Austentatious

“It’s bloody great,” he assured me, and his cohorts seemed to agree. I stared for a moment, thrown a bit by their effusive encouragement, before forcing a smile on my face. My shocking lack of talent would melt those grins off their faces soon enough. “Do ye have a song in mind?”

I opened my mouth, ready to blurt anything just to move this along, but nothing came out. Probably because nothing came to mind. Out of all the karaoke songs I’d memorized against my will over the last six months, none of them seemed appropriate for this moment. My mind flitted over show tunes, one seeming even more ridiculous than the next, and I briefly considered—and vetoed—a Katy Perry tune. I was stumped and losing courage fast.

I glanced away from the band, out toward the crowded pub, where strangers were whispering and wondering. Whipping my head back around, focusing hard on not hyperventilating, I let my mind tumble over possibilities.

What songs did I even know all the lyrics to? And which of those did I have a prayer of not massacring? I couldn’t think of a single one ...

And then I did.

I blurted it to the band before I could change my mind, and while my request garnered a few smirks, no one questioned it. This was really happening.

I felt suddenly compelled—honor bound—to give them a little heads-up. So before I turned around to face the music (so to speak) and my first audience (who knew it’d be on foreign soil?), I screwed my face up a little in apology and admitted, “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“I can assure you, we’ve heard worse.” As words of encouragement, they sucked, but at least they came with a wink. I shrugged. Nobody could say I hadn’t warned them.

I watched them count it down, poised on the balls of my feet, quivering with nerves and fear and queasy anticipation.

And then my time ran out. And I spun. And started to sing.

Obviously I felt like an idiot belting out the theme song from Shrek, particularly surrounded by musical talent and following a lovely, lilting Scottish ballad, but what could I say? I knew the words, and that was a huge plus.

I’d blurred my vision so I wouldn’t have to look at any one person’s full-body cringe, but my hearing was disturbingly sharp, and I was fully aware that my pride was in the middle of a smack-down. I could literally hear my voice being stretched beyond the bearable limits. But I couldn’t stop now, and besides, how could things possibly get any worse?

Somehow they found a way.

As the song started to quicken and move into the chorus, my head bobbing along, keeping time with the music, I felt the rest of my body start to twitch, impelled by the beat, or the exhilaration, or reckless, rampant insanity to dance.

I was not a dancer—I had no skills, no moves, no rhythm. Then again, I wasn’t a singer either, but here I was, microphone in hand, belting out the lyrics of an ogre. As an argument it was weak, and yet it proved sufficiently convincing. Before we’d hit the next bit of the chorus, I had moves, and I was sharing them with everyone. All I could do was hope to God no one had a camera phone. Not to mention the cold-blooded cruelty to post this little indiscretion on YouTube.

Suddenly, through my blurry haze, I heard clapping. Not appreciative clapping, mind you. Sympathetic, rousing clapping—the sort inspired by subpar performances, intended to offer up encouragement. I took it as a sign of good karma and readjusted my eyes to eliminate the blur.

Skimming over faces, some with wide eyes, others with wide grins, my gaze finally settled on Sean, his eyes riveted on the spectacle I was making of myself, just as I sung, a little desperately, about needing a little “chaaange.”

It took only that one line to make me realize that somehow— magically, maybe—I’d chosen perfectly rather than arbitrarily. This kooky song felt like it should be part of my life’s soundtrack—my “big moment” track. Because even if Sean refused to take me back, even if he was appalled at my singing voice (how could I blame the man?), I’d done this. I’d taken a chance, taken a risk, gotten wild and weird all on my own. And I was proud of myself. My world was literally on fire.

Two more seconds, and it was over. I was done. The band wrapped the song, and I thumped ignominiously back to earth, a regular girl with post-performance anxiety, the fairy dust gone.

Ian’s voice replaced mine on the microphone. “Let’s have a round of applause for Miss Nicola James, everyone!” So much for anonymity. Tossing the crowd a jaunty little wave and a pained smile, I decided to make my escape before the morbidly curious decided to approach.

I turned to murmur my thanks to the band, shaking each of their hands in turn, and retrieved my bag from the floor beside me. I made my way back to the door in the same trancelike state I’d come through it and pushed out into the cool night air, gearing up for a full-on panic attack.

What just happened in there? Why did I ... ? How could I ... ? I couldn’t go back in there. Forget that I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t slow my pulse, couldn’t stop the goose bumps popping up willy-nilly, nothing to do with the cold. This hadn’t been how it was supposed to go. I’d wanted magical, not mortifying. And Sean had witnessed every horrific moment. God, how awful.

I heard the door to the pub open behind me and realized I hadn’t run far enough—I hadn’t been ready to disappear just yet. I was praying it was a kind soul on his way home for the evening, uninterested in making conversation with a whacked-out foreigner like myself.

“Nicola?”

Sean. And no escape.

I dropped my head down on a sigh. This was not at all how I imagined things would go when I rode a whim all the way to Scotland looking for one more chance. But if this was all I was going to get, then dammit, I was taking it. I spun on my heel, a cordial smile plastered on my face.

“Karaoke Queen, in the flesh,” I countered.

My smart mouth bought me a grin, shooting a slug of warmth straight down into the pit of my stomach. “Stellar performance,” he said, but his eyes quickly shifted from amused to bemused. “You on tour?”

“Just the one stop,” I confirmed, leaving it at that. What could I say? I was flummoxed. Sean stood only a couple feet away, gorgeously limned in moonlight, and in this pivotal, romantic moment, he seemed tragically out of reach. I was aching to touch him, to kiss him, to be told all was forgiven and nothing had changed, but I didn’t, and I wasn’t. And he clearly didn’t intend to make it easy for me, judging by the way he was standing, eerily silent, simply waiting.

A gust of wind swirled around us, sending the dog and bagpipes swinging, prickling the air around us. I could almost feel it crackling with interference, and I suspected the fairy sort. I shuddered to think what could be coming next and how a little fairy magic could send me careening into the wild unknown. But hell, I was there already, so I braced myself and gave in, yanking down every last defense I had standing.

A second passed, and I didn’t feel any different. Perhaps a little lighter, a little less inhibited, a little more urgent ...

Stepping forward one step, then two, I tipped my head to the side a bit and let the truth unfurl, gliding through the air between us like the tail of a kite. “I was convinced you were out of the realm of possibility for me. You swooped in, a regular Prince Charming, and worked your magic. You seduced me—and how could I help myself?—I let you.” My lips quirked, curved at the memory. “You made me believe we could work out all the kinks. But then I discovered you live in Scotland—whew!—and I stopped believing. I let you leave and cursed myself for a week.” Now that I was getting to the meat of things, I stepped closer still. “I missed you—awfully—and booked a flight, a spur-of-the-moment, one-way ticket. And here I am, on a quest to seduce you back.”

There. I’d said it. I’d said it all out loud, and it hung, hovering there between us, waiting for Sean’s reaction. And waiting still. He said nothing, did nothing, and the enormity of failure loomed hideously before me.

The buzzing urgency swelled inside me and seemingly all around me, reaching a frenzied pitch, and I couldn’t help it ... I blurted out an imagined enticement, hoping to lure him in. “I packed thongs!”

The words seemed to echo, hanging in the air around us, the death knell of my pride. I barely resisted the urge to clap a hand over my mouth and give in to the hysteria bubbling up inside me.

“I’m a big believer in second chances,” Sean finally answered, a grin spreading slow and wide across his