R

Be careful what you wish for...

Chloe isn’t bothered about turning thirty. She’s got a job bartending, a fun side hustle and two of the best friends any woman ever had.

What she doesn’t have is a sex life. Which would’ve been fine except for the hammer-wielding eye-candy that is contractor Jesse and his silver-fox husband, architect Knox. Hired to renovate the pub, they’re always watching her with flirty brown eyes (Jesse), smiling slow, sexy smiles (Knox), and in a fit of sexual frustration, she makes a wild and reckless birthday wish: a threesome.

But it can’t be with Jesse and Knox. So with the help of her friends, she turns to the next best thing: a sex worker. Sawyer is discreet, professional, and, best of all, she doesn’t have an inconvenient, possibly life-destroying crush on him.

When she suspects Jesse and Knox might know Sawyer, she accidentally spills the beans on her threesome dreams…dreams Jesse and Knox are more than willing to make come true.

But that inconvenient crush is turning into feelings, and Chloe starts to wonder if she’s made a terrible mistake. Because now her heart is involved, and a long-term, committed relationship with two men isn’t in the cards for this small-town girl.

Is it?

I had the most fun with this book. The sex, sure - smoking hot, and I love me a threesome - but one of the things I absolutely love writing is friendships, especially girlfriends. Chloe and Bailey and Gwen (who of course will be the subjects of books 2 and 3, in that order), are the kinds of friends everyone should have, and I love putting them on page . I was also very excited to put Sawyer in this book, a sex worker who is unashamed of his profession, and who is happily in a loving relationship of his own - and his wife Lou might be my favorite character ever. I'm kind of kicking myself for not writing HER book, because she's just the greatest. 

Chapter One

Chloe Bell knocked on the door of the hotel suite and shifted nervously, ready to apologize profusely and hurry back down the hall to the elevator when whoever opened the door asked her who the hell she was and what the hell she was doing there.

Because The Mark was the fanciest hotel in Braxton, Ohio, and it was New Year’s Eve, and even though Bailey’s text had directed her to come to the Premier Suite on the top floor, Chloe felt certain it was a mistake. Autocorrect, or maybe a drunk text, because Bailey was no more able to afford a place like this than Chloe.

And Chloe could barely afford to put gas in her car.

She tugged self-consciously at her jacket, making sure it covered the stain on her uniform shirt where she’d spilled the remnants of someone’s nachos earlier. The plate had been nearly empty and her shift nearly over, so she hadn’t bothered to change her shirt, but now she was wishing she had. The smear of bright orange stood out like a beacon, the cherry on the you don’t belong here sundae.

Her black slacks were relatively clean, and though her shoes were black, they had the thick soles and utilitarian look that screamed ‘service worker’. But they kept her feet from hurting too badly after a full shift behind the bar, and that mattered more than their appearance.

Or did, until she found herself standing in this swanky hallway, about to get thrown out for impersonating someone with money.

The thought made her snort. Nobody could mistake her for someone with money, and she could only be grateful that the front-desk staff had been too busy to question her on her skulk through the lobby. She’d thought the penthouse level would have required a special key card or code or something, but the elevator had carried her up smoothly and without incident, and now she was looking at a set of carved wooden double doors that wouldn’t have been out of place at the Vatican.

And they were opening.

She braced herself, poised to run, sure she was about to be facing some society matron who would look down her patrician, surgically sculpted nose at her and immediately call for security. Instead she let out an oof as a short, stacked white woman with bright red lips and a waterfall of ebony hair launched herself through the open doors and wrapped Chloe in an enthusiastic hug.

“I thought you’d never get here.” Bailey planted a smacking kiss on Chloe’s cheek. “What took you so long?”

“I had to work,” Chloe managed, and fought her way clear of the mass of Bailey’s hair. When she could see again, she blinked in surprise. “You got bangs.”

“New year, new hair.” Bailey gave the heavy fringe a light finger fluff, then ran her hands down her sleek fall of hair. “What do you think of the blue?”

Chloe eyed the streaks playing peek-a-boo with the thick, shoulder-length black. “Kind of subtle for you, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m turning thirty this year. I thought I’d try maturity on for size.”

“Uh-huh. Did you pick the same color as your contact lenses on purpose, or is that just a happy coincidence?”

Bailey’s eyes—naturally a pale hazel, currently a blazing cobalt thanks to the colored lenses—danced as she laughed. “Is that a serious question?”

“Sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Bailey was nothing if not purposeful. “Well, it might be subtle, but it works.”

“I know. Come on.” Bailey hooked her arm through Chloe’s and tugged. “Gwen’s already here. Where’s your bag?”

“I left it in the car. I’ll get it later.” Chloe allowed herself to be towed along, her eyes widening when they stepped into the suite. The floors were marble, the lights were crystal. The walls were a cool, minty green, a color picked up in the plush rug laid over the floor. A pair of sofas in white leather flanked a fireplace she could’ve stood in, the leaping blue flames surrounded by more marble. The art on the walls was vibrant and colorful, and the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city where snow was just beginning to fall.

“Uh, Bails?”

“What?”

“What the hell are we doing here?”

“It’s the night before your birthday,” Bailey reminded her and tugged her further into the room. The doors swung shut behind them with a subtle—and somehow expensive-sounding—click. “We always get a hotel room the night before your birthday. And my birthday, and Gwen’s birthday—”

“We always get a room at the Extended Stay Inn, or the Comfort Court, or if we’re feeling very fancy and tips have been good, maybe a B&B,” Chloe interrupted, turning in a circle to take it all in. There was a dining table against the back wall that could seat twenty, and a bar full of crystal that sparkled so bright it nearly blinded. “Which is in my budget. This is not, especially not on New Year’s Eve.”

“It’s my treat.”

“It’s not in your budget either,” Chloe pointed out. “Unless you’ve started doing high-end sex work and forgot to tell me.”

“No, but don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” Bailey said, then shrugged. “It was a gift from a client.”

“Did you help them cover up a murder?” Chloe wondered.

“No, but I helped her get a divorce.”

“Not as good as murder, but not bad,” Chloe decided. “Was it a messy divorce?”

“Oh, yeah. Does the name Dr. Dean Carmichael ring a bell?”

Eyes wide, Chloe let out a whistle. “The neurosurgeon who went to jail for beating his wife?”

“Actually, he went to jail for beating his mistress,” Bailey clarified. “That was after the divorce. Which I gather pissed him off enough he forgot to be careful.”

“How’d you get in the middle of that?”

“Jenna—that’s the wife—was one of my regulars. Every six weeks, cut and color. One day she came in with a metric fuck-ton of concealer that did not conceal a black eye.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Yeah. I knew something was up,” Bailey continued. “She never talked about him. With most clients, they get in the chair and tell you their life story. And she talked plenty, about her charity work, her sisters, her dogs. Nothing about him.”

Bailey paused to take a breath. “But that day, I don’t know why, it all comes pouring out. Long story short, he’s been abusing her their entire marriage, and she’s taken it because she didn’t see a way out. But the night before, he popped her one for something, some small thing, and it flipped a switch. She wants out.”

“Good for her,” Chloe murmured.

“Problem is, even though she’s got plenty of evidence of the abuse—plus the fact that he’s cheating on her with some intern at the hospital—she’s completely isolated. He tracks her every move, controls where she goes, who she talks to. Checks the bank account every night to make sure she doesn’t buy a stick of gum he doesn’t authorize.”

“Dick,” Chloe muttered.

“But now I know, and I’m not letting that shit slide. So we worked out a deal. I’d still do her hair, but when she paid me with the debit card I’d give it back to her in cash so she could save up for a lawyer. That way the dickhead could check the charges and not see anything off.”

“Nice,” Chloe said approvingly.

“They had a prenup, so she wasn’t thinking she’d get anything,” Bailey went on. “She just wanted out, you know? But it turns out, there was an infidelity clause.”

Chloe started to grin. “Was there, now?”

“Unfortunately for the asshole, it applied to both spouses. So Jenna got the dogs, the house, and a nice fat settlement, which includes a forty percent stake in this fine hotel. And the asshole is serving twenty-five to life for attempted murder on the mistress.”

Chloe sighed. “I love a happy ending.”

“Me too. She tried to write me a check.”

“And you wouldn’t let her,” Chloe guessed.

“I let her pay me back what I fronted her, that was fair. But getting paid for doing the right thing doesn’t sit right.”

No, it wouldn’t. Not for Bailey.

“I’d told her about our birthday tradition, one day when she was in my chair,” Bailey went on. “She remembered it, so when I turned down the money, she brought it up, offered the suite. And I figured, well, that’s a favor, and that’s different than payment.”

“A fine distinction, but an important one,” Chloe agreed and looked around the spacious room again. “I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do with all this space, though.”

