Austentatious

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: STRAIT-LACED EMPLOYEE NIC JAMES 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.”