Austentatious

face.

Exhilaration whipped through me, and caution skittered away. Needing to touch him, I lifted my hands to cup his face, feeling my way along his jawline and skimming my fingers over his dimple. When I felt it deepen, I went up on tiptoes and pulled him forward for a kiss. I tried to infuse everything into that kiss: relief and hope, and of course, love. There was a healthy helping of lust mixed in there too.

Several moments later, with his arm tucked warmly around me, Sean let me in on a little secret.

“I should probably confess ...”

My body stiffened automatically at these words, but Sean tightened his grip. “As flattered as I am to be chased across an ocean, tracked down, and serenaded in my local pub, you could have saved yourself the trouble —not to mention the airfare. I’ll be flying back in three days, luv.” At this point his sincerity turned to teasing. “Does Guinness post a record for irresistibility? Because I think I just might be a contender.”

My body suddenly felt like a train wreck—everything suspended, and carnage all over my insides. None. Of. This. Had. Been. Necessary. Not the trip, the heartache, the urgency, and not the damn performance that would likely live in infamy in this sleepy little village for generations to come. Tourists would come over from the castle to have a pint, and villagers would regale them of the evening in early April when a strange woman appeared just long enough to massacre a single ridiculous song before she disappeared into the darkness. I’d be the stuff of legend. Awesome.

“You’re coming back?” My voice was brittle and breathless.

“Ahhh ... you didn’t know that.” I couldn’t decide if I appreciated the sympathy in his eyes or not. Nor could I tell if he was faking it. “Because you heard ‘Scotland’ and panicked. You said good-bye before I could tell you about our record deal.” My eyes widened, a thrill whipping through me, and I opened my mouth to respond. He cut me off. “Uh-uh. This time you’re listening, Ms. James. After our showcase Thursday night, we got a call and an offer to have our next record produced in the States. The chaps and I discussed it and voted unanimously to relocate to Texas. Austin specifically. We’d actually discussed that possibility before getting the offer, so when the deal came through, everything was damn near perfect, it being ‘the Live Music Capital of the World’ and all.” He smiled. “I’ll admit you sweetened the deal a bit yourself.”

He paused and leveled me with a meaningful gaze. I wondered if I should tell him that I was willing to move to Scotland, trudge around in wellies, and spend the rest of my life coexisting with the fairies. I promptly decided against it. I knew it, and for now, that was enough. Instead I gushed and squealed my congratulations until I found a better use for my mouth entirely.

Minutes passed quite delightfully, but Sean eventually pulled back, obviously with more to say.

“The return tickets were already booked, and there was packing to do here, and good-byes. Funnily enough, I’d thought I’d convince you to come along,” he told me, starting to get adorably huffy, “but you never even gave me the chance to ask.”

It occurred to me that the man could hold a wicked grudge. For some reason, that little surprise had me grinning like a fool despite the reprimand. Nevertheless, I was effusive in my apologies, soothing and patting. Nothing, not even my own bad behavior, could trouble me now. “So you punished me,” I accused him. “Made me sweat a little—okay, a lot—and come haring after you. I’d say you got what you deserved.” My lips curved into a playful smirk, remembering my impromptu performance.

“Do you, now?” Sean’s mouth quirked into a matching smirk, and we stared at each other, smitten. “Turns out, I agree with you.” His arm snaked away from me, taking the warmth with it, and I stood waiting, oddly bereft, as he rummaged about for something in his wallet. I was fervently praying it wasn’t a condom and that he wasn’t about to spring a one-with-nature fantasy on me.

A not-so-subtle breath whooshed out of me and hung shimmering in the cold air between us as his palm extended toward me, holding only a narrow rectangle of paper.

“What is it?” My voice was barely audible, fraught with nerves and ponderous with possibility. And I waited for his answer despite its being unnecessary.

“My fortune,” he confided with a cocky grin that tingled along my nerve endings.

Flicking an uncertain glance in his direction, I reached for it. Tilting it first toward the moonlight and then toward the pub lantern, I could just barely make out the tiny typed words.

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

Oscar Wilde

“I don’t get it,” I insisted, wondering if it was possible at this stage in the game that another fortune could possibly be a coincidence.

“I cracked it out of a cookie my first night in Austin—a comforting bit of British wisdom deep in the heart of Texas.” It was kind of cute how amused he was with the cliche. “I liked the sound of it. Then I met you, a damsel in distress, and you became the embodiment of that quote.”

My mind wrapped instantly around the negative. “If you want to be rid someone, I’d advise against stalking, flowers, and serenades,” I retorted, pulling away a bit.

“Don’t pout, luv. You’re missing the point. I wanted you, so I set about getting you.”

Oh. Well, phrased like that, it sounds perfectly lovely.

I stepped closer again, tucking my arm into Sean’s and looking out over the shimmer on the loch. For him, one cookie made all the difference. I, on the other hand, needed a magical journal, a considerable amount of nudging from a medley of friends, and four cookies before things finally clicked for me. Who knew that first bit of advice was so particularly profound ...

Miss Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance.

Not to mention prophetic.

Huddled beside Sean, gauzy bits of cloud sailing above us, wispy grass twittering in the breeze, and the air laden heavy with mystery and barely veiled giddiness, I could admit that none of this—not one bit of it—made sense. And yet ... it was imminently sensible, perfectly juicy, and a real-life fairy tale.

Score one for Fairy Jane.

And one for me for going chips all in.

All tied up.

A little gust moved toward us across the surface of the loch, ruffling everything in its path. As it tousled my hair and tugged at my sweater, I imagined it intent on whipping up mischief. Content to let it, I went up on tiptoe, letting my lips brush against the curve of Sean’s ear as I whispered, “Wanna score?” 

21 In which a bit of dandelion fluff is well and truly caught

It seems that in an odd confluence of fortune cookies, fairy magic, and “weird,” Sean and I have ended up together. I should probably say thank you, Dear Journal ... Fairy Jane ... Miss Austen. You’ve been quite the interfering busybody, and yet ... without you I’d still be daydreaming of Brett, baking the same old chocolate cupcakes, and listening to Leslie rant about men and rave about women. You swooped in, an honest-to-goodness, no-nonsense fairy godmother, grabbed me by the ear, and shook some sense into me. Evidently you’re not a fan of the pumpkin carriage / glass slipper method, but whatever works, right?

And sitting here, on the shore of the mysterious and truly magical Isle of Skye, watching Sean skip stones over the water, I have to admit, it worked like gangbusters. The thongs are in play, and tomorrow we’re flying back to Austin and a new and different weird life. I can’t wait ... if for nothing else than an ice cube and a cloudless sky.

Turns out Sean is a sensible investor in not only his pension but a slew of stocks and mutual funds as well. How sexy is that?? Evidently the man is destined to surprise and delight me at every turn, a situation I’m finding increasingly appealing. Clearly I’d been mistaken in classifying him as a Henry Crawford—he is most