Austensibly Ordinary Read Online Free Page A

involves turkeys or pumpkins, I don’t want to know,” she grumped from behind the counter. Her laptop was open in front of her on the antique hotel desk she’d snapped up at the Round Top flea market.
    â€œIt doesn’t,” I said, stuffing my purse under the counter and looking at her askance. “Should I assume Halloween will be pumpkin-less too?”
    â€œI’m skipping the orange this year, decorating in black and emerald green,” she said defiantly, evidently expecting me to object.
    â€œLook at you, Mom! Boycotting the official color of Halloween in a college town that fawns over its burnt orange!” I smiled, admiring her spunk. I glanced around. “Do I have carte blanche, or are you giving me directions?”
    â€œGo crazy,” she offered. “Everything is on the storeroom table.”
    â€œEverything” included a sparkly layer of glitter and a shimmering scatter of sequins and rhinestones. Mom had apparently gotten very crafty, cutting out frogs and witches’ hats and bedazzling them with a vengeance. Too bad we weren’t decorating for Valentine’s Day. A little pucker and some glitzy crowns and these little guys could be frog princes. I smiled ruefully. Until Ethan squished them under his car tire. But heck, frogs got their holiday start at Halloween . . . I could make this work. I could cut some skinny ribbon curls and make them into extended frog tongues. Add a few Mardi Gras beads for shimmer and some black and green tissue paper for flair, and I’d be off the hook till the next holiday window display. There were even a couple of black masquerade masks—I could slip these on the mannequins to add a touch of flirtiness.
    But first, I’d need to browse the shop for a little Halloween inspiration. There were two mannequins in the front window—I’d outfit them first and keep an eye out for something worthy of a Hitchcock blonde while I was at it.
    I tucked a couple of stray curls behind my ear, wishing I’d bought the dainty jeweled headband I’d recently hearted on Etsy. Although maybe I should be looking at vintage cat’s-eye glasses instead and practicing twisting my hair into a tasteful chignon that could tumble down with the tug of a single bobby pin. . . . I shook my head to refocus and had to deal with those curls all over again. Having my hair in my eyes for the duration of this project was going to be irritating. On my way out of the storeroom, my hip accidentally bumped the pile of decorations hanging off the edge of the table and sent a flurry of frogs spiraling away behind me. As I turned, bending down to collect the escapees, my gaze caught on a shimmer of midnight blue flirting from beneath a plastic dry-cleaning bag.
    I inched forward on my knees, too excited to worry over the risks to my trousers, and, using both hands, slowly raised the bag to expose more of that gorgeous, lustrous skirt.
    â€œWhat on earth are you doing?”
    A zip of shock tore up my spine, and I whipped my head around, caught in the incriminating—not to mention embarrassing—position of having my hands snaked up inside the plastic wrap, very nearly hugging this seemingly irresistible dress, my fingers skimming over the sexy sheen of brocade. And I wasn’t letting go.
    â€œNothing.” I attempted nonchalance, but my mother was no fool. “Just getting a quick preview of the new stock.”
    Her expression shifted. Suspicion fell away, replaced by unreserved delight. “Those just came in yesterday. I thought maybe—”
    â€œCan I have this one??” I blurted, nearly as surprised with myself as she was. The bodice of the dress was still sight unseen. I was making a fool of myself over a pretty skirt and a feeling. I don’t know how I knew it, but I did. This was the dress I needed to stoke my inner femme fatale and launch my alter ego.
    A curl escaped its confinement behind my ear and fell