Jane and Austen by Stephanie Fowers Page B

being me, I was this sweet, little thing—a little worn down, my shoulders hunched. I followed the brilliant Freddy around in my skinny jeans and high heels, desperately trying to get his attention. He’d call me fat while he flirted with other girls. The impression rushed through my mind like a near-death experience, and I backed away from Bella, shaking my head. I knew what would happen if Freddy chose that moment to make an appearance; I’d shove Bella at him, shouting, “Keep the girl; just leave me alone!”
    Instead I gave Bella an enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say he’s a character. We’ll leave it at that.” With those mysterious words to serve as a warning, I retreated to the main building where I stole up the back, taking three flights of stairs to my room. As Austen had pointed out so rudely, mine was the crummy loft upstairs. No matter how quaint his parents tried to make the Morland Loft look in the advertisements, it was never rented out. And so Austen’s parents ended up giving it to the staff for a meager monthly fee.
    But I loved it—I felt like I lived in a tree house in the middle of a Swiss Family Robinson jungle. The loft had exposed rafters, and the palms brushed against the four windowsills on all sides of me. The birds nested on the roof outside. We shared this space together, which I was okay with as long as they didn’t share their mites with me, too.
    I collapsed into my beanbag and stretched my legs out in front of me, trying to process everything, but I could only concentrate on one thing. Austen was back. It was only for a month. My heart gave a little flutter. A whole month! I could actually see him again. And then what? I tried to be stern with my heart. Nothing should happen, and it wouldn’t. Austen and I had both burned that bridge together—not only that, but we had thrown gasoline on that bridge and blown on it to make the flames burn hotter and brighter.
    Still, even if any chance of a future had been ruined, I had every intention of being spitefully stunning while he was here; that would show him what he let slip through his fingers. I should take a shower. Do my hair. Put on some make-up. At least some lip gloss. Starting now. Except I couldn’t get off my beanbag chair. I leaned my head back and stared up at the rafters.
    Austen was lost to me, but it didn’t mean that all romance was dead. I felt it. Things were a lot different here than it was at home. My parents had been realistic and longsuffering. My five older brothers were protective, and it was impossible for anything adventurous to happen to me when they guarded their little sister from anything too crazy. After moving here from Sacramento, I’d felt the possibility for adventure the instant I’d walked into the lobby of my new job.
    Magic would happen at the North Abbey. There was a wedding in the works, after all—and it wasn’t just a client’s wedding, but a friend’s—that made me both guest and professional, kind of a weird position to be in. But it didn’t matter; even if Taylor’s bridesmaids were hard to handle, at least Bigley might have some nice groomsmen in the ranks. Probably no lasting relationships, but as part-guest, I could get to know them when I wasn’t on the clock. And of course, there was Bigley’s best mate, Will Dancey. He might be fun. Dancey was a rock star with a tragic past, if anyone could believe the lyrics in his songs.
    What was Dancey like? He’d be a romantic, for sure, but probably distrustful of relationships. I wouldn’t even try to get past his defenses in a week—but we’d definitely have to share a moment.
    Not everyone is familiar with “the moment,” but it was one of my favorite theories, a little something I’d picked up from every Jane Austen flick I’d ever watched. The moment meant I had the guy’s attention—it was that moment that I knew he was entranced with me while I was with him. It could be a look, a brush of the hand. It could happen