The Wish. Diane Pershing

likely.

      But then…how…? Was she really here, back through the time-space continuum, to exactly one week ago?

      There was one sure way to check it out. She ran her fingertips over her cheekbone. No pain, no swelling. The shop’s round security mirror hung just to her left, so she leaned in to peruse her image. Nope, no discoloration or bruises. Just her extremely average face, with its hazel eyes, pale eyelashes and brows, a sprinkling of freckles across an average nose, a mouth of no particular distinction, except it wasn’t too large or too small.

      But no swelling or redness in the least. The evidence of her accident had been with her all week, but right now, there was none. And her sprained ankle? To make sure, she put her weight on her right foot as she balanced on the ladder rung. No pain, no weakness there.

      So, then it was the week before. Had to be.

      Her mind reeled, searching and discarding one more time, all kinds of other theories: sci-fi ones like an alternate universe or a time machine, mathematical ones like relativity gone berserk, malformed logarithms. Logical explanations like…

      None. There were none, no other explanation. Except the one that she knew, in her gut, was the one.

      The magic glasses worked. Her wish had been granted. Period, end of discussion.

      It was like someone had pressed the rewind button on a videotape, to the beginning, instead of fast forwarding to the end, which in her case had been the dreadful dinner dance and her making a total fool of herself.

      She would get to do the week over.

      She closed her eyes. Thank you, thank you, thank you! There was to be a reprieve from Gerri the klutz, the social misfit, the tall, brainy woman unfit to be on the arm of Terrance Wallace III. Now, cautiously, she even allowed a small ray of hope to shine inside. Maybe, if she was very careful, and paid a lot of attention to her behavior this week, maybe, just maybe, the prince would finally notice the existence of the right princess for him, even though she’d been part of his universe for what seemed like years and he hadn’t gotten the message yet.

      Only one year, of course, since Rance had come into her shop, searching for a coffee-table book for his uncle’s birthday, but in that year, Gerri’s fantasies and dreams had been filled with him.

      The subject of her thoughts was complaining again. “I don’t know what kind of distraction I can give Mother this time. I don’t intend to marry yet, if ever. And any grandchildren are way in the future. I’m only thirty-two, for Pete’s sake.”

      “Maybe you should tell her that.”

      “That I’m thirty-two?”

      She grinned down at him. “That marriage is way in your future. You’re pretty independent, so let her know.”

      “Done it and done it. Doesn’t get through. Hey,” Rance said with a speculative gleam in his eye, “you and I would have great kids, know that? With my looks, which I’m told are passable, and your brains, which are off the scale, the kid would be a major winner. Mother would finally shut up.”

      On that previous Friday night, the one before “the wish,” Rance’s remark—even tossed off as lightly and mockingly as it had been—threw her. She’d been flattered that he’d even thought of her as a woman. In fact, her always-overactive brain had conjured up a picture of the physical act involved in making children. With Rance.

      That graphic image had made her lose her balance. She’d slipped off the ladder, bruised her cheek on one of the rungs and had badly sprained her ankle. For the entire next week, she’d had to wear an Ace bandage and soak her foot morning and night. She’d missed riding her horse Ruffy, missed her nice morning visits with Des, hadn’t seen or heard from him all that week, in fact, until he’d called up on Friday afternoon and casually suggested they grab a sandwich together that evening.

      And last week, needless to say, she’d looked awful at the ball.

      Not this time, Gerri told herself. This time she would get to do it right.

      “You know,” she found herself replying to Rance with a lightness that matched his, “a famous actress once said something like that to George Bernard Shaw. She suggested they have children together because with her looks and his brains, their offspring would rule the world. ‘But, madam,’ he replied, ‘what if they had my looks and your brains?”’

      When that got a nice chuckle from Rance, Gerri congratulated herself on reacting with sophisticated badinage instead of taking a header off the ladder. Her fingers skimmed along the spines of the books on the top shelf—where she kept the most old, rare and valuable books—until she came upon the object of her search. “Aha!” she said aloud. “Native American Origins of the Art of Tatau, by Reginald D’Olivier, Ph.D.”

      “Sounds weird.”

      “Not to those who care about skin painting,” she said, and pulled it out.

      “You’re just full of comebacks tonight, aren’t you?” Rance said, finally getting off his favorite subject of himself and grinning up at her in appreciation.

      Again, she met his gaze, noted those sea-green eyes, that slightly shaggy dark blond hair that fell rakishly over one eyebrow, that GQ model’s perfectly chiseled face. And for a brief moment, she was unable to speak.

      Then she shook herself, made herself say lightly, “I feel amusing tonight.”

      “But that book looks heavy enough to hold down a tent. Want some help?”

      No, I’ll manage.

      The words were almost past her lips, but she stopped them before they made the journey to the outside world. Of course she could do it herself, she could do everything by herself. But wasn’t this a chance to appear just a bit, well, feminine? Not helpless, not in the least, but at least willing to let the big strong man help with what men did so well—lifting things?

      This was another test, another chance to do it differently, to practice being…what?

      A flirt and a liar?

      No, to allow someone—a male someone—to help her. To not be so darned capable of taking care of herself that men rarely offered to let her lean on them.

      She closed her eyes for a moment, saying a silent prayer of thanks to whatever power had arranged for this wish. She would try to be worthy, she promised.

      She would do it right this time. “Thanks,” she told Rance. “If you’ll take the book, I can manage me.”

      Gerri stepped down a rung, carefully this time, placed the book into Rance’s outstretched hands and watched him set it down on the counter. Then turning around again, so she could keep her balance, she began to descend even more slowly and was surprised to feel two hands around her waist, helping her to the floor. As he lifted her, she waited for a telltale grunt. She might be slender, but her height made her weigh more than a typical woman.

      But he wasn’t even breathing hard as he set her down on the ground. She was afraid to turn around to thank him, afraid that his touch had set her cheeks to flaming. Due to her treacherously pale skin, she had never been able to hide it when she was embarrassed.

      “Merci,” she managed, keeping her back to him.

      “Hey, my momma raised me to be a gentleman,” he said into her ear, then turned her around to face him.

      Now her nose was two inches from his, their mouths close enough to kiss. She knew her cheeks were bright red, but she managed a dry response. “And to give her grandchildren, it seems.”

      “Ouch. Don’t remind me,” he said with a grin that was both charming and self-mocking at the same time. How was it, she wondered, that some people managed to make the smallest movement attractive, made it look so easy, when others had to struggle all the time just to appear part of the human race?

      She’d been pondering that same question since early childhood and had come