Wished

Chapter 4

4

The sun stretches over me, long, golden fingers tugging at my eyelids and urging me to wake up. I’m pulled out of my dream in tiny increments. I’m cozy-warm, wrapped beneath a soft blanket, and settled in a feathery mattress.

Somehow, overnight, my floor-hard mattress became a soft, springy cloud. It probably has something to do with the second bottle of wine, or maybe the third glass of cognac.

Or more likely, it has to do with the dream. I have this glowy, comfortable feeling that only comes after experiencing a dream you don’t want to end.

In my dream, I was in a wedding gown with a long lace train, standing at the front of an old stone cathedral. Max—a younger, happier version of him I’ve never met—held my hands and promised to honor me and cherish me. While rainbow light shimmered through tall stained-glass windows, and the scent of roses laced around us, we were married.

I can still smell the perfume of the white rose petals trailing down the aisle and the gardenias braided through my hair. It’s light and teasing and sweet. I take a deep breath, stretch my arms and legs, and wiggle my toes. I was certain I’d have a hangover this morning, but I feel great.

A little hungry. Waffles would be nice. But overall, I’m great.

In fact, I’m feeling decidedly optimistic.

It’s a new day. It’s the first day of the rest of my life. It’s ... a beautiful day.

A gorgeous day, in this cloudlike bed, with the subtle scent of roses and the soft cooing sound of a mourning dove, and ... everything’s great.

Not even the sunlight feathering across my eyelids causes a stitch of discomfort.

Not a twinge.

Not a twitch.

Wait.

I don’t have sunlight in my bedroom. I don’t have a window in my bedroom. I don’t have rose-scented perfume or floral-scented laundry detergent. I don’t have mourning doves cooing prettily outside my nonexistent window. I definitely don’t have a cloudlike bed.

I open my eyes and bolt upright.

I’m not in my bedroom.

I’m not in my bed.

I’m not in the ratty Motor City T-shirt I was wearing when I finally collapsed face-first into my mattress last night.

No. I’m in a red lace thong and a matching red lace bra. I’ve never seen this underwear before. In fact, it’s so decidedly sexual and provocative that my nipples bead just looking down at the see-through lace. Or perhaps that’s the cold air running over me now that I’ve flung back the thick down comforter.

I scramble back, kicking the sheets and the comforter away, and hit the wooden headboard of the large four-poster bed.

I make a squeaky, whimpery noise and frantically scan the bedroom. It’s huge. The bedroom has to be larger than our entire apartment.

The room has tall ceilings with decorative plaster in the gorgeous designs you see in grand palaces and the great houses of Europe. The walls are covered in golden satin and the floor is laid with thick, creamy white rugs. On the far wall is a trio of tall, lead paned windows letting in the soft morning sunlight, with a perfect view of Geneva and the vivid blue of the lake glittering in the morning light. On the windowsill the downy gray mourning dove lets out another coo.

I grip the soft sheet—it feels like Egyptian cotton—and yank it up to cover my puckering breasts. I glance around the room, expecting someone to hop out and yell, “Boo!”

There are plenty of places to hide. The furniture in the room is all of a set. I’ve cleaned enough chateaus, mansions, and luxury apartments to recognize quality antiques. These are in the style of Louise XIV, made from walnut, elegantly carved with thin scrolled legs and brilliant gilding. There’s the four-poster bed with a gold satin canopy, two matching chests of drawers with ornate scrollwork, a spindly-legged desk near the window, and a tall wardrobe on the wall opposite the bed. There’s also a gilded mirror on the wall, large enough and angled perfectly to capture the entire bed.

My cheeks flame red as I stare at myself in that mirror. My hair is loose around my shoulders, post-sex curly and bed-messy. My skin has a rosy-pink glow and my lips are pouty full.

I drop the sheet and lift a hand to my cheek.

Is that whisker burn?

And that ... My heart slams against my ribs… Is that a hickey? There’s a love bite, a little purple-blue love bite, on my neck, and another on my collarbone.

“Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

My voice bounces around the room. The only response is another coo, coo from the mourning dove.

A slow, needlelike prickle works its way over my skin until every goose bump on my body is standing at attention.

Apparently, I got so drunk last night that I stumbled into the street, picked up a man—probably one driving a Bugatti, in honor of Dorene—and landed in his ornate Louis XIV four-poster bed.