“Enjoy it.” With a grin, Bailey crossed to the bar and plucked a bottle of champagne from a bucket. “See this label?”

Chloe did, and the bartender in her was doing the math. “I hope that’s complimentary.”

“All part of the package.” Bailey passed the bottle. “Open this. I’ll get the glasses.”

“Hey! How long is this stuff supposed to stay on?”

Bottle in hand, Chloe turned toward Gwen’s voice. “What’s she talking about?”

“The bleach on her hair.” Grabbing a trio of champagne flutes, Bailey shouted back, “Ten more minutes!”

“She let you bleach her hair?” Chloe asked, incredulous.

“Just the underlayer. She wants it purple.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She says she’s trying to be more adventurous.” Bailey rolled her eyes. “Come on. You gotta see the bathroom!”

Cradling the bottle of champagne like a beloved child, Chloe followed Bailey through the living area, down a short hallway, and into a bedroom that was twice the size of her whole apartment. The enormous bed was covered in a fluffy duvet the same color as the walls and piled high with pillows, a tufted bench at the foot in the same white leather as the living room sofas. Her footsteps slowed, everything in her yearning to stretch out on that lake of a bed and rest her aching feet, her tired muscles. But Bailey kept going into the adjoining bath, and after a last, longing look at the bed, Chloe followed.

She stepped inside and stopped dead. “Holy shit.”

“I know, right?” Bailey set the glasses down on the acre of countertop. “Dibs on the tub.”

“Hey.” Sitting backward on what Chloe recognized as one of the chairs from the dining table, Gwen turned to scowl at them. Freckles dotted her pale skin, and most of her chestnut-brown hair was piled on top of her head. The hairdresser’s cape wrapped around her shoulders rustled when she shoved her glasses up her nose and glared out of eyes the color of bitter chocolate. “Why do you get dibs?”

“Because I called it.” Bailey snapped on a pair of gloves and rubbed the hair at the base of Gwen’s skull, yellowed now with bleach, between two fingers. “You’re almost ready to rinse out.”

“I’m the one sitting here with noxious chemicals on my head,” Gwen protested. “Tell her she doesn’t get dibs, Chloe.”

“She called it,” Chloe said absently, taking in the rest of the bathroom. There was enough floor space to line dance, the glassed-in shower could’ve fit the Detroit Lions offensive line, and Bailey was going to be able to swim laps in the tub. “Okay, weird question. There’s a toilet, right?”

“In there,” Bailey said, pointing.

Chloe poked her head behind the smoked glass partition. “Ooh, a toilet and a bidet!”

“Really?” Gwen turned to look, then jerked back. “Ow! You’re ripping out my hair.”

“Then stay still,” Baily advised. “Okay, let’s rinse.”

“How?” Gwen wanted to know.

“Good question.” Bailey eyed the sink. “Can you bend over backwards?”

“What is this, Cirque du Soleil? No, I can’t bend over backwards.”

Bailey planted her hands on curvy hips. “Well, then we’re going to have to do this in the shower so I don’t get bleach in your eyes.”

“We’re not doing it in the shower,” Gwen protested. “The bleach will run down into my hoo-ha.”

Bailey rolled her eyes. “It will not. If anything, it will roll down into your butt crack.”

“I don’t want that, either.”

“Bleached assholes are all the rage, but fine. We’ll put a towel around you.”

Gwen’s eyes went wide behind her glasses. “Bleached assholes?”

“Why can’t you lie down on the counter?” Chloe interrupted. “There’s enough room, right?”

Gwen blinked. “Oh. Good idea.”

“That’ll work,” Bailey decided. “But first, we need a toast. You gonna open that bottle or what?”

“On it.” Chloe peeled off the foil and the wire. “Glasses ready?”

Bailey snatched them up. “Ready.”

Holding the bottle in one hand by the neck, she took a firm grip on the cork and with a practiced twist and yank, pulled the cork free with a celebratory pop. Wine bubbled over, and Bailey shoved a glass under the flow.

Chloe filled the glasses, then set the bottle down. “What are we drinking to?”

Bailey held up her glass. “Our thirtieth year.”

“Technically, we’re already in our thirtieth year. Years,” Gwen corrected.

“We turn thirty this year,” Bailey reminded her.

“Yes, but this is our thirtieth year. See, when you were a baby, before you turned one, that was your first year. Then when you were one, that was your second year. And when you turned three—”

“Jesus Christ, whatever. To our thirty-first year, then.”

