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Authors: Alyssa Goodnight

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BOOK: Austentatious
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“I bought this journal here a couple of weeks ago. It was on the table with some old novels and brass candle snuffers ... ?” Her only reaction was to lift the reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and settle them on her nose. “I’m not, by any means, knowledgeable about antiques, but this little book seems like it’s something special.” Talk about your understatements. “I confess, my curiosity is piqued, and I wondered if you could tell me anything about it—where you got it, any history, anything ... special?”
I turned my head slightly, my eyes darting around in their search for Beck.
“I’m surprised I remember it.” The words had me whipping my eyes back around to focus on the shop owner. “But I do. It was a bit of a stowaway, tucked in the drawer of a lovely boudoir table I purchased from an elderly bachelor over in Fredericksburg during Trade Days.”
A muffled noise from Beck, behind me and a little to the right, had me shooting her a curious glance. She was petting a stuffed and smiling armadillo that was poised over a backgammon board with one white chip clutched in its claws. I turned back, smiling to smooth over the interruption, fairly drooling for more information.
The shopkeeper dragged her disapproving gaze from Beck and refocused it on me before finally shifting it down to settle on the journal. “As it was empty and rather nondescript, I assumed the seller wouldn’t quibble to have it back.”
She, in turn, hadn’t quibbled about selling it to me for ten dollars.
“Could you tell me the approximate age of the table?” Not that it mattered—the journal could easily be older or newer—but I felt compelled to come away with a little something more than a stowaway that had escaped a bachelor in Fredericksburg.
“I dated it as early 1920s.”
“What about the man? Do you keep records of that sort?”
“I assume you’re not referring to his age,” she inquired drily.
“No! No, no, no. Well, honestly, anything you can tell me might be helpful,” I backpedaled.
“Surely there’s little to tell about a small blank book.” She was clearly puzzled—and cranky. I could see the tight little lines around her lips, where coral lipstick was fanning into a prickly mess.
Instinctively, I slid the journal under my arm, shielding it from view.
Tripping forward on the exposed end of a rolled-up carpet stashed behind a pair of French-looking chairs, Beck materialized beside me and blurted, “We were actually wondering if you had anything else like it, stashed in another drawer somewhere.”
I jabbed my elbow into her side and smiled my friendliest trust-me smile. “She’s joking.” I stepped forward, hoping to draw the woman’s doubtful eyes away from Beck. “I’d just like to talk to the gentleman in Fredericksburg. All I’d need is his name and number ... ?”
“It’s not really our policy.”
“Just this once? As a ‘Purveyor of Curious Goods,’ you have to sympathize with someone curious about the goods, right?” Beck had stepped forward once again to present this ingenious argument, but the Purveyor was not impressed. In fact, she was frowning.
“This is highly irregular, and while I won’t give out contact information, I will call and briefly inquire about the book. Who knows? He may even ask to have it returned to him.” Now she smirked, and I had to dig deep to keep from sticking my tongue out.
Climbing down off her stool, her lips set in a disapproving line, she moved to the other side of the wraparound counter, her sensible heels clicking on the painted concrete flooring. Beck and I exchanged a quick low five and some facial acrobatics as she tapped away on the shop’s computer. When she lifted the phone to dial, I gestured wildly to Beck to move closer and scam the name and number from the computer screen. Miraculously, Beck’s awkward lunge away from the counter and subsequent tussle with an umbrella stand went unnoticed as the Purveyor replaced the phone in its cradle and turned grimly back to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearly anything but. “There was no answer.” Her smile was so brittle I was afraid it might shatter. Clearly we wouldn’t be getting any more help from her. At least not on the up-and-up.
With a quickly tossed-off thank you, I grabbed Beck’s arm and pulled her toward the door, exerting a determined yank when she reached for the top volume of a stack of scuffed-up books near the door.
“What?” she demanded, after the door had swung shut behind us. “Why couldn’t we stay and look?” She dusted her hands on her rear end, and I reached into my purse in search of antibacterial gel.
“I think it’s a pretty safe bet she doesn’t have another one, Beck.” I offered her a squirt. “Armadillos are filthy,” I said by way of explanation.
“A little wishful thinking never hurt anyone, Nic. Remember that,” she said, holding her hand out.
“I’d like to see some proof,” I countered, taking a precautionary squirt for myself. The pair of us walked down the sidewalk, rubbing our hands together like a pair of evil geniuses with a plan. Mwa-ha-ha.
“So,” I prompted, “did you get the number?”
Beck tapped her temple. “Ten digits, all accounted for. Got a piece of paper?”
I reached back into my purse and pulled out a cherry red Moleskine notebook, handing it over along with a ballpoint pen.
“His name is Elijah Nelson,” she said, handing back notebook and pen. “When are we gonna call him?”