Meanwhile, I traded my old T-shirt for sexy lingerie, got down and dirty, and then ...

I have no idea.

I literally have no idea.

I bury my face in my hands.

Okay. There’s another explanation. I also may have been kidnapped and taken to a luxurious boudoir to play out all my long-repressed sexual fantasies. That’s a possibility.

I glance around the bedroom, searching for my clothes. There’s nothing. The bedroom is pristine. There isn’t a speck of dust, not a bit of dirt, not even a dirty sock tossed on the floor or a half-empty glass of water to be found.

The only thing out of place is a worn book on the nightstand. I glance at the hunter-green hardback and wrinkle my brow when I see the title. David Copperfield .

That’s weird. How many people keep Dickens on their nightstand?

Suddenly my dream flashes in my mind. Max holding my hands in the stone cathedral. Me saying, “I do.”

I shake my head.

Except ...

Well. This isn’t his bedroom. It’s not even close.

But the view from the windows? That’s oddly familiar.

I kick back the sheets and slide down the bed to the floor. The carpet sinks beneath my bare feet as I hurriedly stride across the room. I stop when I step into the bright glow of the sun falling across the carpet. It’s sun-warm beneath the soles of my feet. When I look down over the expansive lawn my heart gives a slow, throbbing thud.

It can’t be.

I know that lush green lawn. I know that cool, fern-lined forest that rings the edges of the grounds. I know that sloping, shaggy grass that tumbles into the smooth fall of the lake. I know every inch of this barren, austere, gray-stoned estate.

Yesterday I was told to never set foot here again.

“Oh no,” I say, and this time I really mean it.

I have to get out of here. I have to leave before Max sees me. I don’t know how the heck I got here, but I’m not waiting around for him to call the police.

I do not need to be arrested.

No.

No, I don’t.

That won’t help my future job applications at all .

I rush across the room and fling open the door of the wardrobe. Thank goodness—inside is a row of suits and a line of white shirts. I grab an Oxford and stuff my arms through the sleeves.

My fingers shake as I struggle to shove the buttons through the holes.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

I can’t let Max find me here.

There’s no way it was him who gave me this whisker burn and that love bite, which means I brought a random man to a bedroom I’ve never seen before and had sexual relations with him in Max’s home.

“Oh nooooo.”

I take one last look around the room. My clothes aren’t here. My phone isn’t here. My purse? Not here. Which means I’ll be walking across town barefoot unless I can convince a stranger to buy me a bus ticket.

I clench my fists and give myself a quick pep talk. All I have to do is sneak out of this bedroom, make my way downstairs without being seen, and hurry out the front door. That’s all.

No problem.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door. I jump then look around for a place to hide.

In the wardrobe? Under the bed? Behind the curtains?

“Madame?” a woman calls through the door.

Is she talking to me?

I stare wide-eyed at the door.

Does she already know I’m here? Did she see me come in last night?

“Madame, are you awake? I have breakfast.”

I can’t move. Instead I stand as still as a stone as the bedroom door slowly swings open.

I take a step back. A small, gray-haired woman dressed in a navy sheath dress, carrying a silver tray, steps into the room.

The tray holds a small silver coffee pot, a delicate china cup and saucer, a plate of fresh strawberries sprinkled with sugar, and a thick golden waffle topped with a dollop of cream. There’s silverware, a creamy linen napkin, and a small silver vase with baby’s breath crowding around a miniature white rose.

The scent of coffee, waffle, and strawberries and cream knocks into me.

How does this woman know I was craving waffles? How does she know this is my favorite breakfast ever?

“Who ... who ...?” I’ve lost the ability to speak.

She doesn’t even look at me. Instead she strides to the bed and slides the tray onto the nightstand.

Clearly, she thinks I’m someone else. Max’s sister. Wait—he doesn’t have a sister. His new girlfriend. His cousin. Or ...

The woman looks over at me. Raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Madame?”

“I ...” I clear my throat. Look around. She’s waiting for something.

Why isn’t she asking who I am? Or telling me to leave? Or threatening to call the police?

Her sensible sheath dress, her blocky black shoes, and her placid expression are making me squirm.