“And new hair,” Gwen added, raising her glass. “I think.”

“It’s going to look amazing,” Bailey assured her.

“To taking new risks,” Chloe chimed in.

“Which reminds me, you’re getting new hair, too,” Bailey said.

Chloe started to voice an instinctive protest, then shrugged. “What the hell. New year, new risks, new hair.”

“This feels like a ‘famous last words moment’,” Gwen commented, “but I’ll drink to that.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bailey cheered over the ring of crystal as they tapped glasses, then downed the champagne.

“Hey, hey,” Gwen protested. “You can’t get drunk until you finish my hair.”

“Relax, one glass of bubbly isn’t going to impair me.” Bailey patted the countertop. “Come on, let’s get you rinsed out so I can get your color on.”

Gwen stood. “It’s going to be subtle, right?”

“Trust me,” Bailey said.

Gwen just stared for a second, then drained her glass and passed it to Chloe. “Fill me back up. I’m going to need it.”

Chloe eyed the gleam in Bailey’s eyes. “Me too,” she decided.

 

* * * *

 

Forty-five minutes and three glasses of champagne later, Chloe was sitting in the chair in front of the mirror, trying not to panic.

“Stop hunching your shoulders,” Bailey ordered.

“Sorry,” Chloe said, flinching at the snick of the scissors. “Shit. Sorry.”

Bailey’s exasperated sigh echoed off the marble. “You can open your eyes, you know.”

Chloe started to shake her head, then thought better of it. “No, I can’t.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my hair looks really good,” Gwen piped up. “You can hardly see the purple.”

“Because you chickened out,” Bailey accused. “If you can barely see it, then what was the damn point?”

“I know it’s there,” Gwen declared loftily. “And that’s enough.”

“Maybe I should just get a trim,” Chloe began, clutching her champagne glass harder. “You know, start small.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Bailey said. “What happened to new year, new risks?”

“I changed my mind?”

“No, you didn’t. You’re just panicking.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’m surrounded by chickens,” Bailey muttered. “Do you want me to stop?”

Chloe started to say yes, then hesitated. “Do you promise it’s going to look good?”

“I’ve been cutting your hair for ten years. Have I ever made you look bad?”

Chloe bit her lip. “No.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but I’m scared.”

“Yeah, well, suck it up.”

Gwen snorted. “Nice pep talk.”

“Shut up, chicken. Am I stopping or not?” Bailey demanded.

“No.” Chloe thrust out the champagne flute she was clutching. “Fill me up.”

“Fill her up,” Bailey ordered and resumed snipping.

 

* * * *

 

“Maybe it’s the four glasses of champagne talking, but this is a good haircut.”

“Told you,” Bailey said smugly and popped a grape in her mouth.

They were in the living room, a fire in the fireplace and the fruit and cheese tray sent up by room service spread out on the coffee table. The second bottle of champagne they’d found in the bar lay empty on the rug, and Chloe was sprawled next to it, examining her reflection in the silver bucket.

“I mean, it’s short.”

“Really short,” Gwen chimed in from one of the sofas and nibbled on a wedge of aged Gouda.

“Stop trying to freak her out,” Bailey said. She was lying on the other sofa, her feet propped on a stack of pillows as she studied the room service menu. “Let’s order oysters.”

“I’m not trying to freak her out,” Gwen protested. “You think she can’t see it’s short?”

“I know she can see it, but if you keep talking about it, it’s going to freak her out. What about the oysters?”

“I’ve never had oysters. Are they good?”

“They’re slimy,” Chloe answered, still examining her hair. Her shoulder-length blonde tresses had been reduced to a short, shaggy cap. Spikey bangs dipped down to flirt with her eyebrows, somehow making her blue eyes look bigger, and she’d have sworn her mouth looked fuller. “It’s kinda punky, this haircut.”

“You should let me color it pink,” Bailey told her. “And oysters are not slimy. They’re delicious.”

“Now who’s freaking her out?” Gwen muttered.

“Does my mouth look fuller?” Chloe wanted to know. “I feel this haircut makes my mouth look fuller.”

“I don’t think so,” Gwen said, leaning over to peer into Chloe’s face. “But your cheekbones look cheekbonier.”

Chloe beamed. “Really?”

“You’re both drunk,” Bailey decided and reached for the phone on the end table. “I’m ordering oysters.”