Suddenly I felt a compelling need to ground us both in a little reality. “You know he may be the next step in this spontaneous little scavenger hunt, but I have a feeling he’s also the dead end. And then that’s it, it’s over, because he’s our only lead.”
We walked in silence for a few steps, and then Beck dipped her voice James Earl Jones low and intoned, “There is another,” then adding, “Nic, I am your mentee.” I turned to look at her, a dubious smile curving my lips. Apparently we’d moved on from
Lord of the Rings
to
Star Wars
. She bumped her shoulder against mine and cryptically suggested, “And it’s totally up to you whether this ‘other lead’ fizzles or not.”
“I don’t get it.”
“
You’re
the other lead, Nic. The magic is meant for you. The question is, are you going to do anything about it? Are you going to follow this lead, take the advice, go crazy, and have a little adventure?” Before I could respond, she was at it again. “It’s lookin’ like there’s probably no logical explanation. You can admit that, right?” I nodded halfheartedly in agreement, still fervently wishing for a miracle. “So, you’d have to believe a little, take the whole mind-blowing situation on faith. Can you do that? Because if you can’t, you’re wasting it—the journal and your chance at a little magic.”
Back in Jo’s parking lot, Beck stepped away from me toward a vintage baby blue Mustang convertible parked a little askew. “Think about it, okay? This is big, Nic—a whopper. Don’t waste it.”
I couldn’t answer, could barely breathe at the urgency choking my throat. Was she right? Was it possible that my future happiness hinged on something I couldn’t understand, believe, or even get my mind around? It was like this was a test, and I didn’t know the answer. I’d
always
known the answers—I’d planned my whole life; I’d been so meticulous, ready for every contingency, every detour. And yesterday I’d had the rug—quite possibly the ground—pulled out from under me.
Beck honked as she pulled past me out of the parking lot, calling over the motor, “You’ve gotta pick a side, Nic.”
She was right, I did. I had to make a conscious decision to cling to normalcy or cross over to the Weird side, backseat my skepticism, and give the journal and its matchmaking Fairy Jane a fair, fighting chance.
It appeared I’d already made my decision, at least subconsciously. Because if not, then what was I doing? Why was I still writing out messages to a chatty little journal and then urgently checking for its reply? Maybe because I
wanted
to believe—just a little—that magic might be possible?
A reckless, fizzy zing skittered through my body, one part excitement, one part queasiness, and I wondered, fleetingly, if that was what magic felt like. In siding with Fairy Jane, I was letting go of both personal pride and “magical journal” prejudice, taking a chance on the unknown. I figured this was definitely “upping the ante,” and should officially classify me as a “wild woman.” I was still minus one Mr. Darcy, but maybe not for long.
5
have your cake but meet him too
I
spent the duration of what I imagine was a lovely ceremony trying to control the volume of my chattering teeth, the chilly wind feeling me up, top and bottom. I really tried to appreciate the loveliness of the setting, the enchanting live oak canopy strung up with fairy lights against the backdrop of a miniature limestone castle. . . But it was hard to be gracious with a numb ass.
I barely noticed the bride’s grand tulle’d and tiara’d entrance, but I wanted to cheer when she floated back up the aisle on the arm of her new husband, leading the way to the
indoor
reception. Thank God.
I’d lingered in front of the mirror, my bare shoulders urging me to consider that this was an outdoor wedding in early March, but I was unmoved. I couldn’t cover up the dress. The
dress
was the whole point—I’d
journaled
about the dress! Twisting and turning, feeling very fifties Hollywood glam with the peacock blue glowing warm against my winter-pale skin, my pixie haircut offset by a sweep of chocolate eyeliner and ruby red lips, I caved just a little, unable to throw caution completely to the winds, particularly chilly ones. I’d grabbed a pale gray pashmina from the bottom drawer of my dresser and, cinching it with a chunky vintage brooch, had been positively thrilled with the concession ever since.
The little castle was considerably more charming from the inside, a fire warming the air and staining the limestone walls a sumptuous shade of gold. Indulging myself in a personal, private tour, it was only moments before I spotted the cake, set off in an alcove by itself, surrounded by trim little stacks of silver-edged china and forks spread out in a fan of invitation. So this was it. This was
the
cake. Conceivably. I mean, who really knew? Even if it was, it was still only half the equation. For things to go as Fairy Jane planned, I’d need the “him” too. I wasn’t 100 percent certain that Brett was coming, or that he’d even been invited, or that I’d be able to drum up the moxie to give him my phone number. This was quite possibly
not
the cake to inspire an impromptu flirtation and a sensible romance. And yet here I was, clinging to a what-if, hoping to catch a little dandelion fluff.
