Austentatious

refused to bow under the pressure. Sean MacInnes was not a romance I planned to indulge in. I folded my lips into a determined line. Take that, Fairy Jane. As far as character types went, Sean was the epitome of handsome and charming bad boy Henry Crawford. Not exactly my match made in heaven.

And yet, with the lights doused, the darkness felt charged and mysterious, and despite my good intentions, I couldn’t resist the flood of tingly memories. I remembered every second, every smile, every smirk and soft glance. In less than two minutes, I was flinging off the covers to keep from singeing the sheets. Eventually, in the private darkness of my own bedroom, I gave in and let my fingers trip gently over the spot he’d kissed, holding on to the memory, letting go of the man. After that, I slid into a dream involving a field of heather and some carelessly tossed skirts—it was impossible to tell whose, because he was most definitely wearing a kilt.

8 change of Plan—pencil him in.

Even a truly excellent dream couldn’t take the edge off Fairy Jane’s latest infuriating instruction: pencil him in?

Bossy, cheeky, impossible to get along with ... No wonder Jane Austen had never married.

A little bitterness eased out of me as I realized that last jab wasn’t fair. As far as I knew, this whole situation had absolutely nothing to do with the literary darling. Beck had broached the idea of Jane Austen as the voice behind the journal, and I’d latched onto her, the familiar in an outlandish situation, a writer who’d made a career out of impossible matchmaking and happily-ever-afters. Right now I was hanging my sanity on a Jane Austen obsession, because without a face, a name, a personality, there was nothing—it was all a nebulous mystery. And yet, it was almost as if Mr. Darcy of the Journal was warning me off the unsuitable Wickham, a.k.a. Brett Tilson. As if.

Goose bumps were popping up like pinpricks along my arms as I hurried down the hall to the living room and unceremoniously shoved the journal into the bookcase, hoping, I suppose, that this simple act would relegate these recent bits of advice to the realm of romantic fiction. Completely separate from me and my well-ordered life.

I stared at the journal’s black leather spine, conscious of the fact that the little book looked pretty comfortable leaning on P&P, as if the two were gossipy old friends. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned away. This latest directive had left no room for interpretation. It was personal now—on a whole new level—and I was feeling pretty pissy.

I rubbed at the goose bumps, wishing this staggering feeling of vulnerability would disappear too.

How was it possible that I’d hooked up with Sean, a whirling dervish of mischief and charm, in a reception full of geeks? It boggled the mind. Unless Fairy Jane had truly conjured him—or meddled in whatever way that fairies do.

Quite the dizzying one-eighty for a girl who didn’t believe in magic two short days ago. I didn’t want to think about it. Not to mention the possibility that Fairy Jane might have stepped outside the bounds of the journal—I most certainly wasn’t ready to deal with that.

I still needed to call the number we’d weaseled out of the Shop Nazi’s computer: a Mr. Elijah Nelson. But nine on a Sunday morning felt a little too early to be discussing magical journals with strangers.

I needed something to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Today could very well be the perfect day for the Samoa cupcake recipe I’d stumbled across on a delectable little cupcake blog. Inspired by the much-loved Girl Scout Cookie, it involved a brown sugar butter cupcake spread with chocolate ganache, topped with a toasted coconut macaroon cap, and finished with a drizzle of ganache. I’d put off making it, slightly intimidated by its complexity. But today a challenge was exactly what I needed.

Tying on my apron, I did a quick check for ingredients and began pulling out the necessary baking paraphernalia and mentally breaking down the recipe into a series of mini tasks. I was sliding a tray of golden brown coconut back out of the oven when the phone rang.

“Wanna get brunch?” Gabe offered.

Glancing behind me at my cupcakes in progress and then at the clock, which read quarter to ten, I said, “What time?” Not being in on the Big Secret, Gabe was the ideal companion right now.

“Noon?”

“That’ll work. Where’d you have in mind?”

“How about Moonshine?”

Perfect. Slightly upscale but down-to-earth.

“See ya there.”

I glanced again at the clock the moment I hung up and decided to risk the temper of Mr. Elijah Nelson.

As the phone rang at the other end, I squared my shoulders and psyched myself up for an awkward conversation. On the fifth ring, I felt my shoulders slump a little in disappointment. On the tenth, I gave up on him having an answering machine and actually pulled the phone away from my ear. With my thumb poised over the End button, I was jolted back to attention as a gravelly old voice rumbled over the line.

“Hello? Hello?”

I slapped the phone back against my ear and stuttered to catch up, to be heard over the third, rather cantankerous “Hello?”

“Hello—hi. I’m here.”

“Well, where the hell were you?”

Okay, so he was a little prickly in the morning.... “I was here, I just didn’t have the phone up against my ear.” Start out competent, that’s the ticket.

“Well, you were hoping to talk to someone, weren’t ya?”

“Yes. Sir. Yes, I was. Are you Mr. Nelson—Mr. Elijah Nelson?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“Um ... my name is Nicola James, Mr. Nelson. I’m up in Austin, and I got your number from the owner of Violet’s Crown Antique Shop—”

“Violet who?”

I shook my head, trying to dispel the confusion. “No, sir, Violet’s is an antique shop.” I heard myself getting louder and tried to relax. “The owner recently purchased a lady’s boudoir table from you.”

I was really hoping this was enough to jog his memory.

“I got rid of plenty a while back, all at the Trade Days, before I moved down here to New Braunfels, and into Misty Glen. But I can’t say as I remember who bought what. I never tried to pass anything off as a valuable antique. Don’t tell me that Violet charlatan did.”

“No, sir,” I hurried to assure him. “She didn’t.” Or if she did, I didn’t know about it. “I’m actually calling to ask about a journal she found in one of the drawers—it’s black, with a fancy brass key plate and a little doorknob.”

Silence.

“Is this ringing any bells for you?”

“Don’t you worry, young lady, I can keep up just fine. I watch Jeopardy! every afternoon—I could give those contestants a run for their money.”

My lips curled into a grin, but I kept silent, sensing he wasn’t finished.

“Harrumph. So that’s where that book was hiding. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned. And as for you, young lady, what is it they say? Caveat emptor—I think that’s right.”

My smile suddenly melted away, and I stood straighter, my lower back rigid against the kitchen counter.

“Caveat emptor? Let the buyer beware? Why do you say that?”

“All that magic mumbo jumbo. Cat would have done just fine without it.”

“Who’s Cat?” I felt breathless and urgent.

“My sister.” The words sounded bitter, sad, and resigned. “Supposed to marry my best friend. Everything, all of it, arranged—until she stumbled across that journal.”

He stopped there, and with no other choice, I waited. I wanted answers, and I was willing to forgo good manners and bust out the nosy curiosity, but first I needed to get my voice back. Because right now I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get a single word out. All I could think was that I wasn’t the first. This journal had belonged to