Page 34 of Your Every Wish

I click off, roll over on my side, and stare at the paneled walls.

The rain is coming down in sheets, making a tinny sound on the roof.

I pull the blanket over my head and burrow in.

It’s surprisingly homey here in the trailer in a way my Vegas apartment never was.

Then again it was just a place to lay my head while I spent most of my days and nights at Caesars so I could be at my clients’ beck and call.

I check the digital clock (another leftover from Ginger) on the bedside table.

It’s now past two and my mind is working too hard to fall asleep.

Oddly enough, it’s not filled with Brock Sterling or nutty Misty and her three wishes.

I’m wound up over Bent McCourtney and his twenty-thousand-dollar offer.

Twenty thousand, my ass. Either he was intentionally trying to insult me, or he thinks I’m as stupid as one of his cows.

“Looks like you screwed yourself, dickhead,” I say aloud. If he ever had hopes of restoring the property to his family’s name, he can forget it now.

I must nod off sometime in the wee hours of the morning because when I wake up the next day the sun is streaming in, and my clock says it’s after ten.

Late for me, an early riser. I swing my legs over the bed and pad barefoot to the window (God only knows what’s living in this carpet).

It’s clear outside, not a cloud in the sky.

I can either go for a run or talk Emma into going out for breakfast.

The water is only lukewarm in the shower. The hot water heater is probably on its last legs. Hopefully, Emma can sweet-talk Liam into taking a look. He seems to like her.

I dress quickly, pull on a pair of boots, and go in search of Emma only to find her sitting at the kitchen table, typing away on her laptop.

“Did you eat already?”

“Uh-uh. Why, you want me to make you something?”

“Let’s go to that place we went to the other day, the one with all the Raggedy Ann dolls.”

“All right. Let me log out, first. I’ll meet you in the car.”

The restaurant is closer to Cedar Pines than I remember. Last time, it seemed like we still had a long drive to get home. I guess that means I’m getting used to living in the country where it takes longer to get anywhere.

The parking lot is full, but I still manage to find a spot that’s probably meant only for motorcycles or a Mini Cooper. While my Bimmer is compact, it’s a tight squeeze.

“Can you get out?” There’s a tree on Emma’s side. She successfully wedges herself between the tree and the door.

I request a table by the fireplace, like we had last time. Though the place is packed and fireplace seats are probably coveted, especially in colder weather, the host scores us a booth catty-corner from the hearth.

We’re just getting comfortable when I notice who’s at the table next to ours. It’s none other than Bent McCourtney. It’s as if I conjured him just by thinking about him last night. Or there’s not that many breakfast joints in the area.

He bobs his head at me and goes back to talking to the three men he’s with. All beefy guys wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy boots.

“Who’s that?” Emma looks from Bent to me.

“The devil incarnate. Just ignore him.”

I open my menu and pretend to concentrate on the various entries, while sneaking peeks at Bent’s table.

“That’s not what I expected him to look like,” Emma says. “I thought he would be older and preppy with trendy horn-rimmed glasses and thinning hair.”

“How’d you come up with that?” First, it couldn’t be farther from Bent’s appearance. He’s got a full head of dark hair. No glasses. And I peg him to be in his midthirties, so not old.

“I suppose it’s the house,” she says. “That’s who I see living in a house like that . . . not a cowboy. He’s really good-looking.”

“He’s fine if you go in for those sorts of guys.”

“What sort of guy is that?”

“A guy who thinks he’s a lot hotter than he is,” I say. I want to add that Bent McCourtney makes Dex seem like a prince among men but put a sock in it. Emma is well aware of my feelings on Dex. “Stop staring at him and figure out what you want to eat. I’m starved.”

We both get the pumpkin pancakes with whipped cream and candied pecans and share a side of bacon.

It’s nice having someone to eat with. At home, I’m running from morning to night and even when I have time to grab a bite it’s usually alone.

Occasionally, Lorelie and I will dress up and go out to dinner.

Steaks or seafood at Michael Mina, pizzas at Wolfgang Puck, or we’ll go off the Strip to Le Thai.

Most dinners we spend talking shop or Lorelie complains about her loser boyfriend, Ty, who’s got a serious condition of failure to launch.

