Wish Upon A Star

by Jasinda Wilder

  Tears start in my eyes.

  I…look like a princess.

  Albeit a princess with a ginger buzz cut and rather patchy eyebrows, but a princess nonetheless.

  I just wish I had makeup—and knew how to apply it.

  Trembling with anticipation, I open the door and emerge.

  Wes is already in his tuxedo, a classic three-piece with a bowtie. His hair has been brushed straight back to a glossy shine, and his stubble makes him look rugged and his jawline is as craggy and sharp as the cliffs beyond the door. His eyes are as brown and deep as Magnus’s, shining with intelligence and humor and appreciation and wonder.

  He just looks at me for a moment. “Jolene, you look… breathtaking.”

  I walk over to him, and in the gown it feels like I’m waltzing, floating every step. “So do you.”

  He cups my cheek. “I think there’s one part of getting ready that we’re missing.”

  I frown. “What could that be?”

  He checks his watch. As if on cue, there’s a soft knock on the door. He answers it, and a short, slender Black woman enters. She wears a short maroon skirt, a white top, and low black wedge-heel sandals; her hair is even shorter than mine, emphasizing her elegant facial structure. Her makeup is perfect, and she’s carrying a big black case.

  She smiles up at Wes. “Wow, you’re as handsome in person as you are on the screen.” She doesn’t wait for his reply, politely but firmly ushering him outside. “Now shoo, handsome. We’ve got girl stuff to do.”

  Wes grins at me as he steps outside. “Hair and makeup, babe.”

  I rub my head. “Well, makeup, at least.”

  The woman smiles at me. “I love your hair. If I could get mine that color, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You’re a real beauty, darling—a little bit of makeup, and you’ll make the stars themselves weep.”

  She closes the door and guides me to a heavy wooden chair, pulls over one for her, and opens her case on the nearby table, introducing herself as Chloe.

  For the next half an hour or so, Chloe smears, dabs, contours, blends…I couldn’t begin to tell you what all, and she keeps up a friendly, easygoing conversation. Asking me about myself, talking about music and movies and mostly Wes, and somehow the conversation never gets around to any of the obvious landmines that might turn a conversation serious. Either she was briefed on my condition, or she’s just that good at steering a conversation. Or both. I’m in awe of her.

  She leans back in the chair, regarding me. “Well, now.” She gives me a hand mirror.

  It’s tempting to say I don’t recognize myself, but it wouldn’t be exactly accurate. I look like myself, just…more. My cheekbones are emphasized, my eyes look bigger, and their color brighter. My lashes pop.

  Chloe smiles at me. “What do you think, honey?”

  I’m choked up. “Amazing. I don’t really wear makeup, and so this is…it’s amazing.”

  She pats my hand. “You really are a natural beauty, Miss Park. I mean that. All I did was emphasize the beauty you already have. Didn’t take much.” She moves a tray of the case and pulls out a wig from the bottom—it’s the same color as my own hair, but long enough to fall to my shoulders. “Now, I do have this. But, if you want my opinion, you don’t need it.”

  I’ve not had hair longer than chin length since I was eight; I’ve dreamed of what I would look like with my hair grown out.

  “Could I just…see what it looks like?”

  “Of course.”

  She helps me put it on, runs her fingers through the coppery locks. Satisfied, she hands me the mirror again.

  I look at my reflection for a long time, drinking it in—me, but with long natural hair; it’s a fictional me that’s never existed, and I indulge in the daydream for a moment or two longer.

  “Thank you,” I say, eventually. “But you’re right. I don’t need it.”

  Chloe removes it, puts it away, and sits opposite me. Her eyes tell me she knows more than she’s letting on. She covers my hands with hers. “For whatever my opinion is worth, I think you made the right choice. That man loves you as you are. He don’t need you to have that kind of hair. It doesn’t define your beauty.” As if to emphasize, she runs a palm over her own short, tightly rippled hair.

  “You’re amazing,” I whisper. “Thank you so much.”

  She tugs me to my feet and holds open the door for me. “He’s waiting. Go get him.”

