Authors: Alyssa Goodnight

Austentatious (8 page)

BOOK: Austentatious

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“Real men lick the icing,” he teased, his voice as velvety as his lips. “I’ll snag you a piece.”

Then he was pulling away, taking all his warmth and innuendo with him. And cathartic relief was vying with pervasive disappointment. I was just barely recovering when he was back, with one single sliver, which he handed to me.

I awkwardly offered him the first bite. He grinned wolfishly and leaned down to take it. I forked up the second bite and closed my eyes in pleasure as the feather-light cake and decadent cream filling melded on my tongue. Finally ...
cake
.

Awareness snapped at me like a live wire.
I’m having my cake.

Sean, who a moment ago had been intently watching me savor my first bite, was now looking at me curiously, probably wondering if my cake had gone down the wrong way. Sean, whom I’d just met.

Have your cake ... but meet him too.

Oh my God! How did I miss this? I was just about to follow Brett upstairs, thinking he was
him,
and then there was that damn mushroom ... and Sean. Oh my God! Is it possible the magic—or voodoo—or whatever it is—isn’t confined to the journal? Did Fairy Jane somehow flick a mushroom down my dress and finagle this whole thing merely to make me forget about Brett and ... Shit—Brett! I totally left him hanging—I never went up—Oh. My. God. I
did
go upstairs—I went up with Sean, danced with him, drooled over him ...

“Nicola, are you all right?” The concern was clear in Sean’s voice. But I couldn’t handle this right now—I didn’t want to think or explain. I just needed to go.

“I need to go.” This time I said it out loud, my voice watery. I looked for a place to dump my plate. Even the cake no longer appealed, almost as if it was tainted.

Sean stepped forward, took the plate, and set it in a niche beside a beautiful bouquet of wedding flowers. And then his hands came around me, moving me off, away from the crowd.

“What is it?” His eyes had sharpened their focus and darkened with concern.

Forcing a smile, I made myself look into his eyes as long as I could before letting my own dart away again. “It’s nothing. It’s just that I’m cold and my feet are nearly numb.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Sean was generously shrugging off his jacket.

“Daft! Just distracted, I guess. I assumed you were warm enough wrapped up in your scarf. That’s not to say that I missed even a single opportunity to ogle your lovely bare legs.”

Now I definitely didn’t need the jacket—I could feel the warm tide of a flush creeping up my neck and settling on my cheeks. But as he swung it around my shoulders, I put my hand out, brushing his raspberry-colored sleeve.

“Seriously, though, unless you’re up for trading shoes, I should probably go. I just want to get out of this dress and these shoes and go to bed.” I heard the way that sounded and thrilled just a little at his pained expression.

“Is this your way of letting me down easy? Because if so, you’re failing miserably.”

I let a laugh escape and stepped backward, away from temptation. “Thank you for the cake and the dance. And the company. And the superhero save.”

“My pleasure. I’ll walk you out.” He stepped toward me, and in reaction, I stepped away.

“It’s fine. You really don’t need to—” I so desperately wanted to be out of there before I had to face Brett. Surely he’d come down at some point for cake—probably any minute now—and that could get downright awkward. Besides, a Band-Aid-style good-bye right here would really be best. I’d make a clean break and limp out the way I’d come in, and it’d be as if this whole evening was a dream.

“Ah, but I do.” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, his own spicily scented jacket now settled between us, and began to lead me through the almost empty hallways of this little fairy-tale castle. “How else do you suppose I’ll snare a kiss?”

At this point in our acquaintance, his nerve didn’t even faze me, but despite the runaway thrill that went coursing through me, I felt the need to call him on it. “You really have a knack for those one-liners, don’t you? A perfect mix of charming and presumptuous so that a girl doesn’t know quite how to take you.”

“I’m not at all picky. Just take me.”

My laugh slid out on a sigh, and the moment felt oddly bittersweet. Sean and I would never be more than strangers, crossing paths for one magical night. Disturbingly magical, if it came to that.

Reality whipped in with the tingly cold snap of wind as we stepped out of the castle, away from the reception. The temperature had probably dropped ten degrees since the ceremony, but snuggled as I was into Sean’s jacket, inhaling deep breaths of spicy male, his arm wrapped snugly around my waist, I barely noticed the cold. After stumbling over a chunk of limestone and having Sean pull me more tightly against him, I decided to fake-trip all the way back to my car. He probably thought me an utter klutz. I preferred the term “go-getter.”

When he took the key from my hand to unlock the door, I was charmed. When he started the engine and cranked up the heat, I was enchanted. And when he leaned in to me and hovered just a whisper away from my lips, I was full-out panting. I held completely still, afraid to move, to break the spell, desperately wanting this one star-crossed kiss. I could have leaned in myself, but that would have been rushing things, and I most definitely didn’t want that. So I waited.