“I didn’t mean to be here,” I say, my voice scratchy and uncomfortably loud. “Please don’t mention that I was here.”

I nod at her, keeping my eyes wide. Slowly, I inch toward the bedroom door.

The woman—she’s probably in her early sixties—gives me a concerned frown. She lifts the silver pot of coffee.

“Wouldn’t you like your coffee first?” she asks. Then, before I can answer, she pours a long, steaming stream of black liquid into the delicate china cup.

I’ve almost made it to the door when she holds the cup out.

Maybe she’s involved in how I arrived here. Maybe she drugs unsuspecting women by looking like a sweet grandmother and offering them butterscotch sweets from her purse. When they take the sweet, she drags them back to the Barone Estate so that ... um ... she can serve them a delicious breakfast.

Okay. Scratch that.

“I’m going to go,” I tell her. “Thank you, though, for the breakfast. Thanks.”

I give a little half-curtsy, holding the tails of the Oxford and dipping my knees. I don’t know why. It feels right.

Apparently, it looks crazy, though, because the woman’s frown deepens.

“Thanks,” I say again. “Thank you.” I keep inching toward the door.

As soon as I hit the threshold I’m going to sprint for the front door.

Almost there.

Alllllmost there.

“Didn’t you sleep well, Mrs. Barone?”

I stop. Frozen at the threshold, my foot hanging in the air. I look back at the woman.

“What did you say?”

She’s still holding the coffee. Still looking sensible and competent and unruffled. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

I shake my head, a chill roving over my spine. “No. I mean, what did you call me?”

She frowns and sets the china cup back on the tray. It hits the saucer with a sharp clink. “Mrs. Barone, aren’t you feeling well?”

That’s what I thought she said.

But just to be sure, I ask, “Did you just call me Mrs. Barone?”

She takes three quick steps forward and then presses her hand to my forehead, checking my temperature. Her fingers are dry and cool against my flushed skin.

She tsks. “Over-warm. I knew it. I warned Mr. Barone—she’s coming down with a chill. Do not take her out to dinner and the opera. Do not keep her out all night. But he didn’t listen, did he? No, he did not. And now you don’t even want your breakfast.”

She humphs, and the amount of meaning in that humph nearly trumps my mom’s abilities.

There’s a lot to unpack in what she just said, but the most important thing is, “When you say ‘Mr. Barone,’ do you mean Max?”

She turns back to the tray and unfolds the napkin, snapping it in the air and then refolding it. She’s grumbling something under her breath that I can’t quite make out. I catch snatches of “up all night,” “works too hard,” and “wear themselves out.”

I have a horrible suspicion. A nasty premonition. I’ve never seen this woman before, but she seems to know me.

I think last night I got blackout drunk and somehow I convinced Max to take me out for dinner and the opera.

I don’t even like opera.

Why would I do that?

Yet here I am.

And worse, I think after that, we came back here and convinced this poor lady that we were married. Maybe she’s his new housekeeper and he hired her as soon as Dorene and I were out the door. I don’t know. He works fast.

Regardless. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. But I’m not Mrs. Barone.”

She sniffs. Her lips are pinched and there’s disapproval in her stern eyes. “Of course, Mrs. Barone. Whatever you say. Shall I let Mr. Barone know he should cancel the holiday he booked for your anniversary?”

Anniversary?

What, our one-day anniversary?

What the heck is she talking about?

I hold up my hands. “No. That’s okay. I’m just going to ...”—I glance at the door—“go.”

I don’t wait for her response. Instead I hurry into the hall. I was right. The bedroom is in one of the wings that’s usually closed up and empty. The hallway is long, with wood floors and closed doors lining the long white plaster walls.

I would run.

I swear, I would sprinted down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door. But I don’t.

Instead I stand stock-still, completely dazed.

Because hanging on the wall is a giant oil painting. It’s one of those commissioned works people hang in their ancestral homes for generations. It’s a beautiful painting. The oil paint is glossy and rich, and an art light shines over it, illuminating every detail.

It’s a painting of me.

And Max.

I’m in a wedding dress with a long lace train. Max is in a tuxedo. My hand rests in his, and on my left ring finger is a giant diamond ring.

I hold up my left hand and find something I failed to notice before.

The giant diamond wedding ring in the painting?

I’m wearing it.