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

lot more in common than I realized at first. Funny how I’d never thought of it before, but Harriet was my best gal pal. Curious how things turn out unexpectedly.

“I feel the same way,” I replied with a sense of warm fuzzies. “Thank you for being my friend.”

She was quiet for a minute. I thought I heard her sniffle.

“Hey, wanna grab some In-N-Out?”

“Right now?” she asked.

I looked at the clock. It was too early for bed, and the peanut butter pretzels suddenly didn’t interest me anymore.

“Heck yeah. Did you have dinner?” I hadn’t and suddenly had a craving for chips or, as the locals called them, Animal Fries.

“Actually, not really,” she replied. “I’ve been on a juice cleanse all day, and I’m so over it.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

Harriet briskly approved of the scheme and we hung up with visions of deep-fried potatoes on our minds. And I did my best not to remind myself of the many late-night trips to drive-thru burger shops I’d taken with Jaxson.

23

Hurry Up And Wait

Jaxson

Anyone who’s worked in the movie business was familiar with the term ‘hurry up and wait.’ The same should apply to the post office, the department of motor vehicles, and any place where people would have to take a number for the privilege of wasting away in a dreary room under drearier fluorescent lamps. Currently, my whole world was that dreary room, and my queue number was in the billions. I was that head shrinker in Beetlejuice.

I had let myself fall under the misconception we only needed to present to one studio. Eggs, meet your one and only basket. Therefore, when the scheduling ‘misunderstanding’ occurred, we had nothing else lined up. A daft mistake. However, in my defence, Mr Perry all but guaranteed a green light when I pitched him the idea almost six months ago. I foolishly thought it was only a matter of logistics.

The wait began, and I decided to use the time proactively and put my Hollywood schmoozing to work, ringing every studio in town for a chance to pitch Field of Hearts.

I met with Pinky almost every day in cafes to run production numbers and plan our next step. I hardly saw Emma during that time. The cast and most of the production team was on-call until we had more information, since Stella needed her rehearsal space for The Gardiner Theatre’s next production.

But I didn’t think Emma missed me at all. She was off filming a commercial with Frank, and every time I checked my social media, I found pictures of Emma and Frank at a charity event, Emma and Frank at a movie premiere, Emma and Frank caught in a very friendly looking pose. I wasn’t an idiot—I knew as well as anyone in the business not to trust the headlines on social media. Any little innocent thing could be misconstrued. But still, seeing those images plastered all over my screen raised my hackles more than they should have. Something about the smarmy expression on Frank’s mug when he looked at Emma. He didn’t even know her. He wouldn’t know her favourite food was potatoes, or that she loved time travel movies. He couldn’t tell you what her favourite song was, or that she sometimes danced in her socks Risky Business style. Or that her nose wrinkled when she was cross, or the way her brows furrowed. And when she laughed, it was like a thousand finches filled your soul. Frank Churchill had no right.

Emma texted me occasionally to fill me in on her day or to send me photos of odd signs. That was another one of her things. She loved road signs—especially silly ones, like deer crossing signs that someone attached a red sticker to the nose, or unfortunate misspellings. Every one of them brightened my day. But she never rang—only text. One of her messages asked if I meant it when I told Annie I wasn’t going to The Oscars. Like a tosser, I confirmed I wasn’t going. I haven’t a thing to wear, I quipped. She responded with a Spanish dancer emoji.

I couldn’t tell her why I didn’t want to go. That if I spent time with her looking gorgeous on my arm, I wouldn’t forget that kiss. How I told myself it was a bad idea but threw Weak Jaxson the keys anyway. He was a reckless driver, and I secretly loved going along for the ride—wild and free. I thought about Emma’s kiss every bloody day. I’d need one of those Men in Black memory wipes to truly forget the way Emma’s soft, pliant lips felt on mine. The way she held onto me as though she’d fly away if she let go. The way my body reacted to every little sigh and every brush of her fingertips on my skin. How I was on fire and floating on clouds all at once.

No. Not going to the Oscars. It was better to keep my distance for a while.

One afternoon, because I loved to suffer, I stopped by her house on the pretence of bringing tubs of Goldfish snacks for her pantry. Rosario let me in, giving me a once-over.

“You use key next time. I walking from other side of la casa. Is too much.”

“All right. So sorry.”

Rosario pursed her lip and scowled at me.

“Lo siento,” I corrected using the Spanish she taught me. That put a smile on her face. Then she briskly turned and scurried off to wherever she had been prior to my arrival. As I made my way toward the kitchen, Emma flew into the living room, attaching the back on an earring, shouting and rushing around.

“Rosario!” she cried.

She ran around in search of something and wore a breezy little dress that showcased her long, toned legs. I felt like saying, ‘Where do you think you’re going in that outfit, young lady?’ But I contented myself with, “You look nice.”

Emma jumped, startled to see me under the archway between the living