  He’s standing at the edge of the clearing, his back to the cabin, watching the sun dip lower and lower toward the horizon. The sun is minutes from hitting the horizon line, and it seems like it’ll all but hiss and steam as it does. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow.

  He feels me, or hears me. Turns. One hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging at his side. His eyes devour me, and then flit up to the sky. “Hear that?”

  I smirk, tilt my head. “No?”

  “The stars. They’re weeping for your beauty.”

  I would bite my lip, but I don’t want to ruin my lipstick. I’m tempted to mention the wig, but that was just for me, I think.

  I just shake my head. “This is all so incredible, Wes.”

  He smiles, takes my hand. “It’s not over yet. The main course is this way.” He leads me around behind the cabin and into the forest, a stand of towering cedars and pine. There’s a path carpeted with wood chips and lined with small stones, lit every dozen feet or so with torches. The path curves through the trees, and we walk for a hundred yards or so, maybe a little more, and then the path opens and the trees end, and we’re in another clearing, with the cliff and the sea to our left, a wide sward of knee-high grass to our right, running half a mile or so before meeting the forest which runs away into the distance. The clearing is smooth and flat, perhaps sloping a bit toward the sea. In the center, a few feet away, is a small round table, draped with a floor-length white cloth, set for two. There’s a single red rose, and tall candle in an ornate silver candleholder, the wick lit and flickering, dancing sideways in the low breeze. A dozen or so yards from the table is a temporary shelter, like you’d see set up at a charity footrace for registration. In it, a long table with cooking gear—a camp stove, some Bunsen burner warmers, and a pair of coolers, the interior lit with white LED lanterns hanging from all four corners. A man and woman in the black slacks, white shirts, and white aprons of professional chefs, complete with the fancy hats. They’re busily at work, moving in practiced concert, chatting to each other, laughing, reaching around each other and switching places and adding ingredients, never missing a step. It’s a dance, it seems to me.

  There’s nothing else. Just the table, the chef station, the trees, and the sea.

  “This is…incredible,” I murmur to Wes. “You did this?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I had it done—there’s a significant difference. Credit for execution goes to Jen. But, I had it done for you. For us.”

  I can barely breathe.

  “You promised me magic and romance, and you are really delivering.”

  He gestures at the table. “Shall we sit?”

  I can’t help but nibble on my lower lip, a habit from childhood that I can’t seem to break. “Um, can we go to the edge, first? I want to see before it’s too dark.”

  “Sure.” He takes my hand and we walk to the cliff’s edge.

  Far, far below, the ocean hurls itself relentlessly against the sheer rock face, the waves little more than tiny white ripples from here. He holds me by the waist as I peer out over the edge, until vertigo has me stepping backward. From here, a safe distance from the edge, we watch the sun, now a scarlet circle at which I can almost directly look, is less than a finger’s breadth from the horizon. We watch in silence as it touches the horizon, and slowly sinks, sinks.

  The clatter of the chefs and their low conversation has quieted, and Wes turns to look over his shoulder—they’re standing side by side, now, just outside the shelter.

  “I think dinner is ready,” he says.
r />   I smile and roll my shoulders. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  He holds my chair for me, sliding it under me as I sit, and then takes his own seat. With a flourish, the male chef deposits a dish before me—it’s not quite a bowl, but neither is it exactly a plate.

  “Gnocchi Pomodoro,” he says, with a distinct Italian accent. “The gnocchis I make myself, this morning, and the sauce we make from scratch as well.”

  There are balls of fresh mozzarella floating in the sauce with the gnocchi, and hints of basil and rosemary. The female chef presents Wes with an identical dish, and in the center of the table is a wicker basket lined with a white linen napkin, containing garlic bread. No store-bought, oven-warmed, freezer section bread, this—it’s got a thick crumbly crust and cloud-soft interior, flecked with herbs and dripping with butter and redolent with fresh garlic.

  There are goblets containing sparkling water with wedges of lime, and a bottle in a silver stand, surrounded by ice, as if it were a top dollar bottle of champagne.

  “How did you know Italian food is my favorite?” I ask, my voice low.

