Page 96 of Your Every Wish
“Especially you.” He stares daggers at me. “And he likes you, more than he should, given that you’re already spoken for.”
A thrill goes through me at Dex’s words.Already spoken for.He’s never been that vigorous about the nature of our relationship. Sure, we’d made the commitment to be exclusive. More than nine years of exclusivity. But this is the first time he’s almost put a ring on it, so to speak.
And just as quickly my inner feminist kicks in and I’m slightly repulsed. “ ‘Already spoken for’?” What am I, chattel? No one speaks for me but me.
“First of all, Liam is my friend. We like each other as friends. That’s all. And that little stunt you pulled back there makes you look small. And petty.”
“Why are you so bent out of shape about this? So I forgot that I met the guy before. He’s not that memorable, Em. And why are we wasting a weekend together, arguing?”
He’s right. I don’t want to argue, not with Dex, who drove two and a half hours to be with me. I want this to be a fun weekend.
“Come on, let’s go to dinner,” Dex says. “I’ll take you somewhere nice. You name the place. I’ve got stuff I want to talk to you about.”
I hold his gaze. “Like what?”
“Like it’s time for you to come home.”
I take a visual lap around Ginger’s old double-wide and want to sayThis is the only home I have now.
But Dex cuts me off at the pass when he says, “My home. I want you to live with me.”
Kennedy
I hear them in the room next door (thin walls), whispering. And now it’s me wishing I’d gotten a room at the Ghost Inn. I’d managed to spend most of Friday night hanging out with Harry, who isn’t bad company if you like talking about the U.S. Postal Service and his late wife. By the time I’d snuck into bed, Emma and Dex were fast asleep.
No such luck tonight.
It’s fine, I tell myself, because it really is. It’s not like they’re banging against the headboard, making sex noises. They’re simply talking in super-low voices, which is frankly more distracting than if they were talking in their regular voices. But it’s after midnight and they’re trying to be respectful of me.
In return, I should try to be respectful of them, turn over, and go to sleep. But I can’t. There are too many thoughts swimming around my head. Top among them is Willy. What would he do if he were me?
It’s funny because all through my childhood he was this mythical figure. Willy Keil, professional gambler, businessman extraordinaire, multimillionaire. Larger than life. And now, from all outward appearances, he was a felon who died alone in prison, penniless. Even I’m starting to buy into
Emma’s theory that the so-called buried golf bag treasure was Willy’s idea of a joke, a way to toy with the FBI if they found the note first, which they should’ve. The only reason we did is because of Misty’s clairvoyance or whatever she has.
The fact is there’s no hidden money, not even a pricey golf bag. And Willy’s laughing his ass off from the grave. At least he had a sense of humor. If I wasn’t in such a pickle, I’d be laughing, too.
But here’s the thing: If he were still alive, he’d know what to do. And I’m at a complete loss with little time left. A little more than a week, that’s all I have. I turn onto my side and stare at Ginger’s clock. Let me amend that to seven more days, twenty-two hours, sixteen minutes, and forty-four seconds left.
The next morning, Emma is all smiles.
“Where’s Dex?” I grunt, coffee deprived.
“On his way home. He has a busy day tomorrow. But I have news.”
I fix myself a cup of coffee and root around in the pantry for something to eat. Though the rain has stopped, it’s too wet and muddy outside for a morning run. And I don’t feel like it anyway.
“I’ll bite. What’s your news?” From the way she’s grinning from ear to ear, Dex plans to whisk her away to Bora Bora on an all-expense-paid vacation. Spare me.
“Dex wants me to move in with him.” When I don’t say anything, she clarifies, “His place in San Francisco.”
You’d think he’d proposed and offered to throw a destination wedding on the Amalfi Coast by the way she is beaming. “Mm-hmm. You planning to take him up on it?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? It’s all I ever wanted. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Make that face, the face of withering disapproval. It makes you look constipated.” She passes me the half-and-half. “I know you don’t like Dex. But can you at least try to be happy for me?”
