Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

Second time was a charm. First on the list was a link for the band. Taking a deep, flutter-suppressing breath, I clicked over. Immediately a haunting rhythm began pulsing through the darkness, and the Ls, who had been quietly chatting up till now, turned to stare at me. As the page loaded, the music quickened and the volume rose to full-blooded rock. Startled, I searched frantically for the site’s Volume Off button. Not finding one, I scanned the page, searching for what I needed right that minute: definitive proof that I, Nicola James, had participated in an evening of sexy seduction.

A hotlink for “The Band” looked promising, and clicking over, I was rewarded—there he was. All the guys were cute, but Sean was gorgeous, sending scads of butterflies swirling through me in a vortex of lust. I centered his picture on the screen, and as the music continued to pulse around us, I turned the monitor for inspection by my inquisitive, hard-sell neighbors.

“Oh my God, is that him?” Laura blurted, for once getting the jump on Leslie.

I nodded, remembering how I’d felt the first time I saw him. But as they stared, it occurred to me that men—even seriously sexy men—were not exactly their cup of tea. But even they had to appreciate this stunning specimen of manhood, didn’t they? I waited nervously for the sure-to-come assessment, downing another fortifying gulp of cocoa.

This was sort of a first for us. In all the months I’d known them, I’d never really told them anything. Maybe because until now I’d never had anything to tell. Huh. Well, score one for Fairy Jane, I suppose.

“Tell me again why you’re still wearing underwear,” Leslie demanded, all squinty-eyed and serious.

“What is it with you and underwear?”

“It’s a symbol—of sex and inhibitions, power and sensuality—”

“Okay.” I held up my hand, desperately hoping to thwart an entire monologue on underwear.

“Not those plain white cotton Jockeys, Nic. I’m talking about the good stuff—”

“That’s a topic for another time,” I insisted. “Right now we’re talkin’ tat, and he’s it.”

“Who is he?” Laura seemed a little in awe. Pretty impressive that the man’s jpeg could get a couple of lesbians hot and heavy. I’d gloat later.

“He’s lead singer of a rock band called Loch’d In. They’re a showcased act at South by Southwest this year.” I was suddenly feeling very shy, staring deeply into my mug of hot chocolate. “He invited me to come to the festival and see him Thursday night, but I’m thinking I’ll probably skip it.”

“Sounds like he’s interested,” Laura said, gently probing.

“He seemed to be—a little—but anything beyond friends is pretty much out of the realm of possibility.”

“Did he have a run-in with ‘The Plan’ already? Poor guy.”

“You can nix the air quotes, Les. ‘The Plan’ actually exists. And it’s not just The Plan—it’s everything. He’s everything I’m not.” I reached for a croissant but didn’t take a bite, choosing instead to busy my hands with flaking off tiny, crumbly bits. Within seconds they were littering my edge of the table. “It would never work. I can’t be with a rock star—I don’t have the rock-star mentality. And as you so often remind me, I don’t even karaoke.”

“You’re definitely not a rock star.” Apparently on that we could all agree. My lips had already folded themselves into a rueful line when Leslie continued, “But why should that stand in your way? Gwyneth Paltrow is a far cry from your average rock-and-roller, but she married Chris Martin and even tours with the band.”

“Are you seriously comparing my situation to Gwyneth Paltrow’s?” The woman was a college professor, yet every conversation I had with her seemed to make so little sense. I’d always thought it was her, but what if it was me? Not a comforting thought.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m having a little trouble hitting on a perfect celebrity matchup of Scottish rocker and repressed technology engineer.”

“My point exactly.” My smile was smug but surprisingly not all that comforting. The rest came out more as a mumble. “We have virtually nothing in common.”

“Opposites attract, or hadn’t you heard?” Leslie was laying heavy on the sarcasm tonight.

“Believe me, the man needs no help from a cliché. But attraction alone is not enough. Forget the insecurity, the clubs, the crazy schedule—what if he makes it big? And having met him, I have no doubt he will—then I’ll need to contend with world tours and crazy-obsessed fans and ... paparazzi!” All things to consider when determining the suitability of a career—or a boyfriend.

“Maybe getting just a little ahead of yourself there,” Laura hinted.

“Just out of curiosity, how’d you manage to hook up”—seeing my glare, Leslie quickly amended—“dance with the one hot Scottish rocker at a reception full of geeky engineers? No offense.”

“None taken,” I returned, my smile a little catty. “And I have no idea. An odd twist of fate, I guess.” Or magical interference. Tomato, to-mah-to.

Not wishing to pursue that topic any further, I disentangled myself from the blanket. “I think I’m ready to go to bed. I enjoyed our little tit-tat,” I added, smiling.

“Sleep well,” Laura said.

Obsessed with having the final word, Leslie chimed in with one more thinking point. “I know this is contrary to everything you believe in, but think about it, Nic. What’s the worst that could happen if you gave him a chance?”

“I can’t even begin to imagine,” I answered honestly before hobbling away on my heels.

I was still pondering the question ten minutes later, tucked beneath the covers with my journal settled on my lap and pencil in hand. Having shoved the heels to the back of my closet and swapped my perfect, fairy-tale dress for an über-comfortable pairing of T-shirt and pajama pants, I felt almost back to normal. With Sean, I doubted anything would ever be normal again. And that was precisely why I couldn’t take a chance on him—on us.

Flipping the pages of the journal till I reached the next completely blank page, I was poised to say my piece.

Little change of pace tonight ... I went to the wedding, had my cake, and surprise, surprise—I met someone.

As you can probably imagine, I have some questions. Pretty much the basics, the five Ws:

Who is Sean MacInnes?

Where did you find him? And please tell me he isn’t under some sort of spell.

What were you thinking? He’s a Rock Star, for God’s sake! This whole time I’d been thinking it was Brett—a much more appropriate, possibly even perfect match. He’s the epitome of “sensible romance,” so Why not him?

I will admit to being very impressed—swoony even. Sean is charming and sexy and adorable and just plain perfect, except that he’s absolutely, incontrovertibly wrong for me. And I refuse to let a sketchy little arrangement, a big wow factor, and a little fairy dust trump my carefully thought-out Plan—

Well, hell. I had to switch to pen. My pencil just broke under the pressure. I guess you could say I feel pretty strongly about people messing with my head ... and my life.

It’s been a long night. I’m going to bed now, knowing it’ll be impossible not to think of him in a wistful, what-if sort of way. Just one more question:

When will tonight stop feeling so bittersweet?

I tipped the journal closed and laid it on the bed beside me. I’d pretty much resigned myself to the magical goings-on inside this little book, despite not having a clue how to explain or understand them. But I absolutely 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.

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.