Page 4 of If My Wishes Came True
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“You do that,” I reply with a wink. Then I turn around and hurry into the lobby before he tries to put his hands on me again. The doorman, who’s probably the same age as my father but actually has a sense of humor, greets me with a smile and a dad joke, and I give a genuine laugh for the first time allday—which is sad.
That’s why my eyes start welling up in the elevator. By the time I make it to the twentieth floor, I’m crying. I’m unsuccessfully searching my purse for a tissue as I walk through the open elevator doors and, as luck would have it, I crash right into someone waiting to get in.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!” I tell him.
And when I look into his eyes—somethinghappens.
I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. I feel like I already know him, but that’s impossible. If I did, there’s no way I could forget him.
He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. His eyes are the deepest, richest shade of brown, and his dark eyelashes are even longer than mine. His hair is chestnut-colored and cut short, but you can tell if he kept it longer, there’d be some curl to it. He has the loveliest bronze tone to his skin, with a rosy glow in his cheeks. He looks like he spent the summer on a boat in the Mediterranean.
He isn’t wearing a baseball cap, and his arms are covered by his sweatshirt, but I can still tell they’re toned. He’s the man I saw earlier today, unloading the moving truck. I never saw his face, but there’s no doubt in my mind.
I’m still staring at him when the hallway light above us flickers like lightning and, at the exact same moment, there’s a loud crack of…thunder?
“Did you hear that?” I ask him, wondering if I’m losing my mind. I must have watchedFour Weddings and a Funeralone too many times, and now I’m imagining thunderbolts, when they’reimpossible. I was outside a minute ago, and it wasn’t raining. And even if it were storming outside, I doubt we’d be able to hear it this clearly from the elevator bank on the twentieth floor of our building.
The man standing in front of me blinks a few times before he takes his gaze off mine, then reaches into his pocket. “Sorry, that was my phone,” he says, sheepishly. “I should probably change my ringtone—it’s a little jarring.” He frowns at the screen, then puts his cell back in his jeans. When our eyes lock again, he squints at me. “Have we…have we met?”
The elevator doors squeak shut behind me. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so...”
“Hmm.” His gaze shifts from curious to concerned. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
I lift my fingers to my tear-streaked cheeks, embarrassed. I’m sure I have mascara running down my face. Of course I’d run into the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on when I look like a complete and utter disaster.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, wiping my tears with the backs of my hands. “It’s nothing.”
He looks down and pats his pockets. “I don’t have a tissue. But...may I?” He pulls the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand and offers to wipe my tears with it.
I nearly start crying again at the kindness of his gesture. “You’ll get makeup on your sleeve,” I tell him.
He smiles, his gaze fixed on me. “I don’t mind.”
So I nod, and he gently presses the ribbed fabric of his gray hoodie to my face.
A split second later, I hearmusic. The upbeat orchestral kind that swells when lovers kiss in the movies.
“Where is that coming from?” he asks, confused.
Down the hall, one of my elderly neighbors opens her door, and the symphony gets louder. It’s coming from her apartment. She ambles down the hallway with a small trash bag, puts it in the garbage chute, then walks back into her home and shuts the door.
The interruption brings me back to earth. I don’t know what movie moment I thought I was having, but my life isn’t a romantic comedy.
Yes, this man is impossibly handsome—and whatever I felt when I looked at him, he seemed to feel it too—but I’m sure it was just lust. There’s no point in sticking around and indulging in a silly fantasy.
“I’d better go,” I tell him, pointing to my apartment.
“Of course,” he says, making room for me to maneuver past him.
“I’m sorry, again, for running into you,” I say as I begin to walk toward my door.
“It was my fault,” he says, even though we both know that’s not true.
As I fumble to put my key in the lock, I glance at him one more time. “Have a good night,” I say with a nervous laugh that’s pretty uncharacteristic of me.
I don’t think any man I’ve ever met has made me feel this flustered.
