“Stop looking in my mouth, Ginnie. All I want is to make you happy.” He bends his head and presses his fake furry horse lips to my big yellow face. My banana-peel suit sheds like a silk scarf falling to the ground.
“Mmmm…” he says in a low seductive voice. “I love seeing you naked. It drives me bananas.”
“Oh, you. Stop horsing around.” I swat his firm chest playfully.
“Enjoying that dream, Ginnie?” a deep voice growls, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it’s coming from beside my bed.
Not a dream! My eyes snap open, and I see Mr. Wish standing over me, wearing a plain light blue Oxford and jeans.
“Jesus!” I jackknife upright and press my hands to my chest. “What the hell are you doing in my room?” My heart is beating a million miles a second and shows no signs of slowing down.
He holds out his fist and drops a wadded-up piece of paper in my lap. “I made coffee.” He leaves the room.
I grab the wad and unfold it. It’s the wish contract, or whatever he calls it. I think if this had happened a week ago, I’d be panicked about him invading my bedroom. Now, I’m just pissed. Privacy lines have been crossed! How dare he watch me while I’m having a very weird, very dirty dream about him! So rude. And embarrassing.
Angry heat floods my face, and I bolt from bed. I grab my fuzzy white bathrobe hanging in the closet, throw it on, and stomp off to the kitchen.
Mr. Wish is sitting at the island, sipping coffee and reading the paper like he owns the place. For the record, I don’t subscribe to any newspapers.
“Seriously?” I snap with venom. “You brought your own paper from home, broke into my house while I slept, made coffee, and now you’re reading like it’s just another casual morning?”
“Yep.” He sips from his cup, not bothering to lift his eyes from the folded paper.
Fuming, I go into my fridge and grab some orange juice. I chug, needing a minute to gather myself. He needs to go. I can’t let myself get caught up in fantasies and wishes. Plus, I need to rinse away my morning breath for the extreme yelling that’s about to happen.
I swish, put away the orange juice, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and face him. “That’s about enough.” I lean over the island to swipe the paper from his hand. “You can’t just come in my home whenever you feel like it.”
“Then you really need to start locking your back door, Ginnie. What if a burglar was trying to get in?”
I narrow my eyes. “As opposed to a genie?” And dammit, I totally forgot to check the locks last night.
“I’m nothing of the sort,” he says drably. He snatches the paper back and returns to skimming the headlines. I now see he’s trying to make a point with his behavior, like saying “I’m in control. Don’t forget it.” But I’m not playing anymore. I’m done. And the wish last night made it loud and clear. I can’t afford to do this to myself. Did I learn nothing from my ex?
“Why are you here?” I growl.
“Why did you change your wish?” he throws back.
“Why’s that a problem?” I retort.
“It’s against the rules.”
“No it’s not. There was no mention of that on your little paper. Besides…” I fold my arms over my chest, “we’ve already established that they’re your rules and you decide when to break them.”
“Emphasis on ‘me.’ It’s my decision.”
“So you’re denying me my wish?” I tap my foot irately.
Finally he looks up, his jaw pulsing. “Why this wish? Why now?”
“Why do you care? It’s a wish!” I throw my hands in the air. “A real one. No gray areas.”
“Because,” he stands, raising his voice a little, “you asked something of me, and I agreed. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time racking my brain trying to figure you out. And now…” He exhales with irritation. “I asked a question, and if you are not answering it, I have to wonder why? What are you afraid of?”
I hate that he keeps pressing me like this, like he sees right through me. He sees my fear.
I look away. That’s when I notice the flowers. The ones he bought last night. Now they’re sitting in a vase.
“Yes. They were for you,” he says, noticing what’s caught my attention. “I intended to apologize for my rude behavior yesterday, after I brought the horse trailer.”
My heart starts aching just a little, and suddenly, the anger drains right out of me. What am I doing? Here I am, claiming I want to move on from my ex, but really, Greg’s still fucking with my head, and I’m letting him. I hate it. I hate that I’m afraid to trust men again or that I don’t trust my gut. My gut and I used to be very close friends back when I took risks for the things I wanted.