Austentatious

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