Make her wish come true, p.1
Make Her Wish Come True, page 1
Table Of Contents
Other Books by A.L. Brooks
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Other Books from Ylva Publishing
About A.L. Brooks
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www.ylva-publishing.com
Other Books by A.L. Brooks
Chasing Dreams
The Club Revisited
A Heart to Trust
Dare to Love
Never Too Late for Heroes
The Long Shot
Write Your Own Script
One Way or Another
Up on the Roof
Miles Apart
Dark Horse
The Club
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to everyone at Ylva for bringing another A. L. Brooks book to life!
To my beta readers, Erin, Katja, and Mari—awesome and wonderfully honest feedback yet again. I know version one was a mess, but your help and comments were incredibly valuable in turning the whole project around. I’m so proud of this version as a result.
Alissa gave me the kind of editing experience that just makes me want to be a better writer and weave even better stories – thank you so much for your guidance! Also thanks to Sheena for dotting all the I’s and crossing all the T’s on the copy edits.
And last but most definitely not least… To my wife, Tanja. Before we first met, I’d made a wish list of my ideal woman. I didn’t quite go so far as to write to Santa, but I definitely knew what my dream woman would be like. From that list, the only box you didn’t tick was ‘lives locally’ – but you know, once I met you, it turned out Frankfurt to London really wasn’t that much of an obstacle. Thank you for making all my wishes come true, my love.
Chapter 1
“Oh, Abby, there you are—thank goodness!”
Abby whirled around from her perusal of the storage cupboard, heart racing at the urgency in Arlene’s tone.
Her boss stood in the doorway of the small room where they kept spare office equipment along with kitchen and stationery supplies. Arlene’s face was flushed, and one hand was pressed to her sternum.
“Are you okay?” Abby asked, stepping closer, peering into Arlene’s brown eyes with concern.
“Fine, fine. But Chelsea called in sick! And Tiffany will be here any moment.”
“Chelsea is sick? Today?” Abby’s heart dropped to her stomach.
Arlene wrung her hands. “She is. And I know this isn’t fair, but you know I already have that outside appointment at ten, so…”
“Oh God.” Abby swallowed. Then she straightened her spine. Okay, not an ideal way to start a Monday, but she could do this, right? Tiffany Fitzgerald was just a person. Admittedly, the most important person at Ki magazine, the number-one online lifestyle magazine in the US. She was the brainchild behind the concept, the woman with a vision who some said was almost supernatural in her uncanny ability to influence the worlds of fashion and décor. The woman who had zero tolerance for incompetence, and whom Abby had only met once in such cringe-inducing circumstances that she still shuddered at the memory. The coffee she’d spilled down Tiffany’s dress had thankfully not been hot, so the only damage done was to the expensive clothing. But the glare in Tiffany’s eyes had given Abby nightmares for weeks afterwards.
And now with Chelsea, her personal assistant, off sick and Arlene unavailable, the only person left in the administration department who could look after Tiffany on one of her rare visits to the building was Abby. She of the lowest-paid job in the company and the least amount of experience, having only started working at Ki nine months previously.
A cold sweat trickled down her spine, but she gritted her teeth and looked Arlene square in the eye. “Okay, I’ve got this. I swear. Can you show me her calendar?”
Arlene clutched Abby’s forearms. “Bless you!”
Thirty minutes later, Abby waited nervously for the elevator to arrive on their floor. With the heads up she’d requested from Jimmy—on security at the front desk in the lobby eighteen floors below—she was one hundred percent ready to greet the infamous Ms. Fitzgerald. Tablet in one hand with Tiffany’s schedule on screen, she used her other hand to smooth down, for about the tenth time, her skirt.
The elevator announced its arrival with a loud ping and the doors slid open.
Abby swallowed hard.
Tiffany stepped out of the elevator, her poise straight and elegant, aided by her almost six feet of height. Only the smallest of crinkles to her forehead signified that she did, unfortunately, remember exactly who Abby was.
“Good morning, Tiffany,” Abby said brightly, her voice only wobbling a little.
“Hello.” Tiffany brushed past her and down the hallway toward her office.
Abby hurried after her. “Your ten-thirty is here and waiting in the conference room. They have coffee, pastries, and the briefing packs. Your eleven-thirty has asked to rearrange to next week. I told them you had a full schedule already so they will be in contact with Chelsea once she’s back in the office. Your twelve has confirmed, as has your three p.m.”
A part of her brain cringed at the banality of the words. She was a journalist, for Pete’s sake! Well, she had a journalism degree, at least. But here she was organizing coffee and appointments. It sucked.
Tiffany reached the doorway of her office and turned her head to Abby, one eyebrow quirked. “Good. I will eat lunch at two-fifteen here in the office. My usual from Earth Soul.” She reached into her purse and pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. “And right now, I would like a double-shot soy latte, no foam, from Java Me Up. Thank you.”
