Page 120 of One Wild Wish

If those who took stress in stride were considered “cool as a cucumber,” Cindy was as chill as a margarita on ice . She was shorter than me, a petite Chinese woman with blunt bangs and bobbed hair. My first few months working for Felipe, she’d been all business with me, until we ran into each other at a club. Give Cindy a few shots of tequila, and the girl ruled a dance floor.

I hurried over and leaned close. “What’s up?”

“You may have a problem.” She lifted the small box I’d left on her desk while in Felipe’s office. “Is this for Dean’s wife or his mistress?”

By “this,” she meant the gold Tiffany’s bracelet with the hanging heart charm. The one I’d purchased on behalf of my client, Dean Linkletter, who worked down the hall. His office was beside Thomas Arlington the third ’s. A despicable corridor of cheating men.

“Wife,” I said.

“Shit.”

“Crap.”

“Shhh .”

I didn’t know why we were cursing or Cindy was shushing me, but unease prickled my neck. “Spill the beans.”

“Hank stepped away from reception, and the new girl, Letisha, let the mistress through, even though his wife is meeting him for lunch in twenty minutes.” She snarled in disgust at this faux pas. “Dean’s assistant messaged me that he’s about to have an aneurism.”

“Crap,” I said again, with feeling .

If it weren’t for Cindy, I’d have waltzed into the douchebag’s office, brandishing the engraved gift for his wife in front of the mistress, who believed he was on the verge of a divorce. A misstep that would have damaged my business. I had five clients at this firm, each man sleazier than the next, Felipe aside. All were cutthroat attorneys who ate personal shoppers like me for breakfast and wielded their financial power like a khopesh. (Seven-letter word for an Egyptian sickle-sword.) If it got out that my lack of discretion—my fault or not—had brought ruin upon a man’s personal life, I’d be toast.

I lowered my voice. “How long has she been in there?”

“Too long. He’ll have her out before Mrs. Linkletter arrives. You can loiter here.”

I forced a stiff smile and positioned myself near an abstract painting. My attempt to camouflage with the décor was unsuccessful. The gray-on-gray hallway and glassed-in offices exuded strength and dignity, two qualities seeping out of me by the nanosecond. Guilt weighed on my conscience. Culpability thickened my throat.

I was part of this deceit. Not the ringleader, but I eased the sting of Dean’s betrayals with special gifts, false promises of devotion toward the mistress and his wife.

Belly roiling, I pulled out my phone and focused on my crossword app:

Seven-letter word for a disloyal person.

I’m pretty sure the answer was: A-I-N-S-L-E-Y, not traitor .

Another reminder of how far off I was from truly fulfilling my resolution. I may have been working at a Habitat build and had asked Felipe for donations, but there was no avoiding my continued contribution to the world’s cesspool. Rachel’s life hadn’t turned around overnight. She quit her job right away, but things hadn’t fallen into place until she’d made tough choices, enrolling in school months later. That’s when her life had shot from “fine” to ticker-tape parade.

Which meant I needed to do more. Work harder. Find a way to shed my scaly clients in favor of the Felipes of the world. Not just for my resolution. Because this feeling, like raw sewage churned in my gut, didn’t hold a candle to the swoopiness volunteering instilled. Leaving my folks to scrounge for mortgage payments on their own wasn’t optional. My brother worked hard selling cars, but it didn’t afford him enough to chip in.

I would make changes in my job. They just wouldn’t happen quickly.

So lost in thought, I hadn’t noticed the furious clickety-clack of stilettos or Cindy’s mumbled, “Fucking Christ,” until it was too late. I glanced up to find myself in the middle of a showdown. The mistress sauntered down the hall to my left…and Mrs. Linkletter strutted toward her on my right. Their collision was a matter of time, especially with the determination on the mistress’s face.

Fucking Christ was right.

Sally Linkletter looked like a stereotypical Sally: curly blond hair, thin face, pointed features. Proper. Innocent. We’d met a handful of times, and she’d always been nice to me. The mistress was her polar opposite, all bright red lips and ombre-dyed hair, talons for nails. I plastered myself against the wall as Sally’s attention flickered to me, her sweet smile the exact opposite of what her expression should be.

Oh God.

The mistress marched straight for her. “He’s leaving you. He promised me he’s ending it. So get ready for a divorce, because he loves me .”

She shouldered past Sally, the angry clack, clack, clack of her heels as damaging as a spray of bullets. Mrs. Linkletter pressed her hand over her heart, caving forward. Dean peeled out of his office. He enveloped his wife, soothing her, going on about a crazy client who had it in for him. Somehow he guided her behind closed doors, not before her first tear slipped out.

My phone shook in my hands.

I’d been Sally once—duped, deceived, humiliated . Except my mortifying revelation had involved more show than tell.