3 Wishes
By Peggy Jaeger
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About this ebook
Peggy Jaeger
Peggy Jaeger is a contemporary romance writer who writes Romantic Comedies about strong women, the families who support them, and the men who can’t live without them. If she can make you cry on one page and bring you out of tears rolling with laughter the next, she’s done her job as a writer! Family and food play huge roles in Peggy’s stories because she believes there is nothing that holds a family structure together like sharing a meal…or two…or ten. Dotted with humor and characters that are as real as they are loving, she brings all topics of daily life into her stories: life, death, sibling rivalry, illness and the desire for everyone to find their own happily ever after. Growing up the only child of divorced parents she longed for sisters, brothers and a family that vowed to stick together no matter what came their way. Through her books, she’s created the families she wanted as that lonely child. When she’s not writing Peggy is usually painting, crafting, scrapbooking or decoupaging old steamer trunks she finds at rummage stores and garage sales. As a lifelong diarist, she caught the blogging bug early on, and you can visit her at peggyjaeger.com where she blogs daily about life, writing, and stuff that makes her go "What??!"
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3 Wishes - Peggy Jaeger
Inc.
Staying open late can be a risk, with the thought of being robbed always a threat at the end of the day.
If the guy standing at the door, glancing around the shop, was a thief, then Dio mio, I wanted to be held up.
About six foot, he had hair the color of a deer’s pelt, with autumnal golds and browns shot together in a glorious patchwork that grazed the collar of his jacket and curled a little at the ends. He wore a faded brown bomber jacket over a shirt, and he had shoulders almost as wide as my doorway. A pair of well-worn jeans covered his mile-long legs, and the fabric on the stress points at his knees was practically white.
We’re about to close,
I heard myself say. Can I help you?
It was at that moment he looked over at me.
His face could have been sculpted by Da Vinci or Michelangelo. A broad, smooth forehead housed naturally arched eyebrows I knew some of my gay guy friends would have paid a fortune to have on their own faces. His cheeks were carved from marble, high, smooth, and deep. And his mouth—mother of God—his mouth. Full, thick, beautiful lips sat perfectly over a chin with a dent you could shove a button into and have it stay put.
Sorry,
he said. Those fabulous lips pulled up a little shyly at the corners. I got stuck at work and couldn’t get here until now. I’ll be quick. Promise.
So here’s the thing: the guy was gorgeous. But even if he’d looked like a frog with raw antipasto smothering his face, I would have dropped to my knees when he opened his mouth. Warm honey, a shot of raw whiskey, and a little hot puff of smoke wafted from his mouth like a fine and rare brandy being decanted.
3 Wishes
by
Peggy Jaeger
A Candy Hearts Romance
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
3 Wishes
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Margaret-Mary Jaeger
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2016
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0331-4
A Candy Hearts Romance
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For Larry—YOU were my wish come true.
I’m culling,
my mother said. With a snap of her wrist she sent another two-hundred-dollar silk shirt into a black plastic trash bag situated next to her bed. I’m donating this stuff to the St. Benedict’s yard sale. I filled a box of stuff I found in the attic belonging to you, too. It’s on the dining room table. Go through it.
Mama, why are you getting rid of all Daddy’s clothes? Doesn’t he need them?
I watched two pair of tailored black trousers fly from hangers and land squarely in the center of the bag.
"If he wanted them he should have taken them when he left with the bottled blonde puttana."
I ducked as a hand-woven Italian-made leather belt went sailing past me, the buckle barely missing my left eye.
Delphina’s not a whore, Mama.
No? What do you call a woman who steals a man from his family? His obligations? His devoted wife? A nun, maybe?
She tore another shirt from a hanger with such force it pulled apart at the seams, rending into two jagged pieces of fabric. A feral grin crossed her pink glossed lips as she examined her handiwork.
A mistake?
I ventured.
"Puttana."
I knew there was no calming her down at this point. Ever since my father walked out of the home he’d shared with my mother for the past forty years to move in with his much younger, pregnant girlfriend, my mother had been on a tear.
I’ll go check on the box of things you left for me,
I said, backing out of the room. I wanted to be alert for any more flying and potentially dangerous items coming my way. The near miss with the belt had stopped my heart cold.
Downstairs, in the dining room, where we’d eaten as a family for as long as I could remember until daddy’s exodus, I saw the aforementioned box. It was an old-fashioned banker’s box, plain brown paper bag finish on the outside, with a removable top.
From overhead I heard a small crash followed by Mama’s loud daughter-of-a-whore
litany in Italian.