“It’s almost midnight,” Gwen protested. “You can’t order food at midnight.”

Bailey was already dialing. “Five-star hotels have twenty-four-hour room service.”

“Oh, cool. Then get me some fries. And a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“It’s almost midnight?” Chloe struggled to sit up. “I have to make my birthday wish.”

“S’ok. You have, like, ten minutes,” Gwen assured her.

“Oh.” Chloe flopped back onto the floor. “Okay.”

Gwen rolled belly-down on the sofa so she could look down at Chloe. “Is it a good wish?”

Chloe smiled dreamily at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “It’s a great wish.”

Bailey hung up the phone. “Food’s on the way. They said half an hour. What are we talking about?”

Chloe struggled to sit again. “Did you order me a club sandwich?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t say you wanted one.”

Chloe pouted. “I always want a club sandwich.”

Bailey rolled her eyes and reached for the phone again.

“Tell me what it is,” Gwen prodded.

“It’s a sandwich with turkey and bacon and cheese with lettuce and tomato and a third pieced of bread in the middle—”

“Not that,” Gwen interrupted. “The wish.”

“Not until midnight. It doesn’t count until midnight.”

Bailey hung up the phone. “Okay, your club sandwich is ordered. What are we talking about?”

“She won’t tell me what her wish is.”

“Not until midnight,” Chloe repeated. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Must be a good wish,” Bailey commented. “Is there any more champagne?”

“No. We finished the second bottle.”

Bailey lurched up from the couch. “I’m seeing what else we have. We have to have something to toast with at midnight.”

“Give me a hint,” Gwen urged Chloe as Bailey rummaged through the bar. “One word.”

“No,” Chloe said, giggling. “You have to wait until midnight.”

“Can we toast with blackberry brandy?” Bailey called.

“I’ll throw up,” Chloe called back.

“What about absinth?”

“We’ll go blind,” Gwen protested.

“I think that’s a myth,” Chloe told her.

“It also tastes gross.”

“Fair.”

Bailey came back with a bottle of Kahlúa. “Give me your glasses.”

Gwen grimaced. “Coffee liquor? For a toast?”

“You lushes guzzled all the champagne, so I don’t want to hear any bitching.” Snatching the glasses, Bailey poured a shot into each, then set the bottle aside. “Okay, Chloe. Make your wish.”

Chloe patted her pockets one-handed. “What time is it? Who’s got a phone?”

“Here’s mine.” Bailey picked up her phone from the coffee table. “Two minutes to twelve. Close enough.”

“No, I have to make the wish exactly at midnight. It won’t come true otherwise.”

“Fine.” Bailey tapped the phone screen, then held it up to show the clock counting down. “Happy?”

“Yes, thank you.” Watching the numbers tick down, Chloe wiggled to get comfortable. “I’m nervous.”

“Why?” Gwen wanted to know. “We do this every year.”

“I know, but…” Chloe bit her lip. “I really want this wish to come true.”

Bailey and Gwen exchanged glances. “Do you have any clue what she’s talking about?” Bailey asked.

“None. How much time is left?”

“Twenty-four seconds.”

“This is killing me,” Gwen muttered and lifted her glass to her lips. “Hmm. Kahlúa’s not bad. Do we have ice cream?”

“I could call room service again.”

“They’re going to hate us.” Gwen peered at the clock. “Ten seconds, Chloe.”

“Okay.” Chloe raised her glass. “For my thirtieth birthday, I, Chloe Elizabeth Bell, wish for…”

“What?” Gwen demanded.

“Spill it,” Bailey ordered.

“A threesome,” Chloe finished as the timer went off, the bells of the alarm clanging to ring in the new year. Chloe tipped back her glass and drank while Bailey and Gwen stared at her in open-mouthed shock.

 

Wish I May is a polyamorous romance, and aside from the obviousso obviously there are multiple romantic partners. However, there's no cheating, and everything is being done with everyone's knowledge and consent. There's also a sex-worker in this book, a full service escort, and frank discussion of same. There's also some discussion of past spousal abuse involving a character who does not appear on page, and  family tension around the polyamorous nature of the relationship.

Wish I May is the first book in the Three Wishes Trilogy. It features two happily married bisexual men open to adding a third to their relationship, a very horny woman open to being a third, and a cast of supporting characters that include a sex worker and his ball-busting wife, two supportive best friends, and lesbian bar owning aunts. And of course, a happily ever after.