And then he shifted, just slightly, brushing his lips over the corner of my mouth before slowly pulling away. Not the cheek, which after the time we’d spent together would have been a bit of a letdown, and not technically the lips, which might have been just a little presumptuous. A perfect compromise. I’d congratulate his ingenuity, but I figured it might ruin the moment.

My fingers were itching to touch that little wonder spot, but I didn’t give in to the cliché. Instead I hugged his jacket even closer, knowing I was just seconds away from giving it up.

With a little separation once again between us, he looked down at me, and I realized he must be getting an eyeful of my self-induced, chilly weather cleavage. I peered back up at him, unwilling to move.

“You have a dress under there somewhere, right? Let’s have a look at it, shall we?” A nod toward the car. “Your heater’s on, and you’re going home alone. And I am a superhero.”

“A superhero looking for quid pro quo?” I lifted an eyebrow and tried to hold back a grin, because I’d already decided to give him a peek.
Someone
should see the magnificence of this dress, and who better than him?

Or maybe Brett ...
Not now, Nicola. Not now!

Shrugging off his jacket, I offered it back to him, and shivered in its absence. Then I unpinned the brooch holding me together, shifting and rearranging until I was gripping the ends of my glamorous pashmina right in front of me. I closed my eyes and braced myself against the shock of cold air before yanking the ends open, waiting two excruciating beats, and swooping them closed again. Opening my eyes to sneak a peek at his face, I couldn’t help but wonder just how nippy it really was.

“Bloody hell. Come back inside ... ?”

It was obvious he didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t offer one. Instead he held the door for me, and we shared our last moments.

“You’ve promised to come Thursday?” His tone was almost urgent, insisting.

“I did,” I said, wondering even now if I’d manage it.

“Perfect. So this really isn’t good-bye, just
au revoir
.”

“Definitely,” I agreed, not nearly as confident as I sounded.

“Well, then. It was lovely to meet you, Ms. James. I very much look forward to the next installment in what proves to be a very interesting saga.”

Saga?
I couldn’t tell whether he was being deliberately obtuse or merely his charming, playful self.

“Likewise, Mr. MacInnes,” I countered, extending my hand for a businesslike shake.

With a twinkle of moonlight in his eyes, he took my hand, twisted it, and brought it to his lips.

And then somehow I was in the driver’s seat. Having turned from the moon, Sean’s eyes and face were dark, and it was slightly easier, like this, to shut the door.

Driving away, I watched him, watching me, his hands sunk deep into his pockets, until all that was left was to drive out of the woods, out of the fairy tale, back to the city. The stroke of midnight was still another couple of hours away, but Cinderella had definitely left the ball.

Cinderella, dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss a fella ...

W
ith the nursery rhyme playing over and over in my mind on the drive home, I couldn’t help but wonder how long it was going to take to get Sean out of my thoughts. But it had been worth it—
so
worth it. And Fairy Jane had known all along. As predicted, I’d had my cake—and it had been melt-in-your-mouth memorable—and I’d met “him” too. And he’d trumped the cake, no contest.

At that point I was trying to balance being totally freaked that my journal could predict—or possibly manipulate—the future, jealous that it seemed able to make deliriously sexy men do its bidding, and
seriously
impressed with its exquisite taste.

I had no doubt that I’d met the appropriate “him.” A fairy godmother worth her salt couldn’t possibly have meant anyone else—he was even British! And dreamy and charming and funny and
sexy
. But it was just a chance encounter, a memorable one-night fling that never made it past first base. And what about Brett? Had I absolutely killed my chances?

I reached over and turned down the heat in the car, suddenly overwarm.

It could never work.
Shit!
My mind had dodged away from Brett and bounced back to Sean all over again.

It could
never
work, and yet it had all been leading up to this. All of it had been intended solely as a means to this particular end, this guy, this date. The first little snippet I’d found in the journal had been my invitation to the ball:
Ms. Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance
. The second—
cleavage is as cleavage does
—had set the scene for my encounter with Sean and eventually our very sexy good-bye. And the third—
have your cake but meet him too
—had been the good solid nudge I needed to keep from getting too distracted to recognize what had been right in front of me.

And now it was over.

A queasy roller-coaster feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, and not from the curves and dips in the road. But I was nothing if not practical, and Sean was about as practical as my dress for the evening. Okay, bad example, but I’d already given myself the “vanity working on a weak head” lecture.
Emma
’s Mr. Knightley had indeed been correct: It had most certainly brought on the mischief. My mind veered into memories of that mischief once again, and by the time I emerged, I was sliding into traffic going south on Mopac.

