Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set Gigi Blume (fantasy books to read .txt) 📖

most outrageous fan fiction movies. We’d have a chin wag until all hours of the morning. Sometimes, we’d play online video games, and I’d let her beat me at Fortnite.

“I wonder what kind of dog Elton likes,” she said.

“If I had to guess, I’d say Chihuahua.”

“I could find him a Chihuahua. This is L.A. There are lots of Chihuahuas.”

“Emma…”

“They’re like Starbucks. There’s a Chihuahua on every corner.”

“Emma…”

“Bouji Chihuahuas, glam Chihuahuas, all sorts.”

“How do you know he’s not a cat person?”

“Don’t be daft,” she scoffed. “Everyone loves dogs.”

“Maybe you should let him pick out his own… dog.”

She laughed—that light bubbly giggle that was almost an aria. It filled me with such joy to hear, knowing it was accompanied by an unguarded smile.

“I wish you were here,” she said on a sigh.

This woman. She shouldn’t say things like that.

“I’m just a phone call away,” I replied, trying desperately to tame the heat prickling through me. How easily I could jump in my car—I’d be at her house before I even realized the insanity of the idea.

“I’m beginning to regret that last pot of tea,” she said.

“Are you out of herbal?”

“I don’t know.”

I made a mental note to check her pantry tomorrow. Her housekeeper Rosario was good at keeping it well stocked, but the woman had no concept of decaffeinated drinks. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she owned the house. She was also a junk food enabler.

“Shall I read to you?” I asked in a whisper.

“Jane Eyre?”

I smiled at her eagerness. “We’ll pick up where we left off.”

“Okay.”

“Turn out your lights while I get the book.”

I could hear the shuffle of her movements. I pictured her padding around her bedroom checking the alarm, shutting off the lights in her dressing area and the balcony off her master suite—locking the French doors. I didn’t like the thought of her alone in that enormous house. But she insisted she never felt lonely. Our nightly phone calls probably had something to do with that.

I retrieved the book from my nightstand and opted for a clip-on light for reading. It was Emma’s book. Book mail was one of her online shopping weaknesses. She loved collecting them and how they looked on her shelves. She had every good intention to read them all but never found the time. I’d take them home so I could read to her while we spoke on the phone.

It seemed to calm her spirit. And it settled my mind—giving it an occupation other than fancying the visions of Emma on the other end of the line listening intently, making casual comments. Unless the book was a love story—like Jane Eyre. Then I was in trouble.

“I’m all tucked in,” she announced after some time. “Like a burrito.”

I imagined her bundled up to the chin in the billowy comforter—her hair splayed in all directions on her pillow.

With the most soothing voice I could muster, I read to her. Trying to coax her to sleep. My fingers ached to caress her hair—her brows—her eyelids to give her some comfort. They had to content themselves with the spine of the book and a stroke of the paper with each turn of the page—poor substitutes. My words would have to do for caresses and so I read, letting the time pass. I reached the passage where Mr Rochester declared his love for Jane, admitting he felt they were connected by a cord of communion. The imagery was beautiful and heart wrenching. I wondered what she thought of that.

“Emma?”

She didn’t answer. I paused in silence for a long moment, listening for the steady rhythm of her breathing. She was a quiet sleeper. Either that or her phone was buried beneath several layers of covers. I decided to continue, if not to lull her into slumber, then for my sake. It didn’t work. Her words from earlier kept turning over in my mind. ‘You’ll never get married. You’re too much like me.’

She was wrong. We were different enough to complement each other. Like fish and chips. Or tea and biscuits.

“Good night, Emma.”

I disconnected the call and read in silence. I scanned page after page without comprehension—too preoccupied with Emma and dogs and her silly matchmaking feats of philanthropy.

4

Beso De Angel

Emma

Jaxson would probably not admit I walked into the Gardiner Theatre Monday morning like a boss—but I totally did. The double doors seemed to open on their own accord, and I was aware of the morning sun acting as my backlighting as I crossed the threshold—the wind-tunnel effect sweeping my hair haphazardly from my shoulders like a beachy breeze. My stride was suspended in slow motion while Oh Yeah from Ferris Bueller accompanied my entrance, and my new friend Harriet Smith trailed at my designer strappy heels like a sassy sidekick.

At least it was like that in my head.

I got a peck on the cheek from Jax as he passed me with a pile of papers in his arms. He barely looked at me at first but then stopped in his tracks and reversed his steps to plant himself before me again. He looked at me, a spark in his eyes as he examined my choice of clothes (a romper and heels so high, I was almost as tall as him) and shook his head.

“What?” I exclaimed. “It’s only a table reading.”

“Exactly.” He shifted his attention to Harriet, and his expression softened. “You look familiar.”

Harriet grinned widely and held out her hand, which he shook politely. “I was your waitress at Karaoke Unplugged,” she beamed, shaking his hand with a little too much energy.

“Oh, yes,” he replied with a look of recognition. “Helen?”

“Harriet,” she said apologetically. “But you can call me Helen. And you’re Jaxson Knightly. I mean, you know that of course. Twelve-year single malt. That’s what you ordered.”

Jaxson raised his brow, half-impressed, half-guarded. “You have a great memory.”

“She does,” I said. “Perfect for memorizing lines.”

“You’re an actress?” Jaxson said, wrinkling his brow. How many times had he been approached by Hollywood hopefuls with