  He grins. “Who doesn’t love pasta? But also, you mentioned pizza was your favorite, and it’s not a far stretch from pizza to pasta. Plus, I know you well enough to know you’d enjoy good simple food more than something fancy and ridiculous. And what could be better than this?” He grins at the chefs. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”

  They bow at the waist, return to the shelter.

  “So Italian is your favorite?” he asks.

  I nod as I scoop gnocchi into my mouth—the sauce explodes with flavor, and the dumplings are soft, slightly chewy, and perfect. “Our longest trip was to Italy, and of all the places we’ve been, it was by far my favorite.” I grin. “Mostly because of the food.”

  We talk as we eat, discussing favorite places we’ve been—for me, it’s Venice, for him, Dublin. We talk traveling by train, how much we hate airport security.

  Talking to him has always been easy, and now it’s easier than ever. The candle flickers, and as the sun sets to my left and his right, the candle provides more and more illumination, bathing our faces in soft yellow dancing light. Evening falls, turns to night. Conversation shifts, and the topic matters less than the experience. It’s cool, but not cold. The air still holds a hint of warmth. There’s Wes, and his kind, warm, attentive eyes, and his way of listening to me as if I’m the only thing that has ever existed for him.

  We finish the entree and chat more as we munch on the bread.

  The chefs return, presenting between us with the same artful flourish a massive slice of flourless chocolate cake with a gooey center and a rich ganache exterior, the rim of the plate decorated with chocolate-dipped strawberries.

  The moon lifts above the horizon, a delicate crescent amid a wash of countless bright stars.

  Finally, in full dark, lit only by the moon and the stars and a single candle, we finish the last of the cake and sit together in silence, listening to the sea shushing and crashing. Something flits overhead with a rustle of wings.

  The chefs are lit by cell phone glow, the lamps now off.

  The torches flicker in the forest, lighting the way to the cabin.

  I can stand it no longer. “Wes?” My voice is low, hesitant. I reach across the table and clutch his fingers. “I’m ready for the next part.”

  I can see his smile in the darkness—he keeps hold of my hand and draws me around the table to his side. “Let’s go, then.”

  The chefs see us standing up, and greet us with bows and flourishes, old-world grace and elegance. Wes thanks them, and then, keeping me tucked against his side, arm over my shoulder and around my waist, he leads us across the grass. The breeze is cool, now, pressing against my cheek and my side, molding my dress to my thigh.

  “Are you cold?” Wes asks.

  I’m not, or at least, not uncomfortably so, but I’ve always wanted to have a man drape his suit coat over my shoulders, so I nod. It’s heavy and warm from his body. His shirt is white and bright in the dark.

  We’re under the canopy of the forest and lit by the torches now, bathing everything in a dancing orange glow. I smell woodsmoke—the trail curves to reveal the cabin, and a thin stream of smoke trickles from the chimney.

  We pause at the door. I gaze up at Wes, and I know my adoration is glowing in my eyes.

  “Are you happy?” he asks, his voice a whisper, a murmur. “Has today been everything you hoped?”

  I lick my lips and smile up at him. “I’m happy. More than happy.” I touch my palms to his chest, feel his heart beating under my palm; it slams hard and fast, mirroring my own frantic pulse. “Is it everything I hoped? So far.”

  His grin is hot, playful. “So far, huh?”

  I shrug. Demure, flirty. “So far.”

  His hands clutch and roam, one scraping down my back from shoulder blades to buttocks, the other rubbing over my scalp from forehead to nape, and then, hands at neck and bottom, he pulls me even tighter against his body and I feel his need for me and his attraction to me rising between our bodies.

  “There something else you’re hoping to get from this day?” he asks, his lips moving against mine.

  “Uh-huh,” I murmur. “I admit there is.”

  “And what would that be, Miss Park?”

  I endeavor to wipe the laugh from my lips, hold a serious face. “I really wanted to play Go Fish.”

  He stares at me, and then bursts out laughing. “Is that so? Go Fish, huh? I admit, I wasn’t planning for that. I could see if they have a deck of cards here somewhere.”