The dinners are fun and a nice break from the everyday. But with Emma it’s different, effortless, like neither of us has to make conversation if we don’t want to. And sometimes I know what she’s thinking even before she says it. And I’m pretty sure she knows what I’m thinking.

While Lorelie is my friend, she’s also my mentor and there’s always a teacher-student thing going on between us.

To be truthful, in the last few years there’s also been a subtle one-upmanship that makes our friendship feel more like a competition—who can land the biggest whale, whose connections are better, whose high rollers bring in the most money.

And not once during my “hiatus” (that’s what I’m calling it) has she bothered to see how I’m doing.

She knows about Sterling and the money, by now everyone does.

That kind of gossip doesn’t stay under wraps for long.

And I’m sure anyone even slightly affiliated with me has been tarred with the same brush.

The whole birds-of-a-feather thing. But you expect your friends, your real friends, to stand by you—or, at the very least, to call you.

The restaurant is hit with a new wave of diners, many of whom have been relegated to wait in the hostess area until a table frees up.

Our pancakes come, and I drown mine in maple syrup. Emma pours her syrup in a little puddle on the side of her plate and dips pieces of pancake in it with a fork.

“This is so good,” she says around a bite. “I love this place.”

I grin because I kind of do, too, which is a surprise.

The local-yokel thing isn’t usually my speed and this is clearly a neighborhood restaurant where everyone knows your name.

I’ve always preferred anonymity and eateries with a little more flair than stuffed dolls for décor.

But I have to say from the food to the fireplace this place exudes a certain kind of comfort lacking in my usual haunts.

“Don’t look,” Emma whispers, “but hot cowboy at twelve o’clock is coming over.”

Shit.

I’ve already shoveled a forkful of pancake and bacon into my mouth and quickly try to wash it down with a slug of coffee, which simultaneously burns my mouth and makes me choke. Emma only exacerbates it by beating on my back.

“You okay there, Hoss?” Bent hands me my glass of water.

“Uh-huh.” But I’m pretty sure I’m choking to death. “Be right back,” I say but it comes out as a squeak.

I rush off to the bathroom where I hock up bits of pancake and bacon in the toilet, making awful guttural sounds as I Heimlich the rest of it out. Not my finest moment. But at least I’ll live to see another day.

I flush, go out to the sink area, and wash my face, careful that there’s no crusted food sticking to my mouth.

I return to my table to find that Bent has pulled up a chair and is chatting it up with Emma.

“Better?” she asks as I scoot in the booth next to her.

“I must’ve swallowed wrong.”

“I thought we’d have to call the paramedics,” Bent says, his lips slanting up in a wicked grin.

It takes all my willpower not to flip him the bird.

“Emma here says you’ve decided not to sell.”

Not to you, anyway .

Just to stick the knife in I say, “We’re discussing adding on, putting in a stage for live music.

The residents also want pickleball. A lot of them like to play at night when it’s cooler outside, so we’re looking into those big court lights.

We’re also considering doing weddings and big corporate events.

The sky’s the limit, really. Lord knows we have the space. ”

“Sounds good. But you better check zoning first. I’d hate for you to spend all that money and get shut down by the county.” His mouth curves up and while it’s not quite that wallop of a smile from the other day, it’s lethal just the same. And a little conniving.

“We’ll keep that in mind, won’t we, Emma?”

“Of course,” she says, and flashes Bent a wan smile. “So we’re told you have a lot of ties to the area, Bent. Does your family still live here?”

“My sister lives in Nevada City and I’ve got a brother in Grass Valley. Both my parents are deceased.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents.”

For God’s sake, could Emma be any nicer?

“Thank you. I appreciate that, Emma.”

I appreciate that, Emma .

The first time he met me, he told me to get my fat ass off his rock wall. None of this thank-you crap.

“Kennedy says you raise cattle.” Emma kicks me under the table. Why, I have no idea.

“Not as many as we used to. So which one of you is from San Francisco and which one is from Las Vegas?” He looks to each of us.

He’s obviously done his research and I lay odds that he already knows that I’m the one from Vegas and Emma’s from San Francisco.

Emma tells him anyway and the charade continues. He’s after something, I just don’t know what it is yet. And if he thinks he can cajole Emma with that two-punch smile of his into selling him Cedar Pines for a paltry twenty thousand dollars, he has another thing coming.

