With the nursery rhyme playing over and over in my mind on the drive home, I couldn’t help but wonder how long it was going to take to get Sean out of my thoughts. But it had been worth it—so worth it. And Fairy Jane had known all along. As predicted, I’d had my cake—and it had been melt-in-your-mouth memorable—and I’d met “him” too. And he’d trumped the cake, no contest.
At that point I was trying to balance being totally freaked that my journal could predict—or possibly manipulate—the future, jealous that it seemed able to make deliriously sexy men do its bidding, and seriously impressed with its exquisite taste.
I had no doubt that I’d met the appropriate “him.” A fairy godmother worth her salt couldn’t possibly have meant anyone else—he was even British! And dreamy and charming and funny and sexy. But it was just a chance encounter, a memorable one-night fling that never made it past first base. And what about Brett? Had I absolutely killed my chances?
I reached over and turned down the heat in the car, suddenly overwarm.
It could never work. Shit! My mind had dodged away from Brett and bounced back to Sean all over again.
It could never work, and yet it had all been leading up to this. All of it had been intended solely as a means to this particular end, this guy, this date. The first little snippet I’d found in the journal had been my invitation to the ball: Ms. Nicola James will be sensible and indulge in a little romance. The second—cleavage is as cleavage does—had set the scene for my encounter with Sean and eventually our very sexy good-bye. And the third—have your cake but meet him too—had been the good solid nudge I needed to keep from getting too distracted to recognize what had been right in front of me.
And now it was over.
A queasy roller-coaster feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, and not from the curves and dips in the road. But I was nothing if not practical, and Sean was about as practical as my dress for the evening. Okay, bad example, but I’d already given myself the “vanity working on a weak head” lecture. Emma’s Mr. Knightley had indeed been correct: It had most certainly brought on the mischief. My mind veered into memories of that mischief once again, and by the time I emerged, I was sliding into traffic going south on Mopac.
No doubt the UT tower was glowing orange with some sort of victory for the Longhorns. I, on the contrary, was actually feeling a little defeated, like I’d been on a scavenger hunt and all the clues had led nowhere. Well, I suppose in all fairness they’d led to Sean. My trouble was, I didn’t know what to do with him—he was so far out of the realm of my reality that he might as well have been a fairy tale. Which fit right in with the rest of my life lately. I’d been imagining myself as Cinderella, so I should know that none of this could ever be real. The way things were going, I’d be lucky to get home before my car turned into a pumpkin.
As I swung onto the Fifth Street exit and navigated the snug, one-way streets on my way home, I let Sarah MacLachlan remind me that one missed step can ruin everything. I should stick with Brett. It seemed likely that this had all been merely a case of mistaken identity. The evening would have been perfectly orchestrated if Brett had been the “him” to have with cake, the man to notice my cleavage, and the target of a perfectly imagined romance. Perhaps I could nudge Fairy Jane in the right direction.
When I finally turned the car into the driveway, I was both relieved to be home and a little skittish. Once upon a time, everything here made sense. Ever since I’d—temporarily—conceded a little piece of the picture to Fairy Jane, she’d been wreaking havoc all over the place.
Stepping out of the car into a gust of frigid March wind, I could see the novelty lights lit up next door dancing in the breeze, and I could smell the wood smoke wafting over onto my side of the fence. I’d need to be quick and quiet. I wasn’t in the mood for an inquisition or a lecture tonight.
Letting the car door fall gently closed, I bumped my hip against it and heard the lock click into place. Poised on the balls of my feet, I darted up the driveway and over the dew-moist grass, up the steps to my tiny back porch, feeling the burnt orange glow of victory.
“Surely that can’t be Nic James, coming home after dark on a Saturday night.”
Two thumps sounded on the fence I shared with the Ls, and then two faces appeared over the top, grinning like goons in the near darkness.
“Ooh, she’s dressed up too. Hubba hubba.”
“Good night, ladies,” I called, clutching the edges of my scarf, closing in on the back door.
“Come over for a sec,” Leslie cajoled. “We’ve got a fire going, a bakery bag of chocolate croissants, and a thermos full of Baileys hot chocolate.”
“The karaoke machine has the night off,” Laura added. “And we have wheat germ cakes and Earl Grey too.”
Gag.
My key was literally kissing the lock, but with a heartfelt eye roll, I straightened my shoulders, adjusted the scarf so that my hands were bundled, and clopped back down the steps on my way to the side gates. If I conceded this round, maybe it’d smooth over last night’s flare-up, and at the price of a little discomfort, it was well worth it—one less grudge to contend with.
By the time I got over there, they had the purple papasan pulled up next to the fire bowl and a Pendleton blanket at the ready. I made quick use of it, swaddling myself so snugly I could barely move.