Stepping determinedly away, swishing back through the maze of rooms, I paused at the coffee urn, willing to brave the bitterness in exchange for a little warmth and a caffeine buzz.
I wandered for a few moments, warming my hands on my coffee mug, hoping I’d run into Brett. My boss caught up to me near a stone fountain, his small talk a transparent gambit to confirm that I was wearing my pager. (On this dress? As if! It was in my bag.) After that there was a veritable parade of guys from work, each of them giving me the wide-eyed once-over, as if expecting I’d show up wearing my engineering lab coat and the hideous heel straps that prevent us from zapping the microcontrollers with static electricity. Made me wonder if they were just now realizing I was a girl.
And still, no Brett.
It was looking like maybe the sensible romance was still very much on hold.
I was leaning against the wall, slowly sipping my coffee, doing my best to suppress the cranky little twist of my lips after each bitter sip, trying to decide what to do next, when Brett materialized mid-grimace. I couldn’t help but wonder if our timing would always be awful, but it didn’t stop the warm fuzzy from sparking to life inside me.
“Aren’t too happy to see me, huh?” A wry grin curved his mouth just beautifully.
“It’s the coffee. Not much of a fan.”
His eyebrow lifted, asking the obvious.
“I’m driving. And after forty-five minutes spent in fifty-degree weather wearing this dress, I needed to warm up.” I let my pashmina slide a bit, mostly for Brett’s benefit, but also because I was finally starting to get a little toasty.
He didn’t seem to notice. “So were you planning to come upstairs?”
“There’s an upstairs?” I had no idea.
“There’s a spiral staircase just past the bar.”
“There’s a bar?” I teased, beginning to wish I had a designated driver of my own.
He took a sip from his dark-bottled longneck and slid his other hand into his pocket. I gave him the once-over, taking my sweet time. He looked business classy, like he knew what he was doing, both making and spending money. So sexy. Navy pin-striped suit, white dress shirt, and cornflower blue patterned tie—I just wanted to smooth my hands over everything. So instead, I curled my fingers around my warm coffee cup and tried not to let him see the whites of my knuckles. But I couldn’t stop my steady perusal. His hair was a little more artistic today and really just needed a finger run-through to de-crisp it. I could do it—pick me, pick me!
“So you wanna go up?”
“What’s going on up there?” Not that it mattered. He’d come looking, and I was more than willing to follow him, if for no other reason than to get a look at his ass in this suit.
“The party.” In response to my blank stare, he elaborated, “The band and the dance floor are upstairs, along with most of the younger crowd. The guys kept coming up, saying they saw you, but you never appeared. I volunteered to come down here and snag you.”
Ah, the group dynamic. The warm fuzzy I’d been stoking burnt out as I wondered if I’d ever be anything other than “one of the guys” to this man. I was oozing awkward with my tipped-down head, shy smile, and manic attention to my coffee cup. Maybe I would get that drink....
“I had an ulterior motive.”
My head whipped up, curiosity frothing beneath the surface.
“I wanted to be the first to ask you to dance.”
“Oh,” I said, the warm fuzzy having returned full force. “I’d love to. But first, I need to find the ladies’ room.” So I could do a private little victory dance. “I’ll see you up there.” Just before he turned, he let his eyes slide away from mine on a long, slow perusal of my girliness. And if I wasn’t mistaken, his grin was very appreciative indeed.
The ladies’ room was a stall tactic, but I took advantage of my chance in front of a mirror to touch up and adjust—and wonder if this could really be what all the buildup had been about. Maybe Fairy Jane was under the impression that I just needed a little nudge, and maybe I did. I flashed myself a confident smile before swinging out the door—
this
I could handle.
I decided to get a quick bite to eat before heading upstairs and was startled to see all that expensive food sitting alone, nary a wedding guest in sight. Feeling a bit intrepid, I finger-snagged a slick brown stuffed mushroom from a jewel-toned platter, let my head fall back, and dropped the little fungus into my mouth.
Well, that was what I intended. But somehow it missed, bumped off my chin, and tumbled ignominiously down the front of my dress. My head snapped up and started swiveling as my hand brushed the marinade from the tip of my chin. Seeing no one, I turned back toward the table, squeezed my arms against my boobs, and peered down into the cavern of my newly created cleavage. For a split second I considered pulling my bra away from my body and letting the little bugger fall to the floor. But if anyone were to see that, God knows what their imagination would conjure up. I’d get it out the way it went in. Figuring there was a good chance that the greasy little mushroom would slip through my bare fingers a second, maybe even a third time, I grabbed a napkin, spared a glance for the bride and groom’s names joined in a tangle of hearts, took a deep breath, and plunged it down between my breasts, searching.
“I would’ve done that for ye.”
