“He drives a motorcycle,” I told her in a break between frames. “So we drove separately.”

“What? Why? Have you ever been on a motorcycle? It’s awesome, particularly in this roller coaster of a city.”

New frame, new subject.

“He kissed me in the lobby.” I skimmed my fingers over the spot just above my left eyebrow, remembering.

“And?” Beck’s grin was as bright as the neon orange bowling ball she balanced in her palm.

“I have very little memory of the afternoon after that. Except,” I specified, finger in the air, “that I finally set a lunch date with Brett.”

Beck wrinkled her nose, unimpressed with my second bit of news, and rerouted the conversation back to Sean. ”How’d he track you down at Micro?”

“I guess he did some sleuthing.”

“The man definitely gets style points!”

“He’s a master of seduction,” I concurred, sipping the diet drink we were now sharing. Feeling the kick of caffeine, I realized I wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon. But there was a very good chance I would have had trouble sleeping without the extra pick-me-up. Such was my life this week.

“How exactly did he work in a serenade?”

“He made a request—specified only instrumentals. And then he just started singing. I bought his CD after brunch on Sunday and listened all day. But this was different.” I paused to breathe and, positively smitten with the thrill of girl talk, leaned in and gripped Beck’s wrist, willing a vicarious reaction. “He made it clear that he was singing to me—the words were for me—he was asking for a kiss and for a chance.”

“And what did you offer?” Her smile was coy and curious.

“Cliff-hanger,” I teased, before running off to bowl. After downing five pins, I fell into the chair beside her with the much-anticipated answer. “Believe it or not, I offered both.”

Beck’s eyes widened in surprise but then narrowed in concentration. “First things first: the kiss? How was it?”

“Very, very sexy, and I should tell you, at this point in the evening, it’s all still close-mouthed.”

“Really?” Beck smirked, probably amused by my G-rated romance.

Which reminded me ...

“How are things going with you and Gabe?”

She blinked rapidly, switching gears. “Good. Very good.” Her smile slid into place.

“Good how?”

“We went out Sunday night.” I couldn’t tell if she was blushing or if light was bouncing off her hair onto her cheeks. “And really, it’s amazing how much we have in common, but you’re getting off topic.”

My girl-talk buzz faded a little, imagining the comparable simplicity of a compatible relationship versus my thorny association with Sean. Being with him hypnotized me into believing that anything was possible, but when we were apart, my optimism quickly faded, and practicality swooped in like a slap in the face.

Beck jerked her thumb toward the pins. “I’m up.”

With a couple seconds to regroup, I was ready to steer the conversation the minute she returned. “Okay, I definitely want to hear about you and Gabe, but I’d like to get a little advice first.” I looked her in the eyes. “One logical mind to another.”

Beck smoothed her expression into seriousness and sat beside me, bowling forgotten. “First magical, now logical. I’m a busy girl tonight.”

I ignored that. “You know how I said I offered both the kiss and the chance? Well, basically I just agreed to another date, which, to most people, is no big deal,” I admitted, fisting my hands in the fabric of my skirt, creating wrinkles and smoothing them out again. “But Sean’s different, as I think you’ve probably gathered. A little part of me is in love with the idea of him. But the rest of me—the sensible, rational majority—totally gets that it can’t work in the long term. So you could say I’m sort of at a personal impasse.” And just like that, my sparkly, shimmery evening lost some of its luster.

“Why does one more date signify an impasse?”

With a deep, nervy sigh, I prepped myself to say it out loud. “Because I’m pretty sure that one more date will tip me over the edge. Even being in love with the idea of him will wreak all sorts of havoc on my uncomplicated life.”

“Uh-huh.”

But I didn’t get the impression that she really got it. I was evidently going to have to paint my impasse as more clearly impassable.

“And I haven’t even mentioned the Brett development.”

“Do tell,” Beck encouraged snarkily.

“He seems interested. We’re going to lunch tomorrow.”

“And this affects your decision regarding the charming and unbelievably appealing stranger in what way?” Okay, now she was just being snippy. But before I could respond, she was plowing right over me. “Okay. Let’s back up.” She swirled her hands counterclockwise, possibly with the thought of hypnotizing me. “You stumble over a magical journal—a journal channeling Jane Austen, mind you—that offers you romantic advice that starts coming true, i.e., you meet a guy—potentially the guy—you fall for him, or at least the idea of him; he, in turn, is big-time crushing on you, and suddenly you’re at an impasse. Because of lunch with Brett.”

