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

was the one addition to the cast that would bring in the young female crowd. With Frank attached to our picture, we were almost guaranteed to be picked up by a studio.

He was what was hot in young Hollywood, dubbed the ‘Blue-Eyed Crooner’ or ‘Millennial Frankie.’ He was the heartthrob posted on the walls of teen girls, and I counted on him to make Field of Hearts a box office explosion.

Frank was a problem I could deal with. Unfortunately, a new diva was in town, and his name was Elton Wardlow. Who knew he was so extra? I began to wish I’d let Emma’s little friend, Harriet, fill in for Frank at the table read. I had to admit the sprite was growing on me. A tad too eager perhaps, but nice. And it was sweet how Emma was trying to help her friend out. There were worse things in the world than an actor without talent. Hollywood was full of them.

Emma was so intent on having Harriet around all the time, I was beginning to get used to her presence. That was why I found it curious, yet hopeful, not to see her on Monday. Perhaps she was whisked away by the dashing Spanish bartender from Karaoke Unplugged.

That night, over a much-deserved dinner of drive-thru spag bol, I brought it up. We’d discovered a hidden park in a residential neighbourhood and spread out our feast from Taste of Italy Express.

“How is your little friend?”

Emma quirked her brow and licked marinara sauce from the corner of her lip.

“Which friend? I have so many.”

“Do you now? That’s splendid.”

“Mmmhmm. I travel in a pack now,” she said with a smirk.

“Oh? A pack. Like wolves?”

Her eyes sparkled. “Yeah. Or maybe whatever you call a group of cats. I like cats.”

“A clowder. That’s what you call a group of cats.”

“Really? A clowder? Rhymes with chowder?”

I nodded, smiling at her silly face all covered in sauce.

“How do you know this?” Her bright curious eyes widened.

“It came up in research for a screenplay I was writing once.” I drained my water bottle in one swig.

“Please tell me it’s a screenplay about dazzling female cats in stilettos.”

“No, but you might be on to something. That’s high concept. Do you think we could get Streep?”

“I’ll talk to my people.”

“Good enough.” I leaned my elbows on the cement picnic table and watched her finish her garlic bread. I loved the way she ate with total abandon. To the world, she was Hollywood’s sweetheart. Her flawless face covered in expertly applied cosmetics graced billboards all over the city. She was a household name. Yet here she was, devouring carbs to her heart’s content without a care in the world who might walk by. I found a rogue napkin at the bottom of the take-out bag and dabbed her chin. She giggled, taking the napkin and rubbing it wildly back and forth across her mouth. Whatever gloss she’d applied in the morning was long gone, leaving a natural tint and a soft flush to her lips caused by excessive friction of the rough paper. Only a speck of sauce remained—just under her eye. I decided it was too cute to let her know about it. I smiled at the pure simplicity of this picture-perfect scene, focusing on the sauce so I wouldn’t get lost in her beauty. I took a sip from her water bottle, cherishing this moment. She could have headed home to her mother’s terrible cooking or gone out with one of her cat friends. But she was with me. I prayed her clowder of Sheilas wouldn’t cause too much strain in our friendship.

“What were we talking about?” she asked, jogging me back to the present and away from that little dot of marinara. Who knew a delectable blend of tomatoes and herbs could conjure such profound reflection? Hmmm. No wonder Taste of Italy had five stars.

“Actually, I don’t remember,” I replied.

“Something about my friend?”

“Oh, yes.” I shook my head to clear it of all sauce-related thoughts. “Harriet. How is Harriet?”

“She’s brilliant… the bee’s knees.”

“She seems to have a little more confidence these days.”

“The shoes help a lot.” She smirked, causing the sauce on her cheek to wiggle. I cleared my throat.

“I was surprised she didn’t come to the theatre today.”

Emma gave me a hard stare. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but it might have to do with a certain man we both know.”

“Oh, really?” Emma sat up a little straighter, her ears perking up. “Someone we both know, eh? Might he be a musician, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

The corner of her mouth curled, and I could tell she was fighting a smug grin.

“And did this guy say something to you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny anything.”

“Okay, fine. Don’t tell me.” She huffed. “Maybe I won’t tell you something.”

“Oh, really? Like why Harriet wasn’t with you today? I have a good idea she spent the day with Martinez.”

“Ha,” Emma guffawed. “Really, Jaxson, where do you get your information? Harriet doesn’t like Roberto Martinez.”

“You seem quite sure of that.”

“I am. The guy asked her out with a text for crying out loud. A text!”

I frowned. What was wrong with that? “I told him to text before ringing her.”

“You did this?”

“We were at the club late Saturday night, and since he knows Harriet’s your new friend, he asked for my advice.”

She crossed her arms. “And you decided texting the girl he fancied was brilliant dating advice.”

“No. He asked me about Harriet, and I told him it was a good idea.”

“For him, maybe.”

“I don’t get it. I thought you’d be thrilled. I even said to myself Emma, with her love of matchmaking, will be so chuffed over this news.”

“Then you don’t know me very well,” she exclaimed, crumbling up her napkin.

“No need to throw a wobbly.”

“Oh, whatever! Martinez can do whatever he pleases. I couldn’t care less.”

“I’m finding that exceedingly difficult to believe considering how you’ve made that girl your little project.”

She gasped. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you believe. She’s