I clear my throat. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Some cows to walk or whatever you do with them?”

Emma glares at me like I’m the rudest person in the world.

“Not really,” he says and flags the server over. “Hey, Mimi, can you bring me another cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing, Bent.” She hops away like the Energizer Bunny to do his bidding.

“So when are you planning to make these additions of yours?” He leans back, smugly, calling our bluff.

“We have to find a good architect first, someone with expertise in state-of-the-art sound systems.”

“For the live music, right?” He lifts an eyebrow, conveying just how full of shit he knows I am. “I might have someone for you. He’s expensive, though. Worth every penny but . . .” He blows a low whistle. “You need a builder, too?”

Mimi returns with his coffee and stays to straighten the little packets of sugar. Then wipes the catsup and mustard bottles and starts on the hot sauces. When she runs out of excuses to linger, she rests her hand ever so gently on Bent’s. “You need anything else?”

“I’m good for now, thanks.”

I note she doesn’t ask Emma or me if we need anything, just bounces off in all her bunnydom.

“I was saying I might have a builder for you, too,” he continues. “He doesn’t come cheap either. But his work is exceptional.”

Why do I get the impression he’s talking about himself? “You wouldn’t by chance be that builder, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He clearly thinks he’s hilarious.

“No offense, but we’ll probably go with someone from San Francisco.”

I catch Emma rolling her eyes.

“None taken.” He takes another sip of his coffee, blasé as can be. It’s evident he’s enjoying toying with us. “The both of you planning on living up here full time?”

“At some point, I’ve got to get back to San Francisco,” Emma says. “It’s where my significant other lives. And Kennedy’s work is in Vegas. We’re just here during the transition.”

“Ah, that’s too bad. There’s no place like it.”

I bet he’s really broken up about it.

He puts his cup down on the table and readies to leave. “It was nice meeting you, Emma. And Kennedy, always a pleasure. You ladies have a good day.”

As soon as he walks away, Emma cuts me a look. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

“We’re adding a stage for live music, a pickleball court, an event center. Have you lost your mind?”

“Who knows? If Misty’s right, and we find dear old Dad’s bundle of cash, we might.”

“Why were you intentionally trying to antagonize that man? He was nothing but nice.”

“Nice? Are we talking about the same person? Okay, he was very pleasant to you. But to me . . . He told me to get my ass off his stone wall. Who freaking does that?”

“Misty said he was joking. Maybe he was flirting with you.”

“Flirting? Cool, maybe he’ll put gum in my hair next.

Was he flirting with me when he said the true market value of Cedar Pines is twenty thousand dollars, or did he think we were two city marks who are too stupid to live?

Twenty thousand dollars, give me a break.

Even Sheila said the trailer park is worth at least a few million.

“Wait a minute, he talked to Sheila. That’s what the smarmy SOB was about. He thinks we’re getting ready to put the place up for sale and is trying to worm his way in.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” Emma rummages through her purse for her wallet and puts her credit card on the table. “You got it last time. How would Bent even know Sheila?”

“Small town. Didn’t you ever watch Gilmore Girls ?

Everyone knows everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if the minute we left Sierra Foothills Real Estate, she got on the phone with Bent and dimed us out.

He’s probably told all the big real estate agents in town that he wants first dibs on Cedar Pines Estates if it should ever go on the market. ”

Emma waves to Mimi, who has totally forgotten us now that Bent is gone. “You’ve got a rich imagination. Besides, while you were in the bathroom upchucking, I told him that we had a change of heart and are no longer considering selling.”

“He doesn’t believe you. The man is smarter than he looks. And that whole act about how disappointed he is that we won’t be living here permanently . . . Give me a break. He’s working an angle.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re deeply paranoid?”

“You’re too gullible. Mark my words, he’s up to something.”

“What with all the loud music coming from our concert series and the glare from the pickleball lights, can you blame him?” She laughs. “Where did our waitress go?”

I flag down a busboy passing by and ask him to get Mimi.

She appears a few minutes later. “You want to take this to go?” She grabs the plate with the rest of my uneaten pancakes.

“No, just the bill, please.”

“Bent already got it. You girls are good to go.”

I turn to Emma. “See?”