Austentatious

by Alyssa Goodnight

  Mssg from Leslie:

  Text us with Darcy deets ... L&L P.S. And demand make-up sex!

  Believe it or not, it was the nudge I needed. Taking a deep, courage-gathering breath, I let it go and watched it billow out on the breeze, sparkling in the pearly glow from above.

  Turning to face the pub door, I said a little prayer, offered up an appeal to Fairy Jane and any and all magical creatures willing to intercede on my behalf, and with a fluttery breath, pulled it open.

  20

  In which Nic does the unthinkable

  Even standing in the shadows, just over the threshold, the awkwardness hanging heavy over my head right beside the huge potential for failure, I could feel the tension start to ebb away. For now I was still anonymous, but I felt welcomed just the same. The flickering glow of a peat fire, the raucous laughter of pub regulars, the clink of glasses raised in toast, and the lilting sound of a young female voice accompanied by a fiddle—all of it felt right. The chill slid out of me, but I stayed by the door, cursing my lack of planning for the second time in recent memory. I hadn’t a clue what to do now. I admit, I’d been hoping I’d catch a glimpse of Sean and suddenly be struck with an ingenious segue between our awkward good-bye and this, the unexpected hello.

  But I didn’t see him.

  My hands darted about like dragonflies, feathering over the clamoring parts of my anatomy in their turn. My throat, with its jackrabbiting pulse, my chest, with its runaway bass drum beat, and on to my stomach, where anxiety was starting to churn things up ...

  And then I saw him.

  Time stopped for just a moment, and then the room was spinning once again in a kaleidoscope of color and sound, all of it a blur but him. He looked exactly as I remembered, but sooo much sexier. My nausea spiked with the memory that I’d let him slip through my fingers and must now hang my future on the hope that he—much unlike me—wasn’t a grudge holder. Holding court across the room, he was relaxed and confident, the apparent golden boy of Dornie village.

  Whereas I was skulking in a corner, a full-fledged stalker. We didn’t fit, the pair of us. Two people could not possibly be more different. And yet, I wanted him. And I needed to convince him, right here, tonight, that I’d bobbled things and really and truly deserved a do-over. Because if I walked out of here now, I wouldn’t be back; I wouldn’t have the courage to try this again. This was it.

  As the ballad ended amid much whistling and applause, my eyes strayed toward the band and quickly recognized Sean’s band mates.

  “Anyone else now?” called the drummer—Ian, if I remembered right—in a clear, carrying voice. I scanned the pub as he did, looking for takers, before glancing back to him. Eyebrows raised, he warned, “Otherwise you’ll be having to listen to Sean again, and I wouldn’t trust him to have any new material.”

  Widespread groans, hearty jokes, and shouted encouragement were offered up all around, but I barely noticed. It had just occurred to me that suddenly I was in a time crunch: If I waited any longer, Sean would be on stage and out of reach indefinitely. Never mind the suspense, I honestly didn’t think I could handle the grueling physical symptoms of waiting any longer.

  As if prompted by an awfully pushy invisible hand, I shuffled forward and felt my heart rate soar, pounding out its objection. Too bad. This was it—I was going to do it! Newly determined, I headed toward the makeshift stage where the band was waiting to accompany the vocal stylings of the next performer. Which I’d just now decided was going to be me. That’s right: I was volunteering. To sing. In front of complete strangers. No doubt bearing a striking resemblance to a zombie in a sweater and sensible shoes.

  Within seconds I was facing a couple of Sean’s band mates and a complete stranger with a fiddle, slightly slack-jawed (me, that is, not them) and stumped as to what to do next. Recognition flickered in their eyes (except for the fiddler), and slow grins seeped onto their faces.

  “Are ye here to sing, then?” This from Ian (I think).

  “If that’s all right?”

  “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 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 cliché. “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 ...