Three Wishes Read Free Page A

contented herself with catching what bits of gossip she could about restoration of the bungalow on West Elm.
    None of those bits came from Tom Gates. He wasn’t sociable. Good-looking. Very good-looking. Too good-looking to be alone. But not sociable.
    â€œHere you go,” Bree said. When he moved his book aside, she slid the plate in. She wiped her palms on the back of her jeans and pushed her hands in the pockets there. “Reading anything good?”
    His eyes shifted from his dinner back to the book. “It’s okay.”
    She tipped her head to see the title, but the whole front looked to be typed. “Weird cover.”
    â€œIt hasn’t been published yet.”
    â€œReally? How’d you get it?”
    â€œI know someone.”
    â€œThe author?” When he shook his head, the diner’s light shimmered in hair that was shiny, light brown, and a mite too long. “Are you a reviewer?” she asked.
    He shifted. “Not quite.”
    â€œJust an avid reader, then,” she decided. Not that he looked scholarly. He was too tanned, too tall, too broad in the shoulders. Coming and going, he strode. Flash bet that he was a politician who had lost a dirty election and fled. Dotty bet he was a burned-out businessman, because Earl told of mail from New York. LeeAnn bet he was an adventurer recouping after a tiring trek.
    Bree could see him as an adventurer. He had that rugged look. His buying a house in town didn’t mean much. Even adventurers needed to rest sometimes, but they didn’t stay put for long. Panama bored men who loved risk. This one would be gone before long.
    It was a shame, because Tom Gates had great hands. He had long, lean, blunt-tipped fingers and moved them in a way that suggested they could do most anything they tried. Bree had never once seen dirt under his nails, which set him apart from most of the men who ate here, and while he didn’t have the calluses those men did, his hands looked well used. He had cut himself several months back and had needed stitches. The scar was nearly two inches long and starting to fade.
    â€œI just finished the new Dean Koontz,” she said. “Have you read it yet?”
    He was studying his fork. “No.”
    â€œIt’s pretty good. Worth a shot. Can I get you anything else? Another beer?” She hitched her chin toward the long-neck on the far side of his plate. “You know that’s local, don’t you? Sleepy Creek Pale. It’s brewed down the street.”
    His eyes met hers. They were wonderfully gray. “Yes,” he said. “I do know.”
    She might have been lured by those eyes to say something else, had not the front door opened just then to a flurry of flakes and the stamping boots of four truckers. Shaking snow from heads and jackets, they called out greetings, slapped the palms of the men in seventeen, and slid into sixteen, which meant they were Bree’s.
    â€œNothing else?” she asked Tom Gates again. When he shook his head, she smiled. “Enjoy your meal.” Still smiling, she walked on down the line. “Hey, guys, how’re you doin’?”
    â€œCold.”
    â€œTired.”
    â€œHungry.”
    â€œA regular round for starters?” she asked. When the nods came fast, she went to the icebox on the wall behind the counter, pulled open the shiny steel door, and extracted two Sleepy Creek Pales, one Sleepy Creek Amber, and a Heineken. Back at the booth, she fished a bottle opener from the short black apron skimming her hips and did the honors.
    â€œAhhhhh,” said John Hagan after a healthy swallow. “Good stuff on a night like this.”
    Bree glanced out the window. “How many inches would you say?”
    â€œFour,” John answered.
    â€œNah, there’s at least eight,” argued Kip Tucker.
    â€œHeaded to twenty,” warned Gene Mackey for the benefit of a passing, predictably gullible