No doubt the UT tower was glowing orange with some sort of victory for the Longhorns. I, on the contrary, was actually feeling a little defeated, like I’d been on a scavenger hunt and all the clues had led nowhere. Well, I suppose in all fairness they’d led to Sean. My trouble was, I didn’t know what to do with him—he was so far out of the realm of my reality that he might as well have been a fairy tale. Which fit right in with the rest of my life lately. I’d been imagining myself as Cinderella, so I should know that none of this could ever be real. The way things were going, I’d be lucky to get home before my car turned into a pumpkin.

As I swung onto the Fifth Street exit and navigated the snug, one-way streets on my way home, I let Sarah MacLachlan remind me that one missed step can ruin everything. I should stick with Brett. It seemed likely that this had all been merely a case of mistaken identity. The evening would have been perfectly orchestrated if Brett had been the “him” to have with cake, the man to notice my cleavage, and the target of a perfectly imagined romance. Perhaps I could nudge Fairy Jane in the right direction.

When I finally turned the car into the driveway, I was both relieved to be home and a little skittish. Once upon a time, everything here made sense. Ever since I’d—temporarily—conceded a little piece of the picture to Fairy Jane, she’d been wreaking havoc all over the place.

Stepping out of the car into a gust of frigid March wind, I could see the novelty lights lit up next door dancing in the breeze, and I could smell the wood smoke wafting over onto my side of the fence. I’d need to be quick and quiet. I wasn’t in the mood for an inquisition or a lecture tonight.

Letting the car door fall gently closed, I bumped my hip against it and heard the lock click into place. Poised on the balls of my feet, I darted up the driveway and over the dew-moist grass, up the steps to my tiny back porch, feeling the burnt orange glow of victory.

“Surely that can’t be
Nic James,
coming home after dark on a Saturday night.”

Two thumps sounded on the fence I shared with the Ls, and then two faces appeared over the top, grinning like goons in the near darkness.

“Ooh, she’s dressed up too. Hubba hubba.”

“Good night, ladies,” I called, clutching the edges of my scarf, closing in on the back door.

“Come over for a sec,” Leslie cajoled. “We’ve got a fire going, a bakery bag of chocolate croissants, and a thermos full of Baileys hot chocolate.”

“The karaoke machine has the night off,” Laura added. “And we have wheat germ cakes and Earl Grey too.”

Gag.

My key was literally kissing the lock, but with a heartfelt eye roll, I straightened my shoulders, adjusted the scarf so that my hands were bundled, and clopped back down the steps on my way to the side gates. If I conceded this round, maybe it’d smooth over last night’s flare-up, and at the price of a little discomfort, it was well worth it—one less grudge to contend with.

By the time I got over there, they had the purple papasan pulled up next to the fire bowl and a Pendleton blanket at the ready. I made quick use of it, swaddling myself so snugly I could barely move.

They were huddled around a laptop, a rosy coral Fiestaware platter sitting between them, golden croissants oozing chocolate sharing space with what appeared to be mini hay bales.

“What are you guys doing out here? It’s freezing!”

Leslie flashed a crocodile grin and tilted the monitor out of view. “Funny you should ask. I propose a little ‘tit for tat.’ ” Her eyebrows shot up. “You in?”

“Fine,” I conceded, relishing the shock on their faces.

“Excellent.” Leslie leaned forward to set the thermos and a cherry red mug in front of me. “We’ll go first—get it out of the way. We’re picking costumes for a friend’s fortieth birthday party. It’s going to be a masquerade.”

Pulling my arms out of their cozy cocoon, I poured the cocoa, sloshing it slightly as I shivered uncontrollably. “Any good ideas so far?” The first sip snaked a warm trail down to my stomach, and the second and third chased away the cold.

“So far we’re considering the two witches from
Wicked,
with me as the blonde. Laura looks better in green.”

“Okay. Just so I’m clear.
You’re
playing Glinda, the
Good
Witch?”

Laura laughed. “Typecasting is for Hollywood.”

Leslie smiled sweetly and shot us the bad finger.

“So much for method acting,” Laura teased. Leslie ignored her and finished out the list.

“Austin Powers and Dr. Evil is an option, but not my favorite. And our artsy-fartsy choice is da Vinci and the Mona Lisa. Laura can go longer without smiling, so she’d be the ‘Woman of Mystery. ’ Good start, huh?” She was clearly ready to dismiss the topic altogether.

I tried to give it some thought but soon realized my brain was too full to come up with any really great suggestions. “What about a couple of cows out on the prowl for some Longhorns? Or maybe a couple of bats? That’s very Austin, right?”

“That could be good, Les,” Laura said, visualizing costumes. “We could even jazz it up a little. Get some fake teeth and be vampire bats.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” Leslie promised, tipping the computer closed and shooting me an unreadable smile. “Okay, tit time is over. Your turn,” she announced, reaching for a croissant. Laura slid a hay bale into place, just under her fingers. Skimming its dry texture, Leslie snatched her hand back in confusion before muttering “Horrid little things” under her breath and claiming the biggest croissant on the plate.