A stinging whip of shock shot down my spine and ricocheted around in my stomach. I yanked my hand back out, somehow losing the napkin in the process. My eyes shifted in horror up to the man in front of me—a man I didn’t recognize, a man with a Scottish accent that in any other circumstances would make me weak in the knees—and then down to the napkin point still showing above my neckline.
I could see the headline in the company newsletter now: S
TRAIT-LACED EMPLOYEE
N
IC
J
AMES CAUGHT STUFFING HER BRA AT THE WEDDING OF A FELLOW EMPLOYEE. ALCOHOL CANNOT BE BLAMED.
Perfect.
Panting out a little puff of awkwardness—mortification really—I mumbled, “I think it’s probably better if I just ...” before turning away and diving in after the mushroom.
The second I did, I heard the click of fast approaching heels and looming voices.
“This is my daughter’s wedding,” a man’s voice rumbled. “The doctor said I could splurge a little.”
“Yes, by all means, splurge a little. But don’t let me catch you eating the crab dip by the spoonful, Henry.”
I stood, frozen in shock, staring at the archway, knowing they were only steps away from witnessing my embarrassing little search and rescue, and resigned myself to the inevitable.
But then, like a superhero, the stranger with the accent swooped in, wrapping his hand around to settle on my lower back and leaning close, blocking my little project from any and all rubberneckers. He leaned in, let his lips feather over the curl of my ear, and whispered, “Always happy to help.”
I got that this was about chivalry, but it was hard to keep that in mind with him so close, smelling so clean and spicy, a warm glow spreading slowly from the imprint of his hand. The mushroom had slipped almost entirely from my mind, but sadly not my bra.
That moment passed quickly, and in its aftermath I performed the extraction quickly and efficiently. With the mushroom safely contained in the cocktail napkin balled in my fist, the stranger and I pulled slightly apart. But his hand, still settled beneath the pashmina, shifting against the fabric of my dress, stayed. Feeling tense and a tad weirded out, I squeezed the bejesus out of that fungus, wishing for a drink to take the edge off the embarrassment.
As my new friend made polite chitchat with the bride’s parents, I let myself take a good long look. His dark brown hair was cropped close and standing up almost defiantly. His eyebrows were full, slanting over pale blue eyes, edged in sapphire and fringed with those impossibly full, dark, curled lashes that always seem to end up on men. He was clean-shaven, but I imagined the stubble was only hours away, and I had to stop myself from counting his faded freckles. Dressed in clean-lined khakis, a fuchsia oxford, and a navy blue blazer, he was a regular J.Crew poster boy. With a Scottish accent!
And here I was, the mushroom girl.
Eventually the bride’s parents filtered back toward the buffet table, and figuring it was high time, I stepped away from that warm hand and murmured a grateful, rather bemused thank you, with the oddest feeling that the awkwardness was just beginning. Curiosity was eating me alive.
“Who
are
you?”
“Sean MacInnes, little-known superhero.” He gave me a smile that hinted at something else right behind it and had me thinking of Sean Connery.
“Nicola James, impervious to the male ego.” This triggered a megawatt grin, and it was impossible not to respond with a shyer version of my own.
“How about a drink?”
“I’m driving,” I countered.
“Then how about a dance?”
I let my eyes slide away from him, poised to disengage myself.
“I really don’t think—”
“So don’t.”
That pulled my eyes right back. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t think.”
“If I had a nickel ...” It was said deliberately under my breath, and I didn’t expect him to hear it.
“I’m good for the nickel. And if you dance with me, I won’t picture you with your hand down the front of your—”
“All right!” It came out much too loudly, and I lifted my fingers to my lips to get myself back under control. Goose bumps were rising up, yet I wasn’t the slightest bit chilly. Readjusting my pashmina to hide all signs of my now-infamous bodice, I met his eyes and tilted my head to indicate he had me, but just for the one dance. “Just so you know, I’m not very good.”
He took my hand, threaded his fingers through mine. I stared dumbly at all those tangled digits but didn’t pull away. “A good partner makes all the difference,” he beckoned. “And I’m
very
good.” He winked, and my eyes strayed to the sexiest little dimple on his left cheek.
I was
so
out of my element here. He was literally zinging with that Cary Grant brand of charm that makes a girl feel not only as if she has a man’s full attention but that she totally deserves it. Trouble was I wasn’t sure I wanted it.
“If I hold you close enough, no one will notice any missteps—you’ll move with me, and we’ll be in perfect sync.”
He whispered the playful suggestion disturbingly close to my ear just before shifting his hand to the small of my back and nudging me onto the spiral staircase ahead of him. I could feel the imprint of every finger all over again, and the spark of adrenaline had me shooting up the stairs ahead of him. Knowing his head was on level with my ass all the way up had me quickening further still.
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