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

to turn us down. I wanted their tears. I wanted to rip their hearts out, pass them around the room, and have every single actor leave an imprint. Kind of like the hand and footprints at the Chinese Theatre Forecourt but on the psyche instead of wet cement.

And then there was Frank. I knew early on he’d bring musical fans in droves to the box office. He’d be the one people would come to see, not me. I should have been over the moon he agreed to the project. But there was something about the man. I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t be sure if my judgement was clouded by my irrational claim on Emma’s attentions, or if I was finally losing it. I had to cut the kiss between Frank and Emma from the script. There was no way to leave it in and maintain my sanity. It didn’t help when Frank challenged me in my decision.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” he said when I passed out the revised pages. “You can’t cut out love scenes in a love story. We have to give the audience what they want.”

“And what exactly do they want, Frank?”

“Well, first, I think it’s a mistake there are no bedroom scenes. Take Outlander, for instance. Do you think people watch it for the history?”

That earned him a few laughs. Pinky fanned herself.

“I appreciate your opinion, but that is not the story we’re telling here.”

“It’s exactly the same story. One woman in love with two men. She’s got to have a roll in the hay with both.”

“I never intended this film to be about cheating. It’s a love story, yes. But it’s also about the parallels between the Civil War and the war in her heart between these two brothers. It’s a story about choices and loneliness and redemption.”

“And bodice ripping—”

“No bodice ripping. It’s a musical, remember? There’s no bodice ripping in Hamilton.”

“There would be if it was a feature film.”

Wow. This guy wouldn’t let off. I was done with this discussion and ready to get to other business.

“Moving on. Slight change in the Fort Sumter battle scene—”

“That scene would be much more powerful between the Donwell brothers if the stakes are higher,” Frank challenged. “What if George knows John loves his fiancée? He needs a reason to be jealous.”

“We’re going for a PG rating, here.”

“Stolen passionate kisses, then.”

“If you so much as kiss Emma anywhere but the back of her hand, it’s outright cheating.”

I may have said that a little too forcefully; all the other conversations in the room hushed, and the air dipped into a dead silence. The only sound was from the cars rushing by on Santa Monica Boulevard. Frank’s lip twitched with amusement, and Emma blushed severely. I squeezed my eyes and let out a breath that had been building in my chest. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“I mean if John Donwell kisses Penelope… it won’t go over well with a lot of audiences.”

Frank threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, man. You’re the boss.”

Yeah, mate. I’m the boss.

Perhaps I jumped from one project to another too quickly. I’d barely wrapped the postproduction on the steampunk flick I filmed last fall. I pushed myself too hard and now I was blurring the lines between fact and fiction. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to take on an acting role and how to separate my own reality from my character’s feelings. It was probably time to check myself before getting too method. I had to remember Frank wasn’t my rival. I wasn’t a Union General, and Emma wasn’t my love interest waiting for me at her Yankee mansion. Heck, two thirds of us weren’t even American. To rectify my dignity, I pat Frank on the shoulder and breezily said, “Hey, mate. We’ll work in an ‘almost kiss,’ okay? That won’t offend anybody.”

By anybody, I meant me.

Rehearsal was nearly done for the day when Pinky commanded my notice by her tensed shoulders and deep frown. She was clutching her agenda binder with one hand and her mobile phone with the other. She may have also been sweating profusely, which wasn’t a good sign in February. For the last half hour of the day, I could feel her eyes on me as though she was trying to have a telepathic conversation with her intense stares. By the way she was trembling and biting her lip, I could tell this was a discussion I’d want to have in private.

“It will be better if you come right out and say it,” I told her once we had a moment alone.

“I’m afraid to.” She shifted her weight back and forth from foot to foot.

“If you don’t tell me, will the problem magically go away?”

“No, I guess not.”

I sighed impatiently, hoping she’d give me the news quickly before Emma came around the corner and discovered another reason to mistrust Pinky.

“Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”

“Okay. Well, remember when you told me to call and confirm with the studio for this Friday?”

“Yes. It’s just a formality, though. Once it’s in the books, they’re not likely to cancel.”

“You see, that’s just the thing.”

“Pinky, what did you do?”

“When I called Mr. Perry’s secretary in December, I scheduled the pitch for this Friday. At least I thought I did. I could have sworn I did. I have it written down here. See?”

She fumbled through her stack of binders to find her calendar.

“Pinky, I believe you. What happened?”

“The secretary—her name is Judy—such a nice woman. She has three dogs, two cats, and a tortoise. Can you imagine having a tortoise? She says they’re very low maintenance—”

“Pinky,” I warned. “What happened?”

She let out a heavy breath, the kind that made one’s shoulders sag.

“Judy said—I just called her an hour ago—she said we never officially scheduled it. That I was supposed to call her back after the holidays because she didn’t have Mr. Perry’s travel schedule at the time. And now he’s in Bali.”

“What about the other execs?”

“She