I made wide, innocent eyes at her and asked, “What sort of tat were you hoping for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we’re curious as to what lured you out on a Saturday night in a skimpy dress, fuck-me heels, and some sort of fancy ... swaddling.”

“You think you’re gonna be a good witch with that mouth?” I paused for a single beat, then hurried on when it looked like Leslie might start lobbing bits of croissant. “I was at a coworker’s wedding. I went alone, came home alone.”

“Hrrmph. Figures. Did you at least flirt? Dance? Toss anyone your underwear?”

“I danced one dance and flirted a little. My underwear remains intact,” I countered.

“You danced?” By the tone of Leslie’s voice, you’d think I’d lap-danced.

I nodded, letting the irritation show on my face.

“Coworker or stranger?”

“Stranger.” This perked Leslie right up.

“Cute?” Laura chimed in, looking ready for a good campfire story.

“Very,” I confided, letting the backyard fade for a moment as I remembered.

“Geek?” Leslie’s face was clenched in preparation for bad news.

“Geeky like Jude Law.” Okay, not exactly, but the analogy worked.

Leslie donned her professor face, pursed lips and penetrating gaze. “You’re serious?”

My eyes shifted to Leslie’s laptop as an idea occurred to me. I could Google him. Surely the band had a website, maybe even a few head shots. Flicking my gaze from Leslie to Laura, it occurred to me that a little privacy might be preferable to a gossip fest, but I didn’t think I could wait. Nervous energy was building up inside me—I wanted to see if it was there, if
he
was there, online,
real
. I wanted one more look because I suspected I might not risk a second one in person.

Suddenly my mind was made up. Scooting forward in my chair, I commandeered Leslie’s laptop.

“What are you doing?” She sounded miffed, likely imagining the inquisition was over.

“Just give me a minute,” I insisted. Remembering the all-important “h,” I Googled “Loched In,” pausing for a single heart-thumping moment before tapping the Enter key.

I kept my eyes focused on the screen, vaguely aware of night sounds and the avid stares of the Ls. The search results were a mixed bag, and while there was a mention of home-buying in Scotland and even a Scottish thoroughbred, the band didn’t get any hits. I held up a “bear with me” finger and shot the girls a smile. I was curious over a fine art print that had come up first in the search, and before tweaking the spelling for a follow-up search, I clicked on the link.

It was a gorgeous, ethereal twilight photograph of Eilean Donan Castle in the Scottish Highlands. Quickly scanning the description, I learned that it was one of Scotland’s most visited castles, overlooking three lochs, and thus “Loched In.” Blinking rapidly to pull my gaze and thoughts away, I hurriedly Googled “Loch’d In,” without the “e” this time.

Second time was a charm. First on the list was a link for the band. Taking a deep, flutter-suppressing breath, I clicked over. Immediately a haunting rhythm began pulsing through the darkness, and the Ls, who had been quietly chatting up till now, turned to stare at me. As the page loaded, the music quickened and the volume rose to full-blooded rock. Startled, I searched frantically for the site’s Volume Off button. Not finding one, I scanned the page, searching for what I needed right that minute: definitive proof that I, Nicola James, had participated in an evening of sexy seduction.

A hotlink for “The Band” looked promising, and clicking over, I was rewarded—there he was. All the guys were cute, but Sean was gorgeous, sending scads of butterflies swirling through me in a vortex of lust. I centered his picture on the screen, and as the music continued to pulse around us, I turned the monitor for inspection by my inquisitive, hard-sell neighbors.

“Oh my God, is that him?” Laura blurted, for once getting the jump on Leslie.

I nodded, remembering how I’d felt the first time I saw him. But as they stared, it occurred to me that men—even seriously sexy men—were not exactly their cup of tea. But even they had to appreciate this stunning specimen of manhood, didn’t they? I waited nervously for the sure-to-come assessment, downing another fortifying gulp of cocoa.

This was sort of a first for us. In all the months I’d known them, I’d never really told them anything. Maybe because until now I’d never had anything to tell. Huh. Well, score one for Fairy Jane, I suppose.

“Tell me again why you’re still wearing underwear,” Leslie demanded, all squinty-eyed and serious.

“What is it with you and underwear?”

“It’s a symbol—of sex and inhibitions, power and sensuality—”

“Okay.” I held up my hand, desperately hoping to thwart an entire monologue on underwear.

“Not those plain white cotton Jockeys, Nic. I’m talking about the good stuff—”

“That’s a topic for another time,” I insisted. “Right now we’re talkin’ tat, and he’s it.”

BOOK: Austentatious

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