  I rest my forehead against his chin. “Wes, don’t tease me anymore. Please. Just…kiss me. And don’t stop. Not ever.”

  He lets out a breath. “I just like making you laugh.”

  He cups my face in his strong hands and tilts my head back, and he brushes his lips on mine. It’s not a kiss—it’s a warning. An invitation. I accept, greedily, tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling him down to me, claiming his mouth with eager fervor. We stumble, and twist, and the rough wood of the door presses against my back and he’s huge and blocking out the night and his mouth is hungry on mine, tongue demanding entrance to my mouth and I taste chocolate on his breath.

  As eager as I am for more, I slow my expectations and settle my attention on this moment. Stop the procession of time in my soul, savor this. Ensconce my soul in this memory.

  Westley Britton—he is mine and I am his.

  I am Jolene Park, and I am alive. My blood sings in my veins. My flesh blazes with electric heat, afire from his touch.

  There is only pleasure, all my senses alive with the beauty and wonder of this tumble and soar into the everything of us. His body, all hard lines and angles and muscle; his mouth on mine, kissing and kissing until my breath is his and the kiss is all; his hands owning my body, mine discovering his all anew. Breath and touch and skin.

  I feel his hand leave my hip, hear the door unlock. He presses into me and I step backward and step backward. My eyes open briefly even though our lips are still locked in the kiss, and I see his face ultra-close and his eyes are open too, and we laugh. Pull apart. He nudges the door closed with his foot. The fireplace crackles, and I notice for the first time a thick fur rug in front of it. Through the open door of the bedroom, I see firelight flickering yellow-orange on the bed, indicating there’s a fire there, too. Rose petals are scattered across the bed.

  This is real.

  It’s for me.

  This man, this night.

  Giddy, overwhelmed with wonder and joy and gratitude, I laugh with something like disbelief and incredulity and excitement. I lean into him and kiss him, and he laughs into the kiss and we stumble toward the fireplace and the thick fur of the rug is under my feet and then there’s no more laughing, only fire and fury of building need. Desire rages in me. I want him. I want…everything. I want to know, this night, what it is to be fully loved.

  I pull back the frantic pace in my mind.
There’s no rush.

  I swallow and part my lips from his. Push the jacket from his shoulders. As it falls, I tug the end of his bowtie and discard that. The vest, next. He watches me, hands on my hips. I unbutton his shirt, slowly, and then undo his cuffs and scrape the shirt off him and it billows to the floor, and there’s another layer—an undershirt. It lasts mere moments before joining the other garments on the floor. Belt. He kicks off his shoes, wobbles as he balances on one foot and then the other, using his toes to hook off his socks.

  I pause to kiss him again, stoking the fire in my belly. But this only makes my skin tingle and makes my hands greedy for him, and I lean into him and kiss him and I open his slacks and unzip them and they fall, and he kicks them away. I fill my hands with his flesh, scouring shoulder muscle and the hard plane of his abs and the angles of his hips, and I need more and I need him and I take what I want. I curl my fingers into elastic and finish stripping him.

  Clutch his arousal.

  He groans, and the kiss breaks, and he pulls away.

  “My turn,” he whispers.

  Steps back half a step, and instead of removing my dress, just looks at me. Drinks in this picture of me, in a gown, made up, more beautiful than I’ve ever been. His eyes speak poems of my beauty. He cups the back of my neck, and his lips touch my throat. I gasp. His fingers scrape over my scalp, making me shudder. Those fingers trail now down the back of my neck. To my bare shoulders. Lower, to the zipper at my spine. His lips dance down from my throat and kiss my breastbone. His hands cup my breasts over the bodice.

  “You are so beautiful, Jo,” he murmurs.

  “Thank you.”

  Do you know how hard it is to simply accept a compliment, instead of playing it off, or deflecting it, or returning it?

  Tonight, in this moment, it’s easy.

  I feel beautiful.

  It’s priceless.

  He kisses my flesh, the small plump mounds of my breasts in the cups of the dress, and his fingers tug down the zipper, and thus loosened, the garment falls to the floor around my feet.

  His breath catches. “Why, Jolene—you’re a bold little minx, aren’t you?”