Page 1 of One Wild Wish

CHAPTERONE

RACHEL

Drinking wine was my form of Russian roulette. My first glass usually led to smiles and silly ramblings as I joked with friends. Glass two had the potential to set off laughing fits, the kind that produced tears and sore abs as onlookers gawked. Glass three could lead to dancing in public. Not a pretty sight. But glass four was the real risk.

Glass four often transformed me into Reckless Rachel.

Tonight I was on glass three, but my usual giddiness was absent. Ainsley, Gwen, and I sat perched around our high-top table, music swelling through the club. Vesper’s usual business-casual crowd mingled in clusters, all lit by large hanging globes. The type of light that turned a two into a ten after a few drinks.

“I need those shoes.” Ainsley zeroed in on a brunette’s mile-high pink heels. The stilettos wouldn’t mesh with my wash-and-wear wardrobe, but Ainsley’s closet could double as a Fashion Week boutique, complete with indexed shoe collection. The tagline on her Personal Shopper card read Style Whisperer.

“If you tackle her,” I said, trying to get into our people watching, “you’re on your own.”

Ainsley sighed longingly, her blue eyes locked on the coveted heels. “Some friend you are.”

“I can take her down for you.” Gwen flexed her defined biceps. My non-existent muscles had major arm envy. “But you’ll owe me, and I take payment in jeans.”

Gwen’s CrossFit ninja moves could get the job done, but the stilettoed woman nuzzled into a man’s side. He was blond. Handsome. And too built for Gwen to tackle.

Cute men abounded tonight, but the few who caught my eye were already chatting women up—men in button-down shirts with sleeves rolled to their elbows, dress pants tailored to slim hips, hair trimmed short enough to accentuate a strong jaw. The type who’d sail on the weekends and probably loved to play golf and drink good wine, and who had successful careers.

Unlike yours truly.

“Enough with that face, Rachel.” Gwen licked the salt from her margarita rim and took a sip.

I loosened my jaw. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s depressing.” Ainsley’s husky voice battled with the hipster R&B tunes. “This is our night, and that sad puppy-dog look is far from festive. You’re not allowed to be sad on April twelfth.”

She was right, of course. April twelfth meant wine and loud music and jokes with Ainsley and Gwen. If I’d ditched them as contemplated, they would have kidnapped me, rolled me in honey and feathers, and left me in the San Francisco Zoo with a sign reading Yellow-bellied Traitor. The least I could do was force a smile.

“We should buy her another drink,” Gwen said. Ainsley nodded vigorously.

Both my friends bobbed to the music, but all I could muster was a foot twitch. “Four drinks are dangerous for me.”

“Dangerously awesome.” Gwen had a doctorate in peer pressure.

Last time she coaxed me into a fourth glass of wine, Reckless Rachel was unleashed. The video of me shouting “I have a penis” while waving a dildo in public would haunt me forever. But she could be onto something. Tonight was my birthday. Our birthdays. Not only were we celebrating another trip around the sun, but it was the sixth anniversary of the night we all met.

That memorable evening, I’d been dancing—nowhere near the dance floor—eyes closed, my arms doing some sort of Vogue-on-acid thing. Someone had toasted me, hollering, “Happy birthday!” at the top of his lungs, then Gwen was in my face with a smile that screamed trouble, shouting, “It’s my birthday, too!” Before we knew it, Ainsley was hugging us both, her “Mine, too!” slurred for all to hear. We woke up, officially twenty-one, all three of us in Gwen’s apartment with mussed hair, foul breath, booze leaching from our pores, permanent friendships forged over a greasy breakfast.

I needed to revisit that happy.

The funky bass thumped in my chest. “I’ll take that drink, but I still have half a glass to finish.” Since my giggly self had yet to appear, I prayed Reckless Rachel was on hiatus, too.

Ainsley finished her appletini. “You have to catch up with us anyway. I’ll get the next round, and maybe find someone to buy it for me.”

Considering she had more curves than Kate Upton, that shouldn’t be a challenge.

Ainsley hopped off her stool and nodded at my drink. “Another Pinot Grigio?”

I swirled my glass. “No. Pinot Noir. Only if it’s from Sonoma. If not, I’ll go with Cabernet Sauvignon, but nothing from Argentina. Preferably from Western Australia. Margaret River, maybe? But whatever.”

“But whatever?” She batted her thick eyelashes. “I’ll buy you something red.”

If I were at home, I’d choose a bottle from my wine fridge, not a loser in the bunch. Wine reviews were read and compared and entered into my spreadsheet before I gave up valuable real estate for a new bottle, all mine, all beautiful, all wondering which would get to breathe next.

Instead I’d be drinking something red.