Austentatious

Resigned, I headed back to work, watching the giant rotating cupcake in my rearview mirror until it disappeared, wondering if it was possible that this was all a really detailed, highly involved dream sequence. Thank God there’d been cupcakes.

By the time I got back to work I was dreading the rest of the afternoon—not to mention a run-in with my boss. Within seconds of dropping into my chair, my phone trilled loudly into the subdued hush of murmured conversation and clicking keyboards, popping my private little bubble.

“Nicola James,” I answered, sounding deflated.

“Yeah, this is Steve in the lobby. Some flowers have been delivered for you.”

I stared at the phone and frowned. “Some flowers?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All riiight. I’m coming down.” This was definitely a mistake—I was not the type of girl who got roses on a random weekday. But today I was happy for any reason to escape.

I took the stairs down to the lobby and beelined for the security desk. A single bouquet of flowers sat on the black granite counter, and I had to admit, I wanted them. No vase, just a clutch of cranberry red gerbera daisies wrapped up in florist’s tape and tied with a skinny sapphire ribbon. The fact that there’d clearly been a mistake was going to make marching back upstairs into a gray-walled windowless cubicle more than a little depressing. Particularly today.

Stepping up to the desk, I flashed my badge to the well-identified Steve, and he announced, quite unnecessarily, “Here they are.”

Yearning just slightly for a miracle, the general gist of which was that a certain smitten stranger had managed, despite my evasive maneuvers, to track me down, my heart thumped steadily in my chest. Wanting a little privacy, I shifted to the corner of the desk and opened the card that, oddly enough, had my name on it.

I’m not above a good old-fashioned bribe.

Please come Thursday,

Sean.

I reread the words, disbelieving, and then lifted my hand to my lips, only slightly worried that I might let out an embarrassing screech right there in the lobby.

“Pretty please?”

I jerked at the voice just outside my peripheral vision and whipped my head around in shock. An accent wasn’t so uncommon around here, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Sean?” My voice sounded strangled; breath escaped me. Scruffy around the edges in jeans, a SXSW T-shirt, and a three o’ clock shadow, Sean was larger than life. He’d found me. Here at Micro. Worlds were definitely colliding. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. This was big—pivotal even—and with the latest excerpt still fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if this pretty little bouquet was doing double duty.

Sean stepped closer, his presence working like interference on all logical thought processes, and reached for my hand. As his thumb grazed my knuckles, I melted a little. I tried for a deep, steadying breath, but it came out shakier than I’d hoped.

“What are you doing here?”

“A harmless bit of self-promotion to jog your memory.”

Very deliberately, he leaned in, his whole body shifting toward mine. For a fleeting, obscenely thrilling moment, I imagined that he was going to kiss me right there in the Micro lobby. I closed my eyes, breathed in his citrusy scent, and indulged in this ephemeral moment.

When my eyes fluttered back open, I realized he’d only been reaching for the bouquet, sitting on the counter behind me. Disoriented and a little disappointed to have misread his intentions, I tried to rally, taking the flowers he was nudging into my hands. Grinning at the daisies’ happy little faces, I tipped them up to my nose.

“They’re beautiful—thank you!—but they’re totally unnecessary. You were very memorable.”

“They suit you. Now you just need a meadow behind you.” His voice was low, half-serious, half-teasing, and I couldn’t help but smile. I glanced down at myself in jeans and a ruffle-edged white blouse.

“No argument here.” I couldn’t figure how it was possible, but he was waaay more charming and fly-away- to-Scotland sexy than I remembered. “But I’m guessing it’s not waiting in the car?”

My smile quirked up, a surefire hint that I was kidding about the meadow. A little too late, I remembered my own advice: Geeky girls did not flirt with uber-sexy men and come away unscathed. What if he assumed I was interested? Idiot! I was interested. But what if he thought I was seriously interested? Well, I was seriously interested—I just wasn’t interested in anything serious. And therein lay the rub.

I dipped my head down abruptly and feathered my fingers over the delicate fringe of petals.

“No room on the back of the bike.”

“You biked here?” My head whipped back up at this stunning news.

His laugh rolled out like faraway thunder as he gave my fingers a friendly squeeze.

“Nothing quite so crazy. The bike is a motorcycle.”

Why was I not surprised? “In that case,” I assured him, “you’re off the hook—I’ll be responsible for my own meadow.” Was it just me, or did that sound kinky?

“I was hoping the flowers would persuade you to come out to dinner with me tonight. I brought along a spare helmet.”

I was busy being amused by his negotiation tactics when it hit me—he was expecting me to ride on the back of his motorcycle.

“Uh-uh.” I shook my head in quick little spastic jerks. “I don’t do motorcycles. I like a good steel door, a snug seat belt, and a Freon-powered air conditioner—or on a day like today, a trusty heater.”

“You’re really quite adorable,” he mused, sliding his finger along the edge of my jaw. And I had to admit, at this moment, that finger was welcome almost anywhere. “Right, then. Rain check on the bike,” he said, breaking contact. Even in my muddled state I could recognize the tone of his voice—he was totally confident he’d be able to persuade me onto that bike. Poor guy, he had no idea who he was dealing with.

But the motorcycle was the least of my problems. He was looking for a date—for tonight! I’d thought we’d kind of mutually agreed at the wedding that this little mini-crush going on between us was a one-night deal. (I may have been deluding myself, but I wasn’t counting my appearance at his band’s Thursday night exhibition as anything more than a casual night out.) Yet here he was, looking for night number two.

And he looked sooo good.

And he’d brought me flowers.

And Fairy Jane was essentially blackmailing me into giving him a chance. She fought dirty, but with very good taste—I considered that a truly redeeming quality.

I needed a second to think this through. I hadn’t exactly had time since discovering the latest excerpt, with its blatant attempt at blackmail, not to mention the calendar, with its eerily timely quotes, to formulate a plan. The fact that I’d decided to see Sean’s band on Thursday and subsequently raced out to buy their CD and play it just shy of obsession didn’t necessarily justify any sort of “date” between us. Even running the risk of blackmail, I didn’t think a date would be a good idea.

“So, dinner?” Sean asked, tracing dizzying circles on the inside of my palm. Before I could formulate a response, he moved in closer, close enough to have me backing up against the security counter, whispering, “I’ll pretend to be an investment banker.”

My eyes widened in a mix of shock and confusion, and I stumbled over my words. “Wh-why would you do that?”

“To put you at ease. You don’t strike me as the type to date musicians.”

I tipped my head down and felt the flush creep up my neck. “I’m not actually dating anyone at all.”

“Brilliant! Can I assume that you’re free, then, it being a Monday night and all?”

The surprise and shock of it all, combined with the slow seduction of my palm, had me sliding into submission despite the clamor of protestations sounding in my brain.