring a caretaker, but she never pulled the trigger on it. The cabin and barn were empty. Mom needed storage. The truck was packed and ready to go, and the Smoke River cabin was just an hour away.

I had zero interest in listening to Mom gush about Abby and her real estate genius. Mom needed this house cleared out for staging, and there was no way all our things would fit into our tiny garage. We could get a storage unit, but why get stuck in a contract when Mom needed storage for just a short while.

I bolted down the stairs two at a time. Why had it taken me so long to come up with this plan? Going to the cabin was exactly what I needed to help Mom and avoid Abby.

I walked into the kitchen. Mom stood at the sink. “Mom, where are the keys to the truck?”

“Oh, honey.” Mom turned around. She wiped her hands with a towel and nodded to the back door. “Abby just arrived.”

I looked outside to see Abby Brix standing at the back door, her hand poised to rap on the glass.