They were huddled around a laptop, a rosy coral Fiestaware platter sitting between them, golden croissants oozing chocolate sharing space with what appeared to be mini hay bales.
“What are you guys doing out here? It’s freezing!”
Leslie flashed a crocodile grin and tilted the monitor out of view. “Funny you should ask. I propose a little ‘tit for tat.’ ” Her eyebrows shot up. “You in?”
“Fine,” I conceded, relishing the shock on their faces.
“Excellent.” Leslie leaned forward to set the thermos and a cherry red mug in front of me. “We’ll go first—get it out of the way. We’re picking costumes for a friend’s fortieth birthday party. It’s going to be a masquerade.”
Pulling my arms out of their cozy cocoon, I poured the cocoa, sloshing it slightly as I shivered uncontrollably. “Any good ideas so far?” The first sip snaked a warm trail down to my stomach, and the second and third chased away the cold.
“So far we’re considering the two witches from Wicked, with me as the blonde. Laura looks better in green.”
“Okay. Just so I’m clear. You’re playing Glinda, the Good Witch?”
Laura laughed. “Typecasting is for Hollywood.”
Leslie smiled sweetly and shot us the bad finger.
“So much for method acting,” Laura teased. Leslie ignored her and finished out the list.
“Austin Powers and Dr. Evil is an option, but not my favorite. And our artsy-fartsy choice is da Vinci and the Mona Lisa. Laura can go longer without smiling, so she’d be the ‘Woman of Mystery. ’ Good start, huh?” She was clearly ready to dismiss the topic altogether.
I tried to give it some thought but soon realized my brain was too full to come up with any really great suggestions. “What about a couple of cows out on the prowl for some Longhorns? Or maybe a couple of bats? That’s very Austin, right?”
“That could be good, Les,” Laura said, visualizing costumes. “We could even jazz it up a little. Get some fake teeth and be vampire bats.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” Leslie promised, tipping the computer closed and shooting me an unreadable smile. “Okay, tit time is over. Your turn,” she announced, reaching for a croissant. Laura slid a hay bale into place, just under her fingers. Skimming its dry texture, Leslie snatched her hand back in confusion before muttering “Horrid little things” under her breath and claiming the biggest croissant on the plate.
I made wide, innocent eyes at her and asked, “What sort of tat were you hoping for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we’re curious as to what lured you out on a Saturday night in a skimpy dress, fuck-me heels, and some sort of fancy ... swaddling.”
“You think you’re gonna be a good witch with that mouth?” I paused for a single beat, then hurried on when it looked like Leslie might start lobbing bits of croissant. “I was at a coworker’s wedding. I went alone, came home alone.”
“Hrrmph. Figures. Did you at least flirt? Dance? Toss anyone your underwear?”
“I danced one dance and flirted a little. My underwear remains intact,” I countered.
“You danced?” By the tone of Leslie’s voice, you’d think I’d lap-danced.
I nodded, letting the irritation show on my face.
“Coworker or stranger?”
“Stranger.” This perked Leslie right up.
“Cute?” Laura chimed in, looking ready for a good campfire story.
“Very,” I confided, letting the backyard fade for a moment as I remembered.
“Geek?” Leslie’s face was clenched in preparation for bad news.
“Geeky like Jude Law.” Okay, not exactly, but the analogy worked.
Leslie donned her professor face, pursed lips and penetrating gaze. “You’re serious?”
My eyes shifted to Leslie’s laptop as an idea occurred to me. I could Google him. Surely the band had a website, maybe even a few head shots. Flicking my gaze from Leslie to Laura, it occurred to me that a little privacy might be preferable to a gossip fest, but I didn’t think I could wait. Nervous energy was building up inside me—I wanted to see if it was there, if he was there, online, real. I wanted one more look because I suspected I might not risk a second one in person.
Suddenly my mind was made up. Scooting forward in my chair, I commandeered Leslie’s laptop.
“What are you doing?” She sounded miffed, likely imagining the inquisition was over.
“Just give me a minute,” I insisted. Remembering the all-important “h,” I Googled “Loched In,” pausing for a single heart-thumping moment before tapping the Enter key.
I kept my eyes focused on the screen, vaguely aware of night sounds and the avid stares of the Ls. The search results were a mixed bag, and while there was a mention of home-buying in Scotland and even a Scottish thoroughbred, the band didn’t get any hits. I held up a “bear with me” finger and shot the girls a smile. I was curious over a fine art print that had come up first in the search, and before tweaking the spelling for a follow-up search, I clicked on the link.
It was a gorgeous, ethereal twilight photograph of Eilean Donan Castle in the Scottish Highlands. Quickly scanning the description, I learned that it was one of Scotland’s most visited castles, overlooking three lochs, and thus “Loched In.” Blinking rapidly to pull my gaze and thoughts away, I hurriedly Googled “Loch’d In,” without the “e” this time.
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.