And with that, she closed the door to her office, leaving Abby staring at the white-painted wood, her nose almost touching it.
Well, it could have been worse. She heaved out a relieved breath, spun on her heel, and headed back down the hallway.
Halfway along, she spied Stacy waiting by her tiny cubicle.
“Hey you!” Stacy waved, a big smile on her face. “Is it true? You’re Tiffany’s bitch for the day?”
Abby laughed then swatted Stacy on the arm. “Hardy har. How was your weekend?”
Stacy’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “Good. Jason and I narrowed down the wedding venues at last. We’re going to visit the shortlisted ones again over the next week or two. How was yours?”
“That’s great! And yeah, mine was pretty good too. Worked a little more on that short story I was telling you about.”
“Oh cool! Maybe one day you’ll let me read something of yours.” Stacy smiled warmly.
Abby’s face heated. She never shared her writing with anyone, even though she was happy to talk about the process. And she certainly couldn’t imagine letting Stacy read anything. Stacy was a fantastic writer, and someone Abby admired hugely. She had been the stand-out student when they were in college together, and she’d only improved since then. Abby was in awe of Stacy’s progress in the cutthroat world of journalism. Her award-winning social commentary column, Our Lives, was one of the Ki’s most-read, week in, week out.
“No pressure!” Stacy held up her hands, then her eyes tightened. “God knows there’s enough of that around here,” she muttered. Then she looked back at Abby and smiled once more. “Anyway, gotta run. Catch you at lunch?”
“Sorry, no can do. Have to go get Tiffany’s lunch, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to run me ragged all day. I’ve seen how exhausted Chelsea looks after her visits.”
Stacy leaned in. “I know. Wanna bet Chelsea’s not really sick today but just needed a break from Ms. Demanding?” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t blame her.” Abby shook her head.
“Ms. Baxter, will you be heading out any time soon to get that coffee?” Tiffany’s cutting voice called down the hallway behind them.
Abby froze, met Stacy’s wide eyes, then turned to face Tiffany. “On my way, ma’am!” She held up the money, as if that was some kind of proof.
Behind her, Stacy snickered.
Tiffany stared at Abby for a moment, then shut her door.
Abby groaned. “This day is going to kill me, I know it.”
“You’ll be fine. I have every faith in you.” Stacy patted Abby’s back.
“Easy fo
Stacy’s smile dropped for a moment, then quickly popped back onto her lips. She mock-saluted. “Then I and my words shall leave you to your coffee excursion.”
Abby sighed. “Thanks a lot.”
* * *
Erica had finished wiping down the last three tables when the front door flew open violently behind her. It crashed against the wall, and she whipped around, heart thudding.
“Sorry!” A young white woman, probably about Erica’s own age of twenty-eight, stood in the doorway with her hands held up in apology. Her face was scrunched into a deep frown, marring her otherwise cute features. Long, thick brown hair cascaded over the shoulders of her silky, burgundy-colored shirt. “Are you closing?”
Erica glanced at the big clock behind the counter, which showed the time as two fifteen; they closed at two thirty, which was when she could get out of here and home to Kayla for their precious forty-five minutes together.
She tucked the cloth into the pocket of her apron. “Soon, yes, but I can get you something to go?”
“Great!” The woman rushed over. “I need a piece of the spinach quiche with a side of quinoa salad and an All Aglow juice, and I need it like five minutes ago because I’m so late and she’s so gonna kill me.” The words were fired so fast they practically ran into each other in their haste to leave the woman’s mouth.
Erica blinked, processing what she’d said. “Ah, sorry, we’re all out of the quiche. We’ve got some of the gluten-free veggie pizza left, or—”
“Noooo!” The woman tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Her dramatic response turned the heads of the few customers left in the café.
The woman shifted the heavy-looking bag on her shoulder. When she looked back at Erica, her lips were set in a grim line. “It has to be the quiche. Don’t you have some in the back you can just, you know, heat up or something?”
Erica bristled at the demanding tone and walked over to the counter before answering, if only to give herself time to avoid a snippy response. It had been a long day, what with Kayla waking her up three times in the night with imaginary ills. Never mind the fabulous moment earlier in the morning when Erica had somehow not attached the lid of the blender properly and had spray-painted half the kitchen—and herself—with carrot juice.
“Come on, please,” the woman begged. “I’m having a really bad day, and I really, really need to get this food and get out of here. And, like, fast. So could you please just hurry it up?”
Erica spun on her heels to face the woman, her tolerance heading for the exit at lightning speed. “You’re having a bad day? I bet half the damn city is, including me! So how about you ditch the attitude if you actually want to get some service here?”