“No, not just because of lunch with Brett. Right now Brett’s more like a warning beacon: a symbol of logical, sensible thinking that doesn’t involve impetuous decisions and magical advice.”

“Okay, Nic.” She put her hands out, as if to say, “this is it.” “I understand the appeal of logical and sensible, I really do, but in this case, in your particularly fantastical situation, I don’t think it’s the way to go. No,” she said, forestalling the “but” on the tip of my tongue, “let me just call it as I see it.” Deep breath, exhale. “Like it or not, girl, you have a fairy godmother, and that just can’t be swept under the rug. There’s no avoiding the fact that this whole thing is a crazy-unbelievable fairy-tale miracle, so why not at least try for the happily-ever-after? Your odds are good—the two usually come as a matched set.”

I pulled back a little and took in my surroundings. If I were any kind of mentor, we’d be discussing circuit fabrication at the library in lieu of happily-ever-afters at Glow Bowl. We’d be discussing her problems instead of mine. And I would appear to have it all together. I was Bizarro Mentor.

“And what about Brett?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Listen, sweetie,” Beck said, giving my arm a squeeze, “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that if Brett knew about the journal, the fairy godmother, the serenade, and the kissing, he’d tell you to go for it too. Given the whole Jane Austen element, and your little tango with ‘Mr. Darcy,’ I’m having trouble not thinking of Brett as the evil Wickham.”

I blinked at her, not particularly caring to admit that that very thought had crossed my mind.

“That’s your advice, then? Just scrap my life plan, along with all rational thinking, and risk it?” I was pretty sure that was Fairy Jane’s advice as well. I leaned in and dropped my voice a bit. “I don’t even really believe in magical journals and fairy godmothers—I’ve been coasting for the past three days on sheer standoffishness.”

“What’s not to believe?” This came out at a near-shrieking pitch. Beck’s pie-in-the-sky, flaky optimism had crumbled, and from the looks of it, she’d had it with me. “I’m taking your word for nearly every damn bit of this, and I believe!”

“Shhh,” I hissed, suddenly self-conscious to be discussing all this out loud, despite the din.

“Like it or not, it’s happening to you—despite your comprehensive life plan and very good intentions. Plans change, rules are meant to be broken, and sexy guys with accents are stellar motivation for both! For a girl lucky enough to stumble across a magical journal offering a chance at a happily-ever-after, this romance is rational. So why not give the man a damn bullet in the spreadsheet of your life?” She leaned back in her chair, and the drama faded a bit.

The woman had a point. Quite unexpectedly, a casual night of bowling had turned into an intervention.

My name is Nic James, and I have a magical journal and an interfering fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane, and I damn well better get used to it. Or she’ll find ways of reminding me.

“Fine. I’ll keep an open mind—for now. I’ll give things with Sean a fair, fighting chance. But I’m keeping my lunch with Brett, and we’ll just see how things go.”

“Seems a fair compromise. Maybe get his take on all this,” she teased.

We finished out the game, consciously not speaking about any of it. Personally, I couldn’t help but wonder what Fairy Jane would have to say about the evening’s developments.


At home, tucked in bed with my covers pulled up to my waist, I wondered if I should dig out the Ouija board I’d had since junior high and hold a little séance. But it was late, and the very idea was fraught with disturbing possibilities, so instead I slid my journal, the little Pandora’s book, onto my lap, ready to get into it.

I’d given in and checked the calendar before turning off the lights. The quote of the day had changed yet again. Now it read, “ ‘Better be without sense than misapply it as you do.’ Emma.” Nice.

The whole situation was mind-boggling. I’d spilled a chai latte onto something that had once belonged, however fleetingly, to Jane Austen and somehow summoned her ghost, or spirit, or lingering chi, and inspired her to become, at least for a time, my own personal fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane. Her letter to her niece, now visible in its entirety with the turn of a key, clearly laid out her intentions. And yet, as interesting as this discovery was, it didn’t even begin to resolve the plethora of questions that fairly hovered around the journal. Beyond the lingering nuisance of how the hell she was getting words to disappear, there were now all sorts of new questions on the table.