As soon as the words were spoken, she slammed her mouth shut, wishing she could take them back. She was not supposed to talk to customers like that. Earth Soul, the vegan café she’d worked at for the last three years, was supposed to be a place of peace and calm, offering nurturing food and drinks to ease their customers’ days and lives. God, what had she done? She needed this job and the good money she earned from tips. She opened her mouth to apologize but the other woman spoke first.
“Fine.” The word came from between gritted teeth. “Please, could you possibly check in the back to see if you have any more of the spinach quiche that you would be able to prepare for me?” Her tone was all forced sweetness.
Erica blew out a breath, the puff of air swirling the stray strands of hair that had escaped her loose bun. Okay, apparently not going to lose her job immediately, as the woman’s desperation seemed to take precedent over any offense she may have taken. Clearly the quiche, that particular quiche, was important.
“I’ll see what we’ve got.”
She headed for the kitchen, where Marika was busy cleaning the last of the pans and utensils that didn’t fit in the dishwasher.
“Hey,” Marika said, bobbing her head to the music she constantly listened to in her in-ear pods whenever she was in the kitchen.
“Do you know if we have another spinach quiche in here?” Erica pointed at the refrigerator. “Got a rude customer pleading for a slice.”
Marika rolled her eyes. “Lucky you. And yeah, I think Candace cooked up two or three for tomorrow. You know she won’t mind if you take a slice now.”
Relief washed over her—the last thing she wanted was to have to go back and tell the woman they were all out. She could only imagine the response—and the potential fallout for herself.
Within two minutes, she had a slice of the quiche prepped on a microwave plate and was headed back to her impatient customer.
When she walked back into the room, the woman was pacing the floor, her cell pressed against her ear. The burgundy of her shirt was such a great color for her creamy complexion. Heck, if Erica was honest, despite the attitude, the woman was very nice to look at all over. Gorgeous big brown eyes, dark and beautifully sculpted eyebrows, a nose that some might say bordered on a little too big for her face, but framed by high cheekbones that diminished its impact. And full, plump lips that shone with a hint of lipstick and looked like they’d be as soft as—
Erica swallowed hard and tore her gaze away from her overindulgent perusal. It had been a while since she’d allowed herself the time to look at a woman—or man, for that matter. And now was the worst timing ever. “Do you want it heated up?” she called.
The woman said a couple of words into her phone then rammed it into her pocket. She hurried over to the counter, her eyes wide. “You found some?” Her voice was a squeak. “Oh my God, you are a lifesaver! Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
All this for a piece of quiche? Erica threw her an uncertain smile. “You’re welcome. So, heated or not?”
“Please. Yes. Thank you.”
The woman smiled then, and Erica’s breath caught at the transformation. Her face practically glowed, her eyes radiant.
“You’re welcome.” Her voice came out a little croaky; she cleared her throat. “Remind me again, which juice was it?”
“All Aglow.”
“Small or large?”
The woman bit her bottom lip as she pondered the question. “Large.”
Erica tore her gaze away from her mouth. “Okay. Give me a minute and I’ll have that all done for you.” She turned her back to finish prepping the food and juice—and to force herself not to stare at that beautiful face any longer.
When she’d bagged everything up, she placed the paper sack on the counter, then rang up the total. “That’s twenty-five dollars, please.”
The woman nodded and pulled a battered wallet from her bag. She counted out four tens and handed them over. “Keep the change.”
Erica’s fingers froze on the bills. “That’s too much.”
The woman sighed and smiled ruefully. “You earned it.” She paused. “I’m sorry for being an asshole. The person I’m ordering for… Well, let’s just say she’s demanding, and it seems that’s rubbed off on me, even though I know that’s like the lamest excuse in the book, but, well, it’s true. And so, you know, you deserve the extra-large tip to make up for the fact that I was channeling my inner Tiffany. And hey, it’s her money I’m giving you, and she won’t even notice how much is gone and—” She took a step back, the paper sack in her hand. “You know what, you don’t really need to hear all that. I’m gonna go before my mouth digs me into an even deeper pit. Bye. And thanks.”
And with that, she turned and jog-walked her way out of the café, leaving Erica still trying to unpick everything that had been said by the whirlwind in burgundy.
Chapter 2
“Thanks for yesterday,” Chelsea said as soon as Abby joined her at the coffee machine. “I owe you one.”
“You’re welcome. Hope you’re feeling better.” Abby smiled even as her inner voice said, please don’t ever be sick again. Tiffany had been relentless in her requests, and by the end of the day Abby didn’t know how she was still standing. Or breathing.
“I am, thanks. Oh, and just so you know, she didn’t leave the city last night. She’s coming in again this morning.” Chelsea grimaced. “Wants to be here for the weekly editorial stand-up.”
