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

strummed his own compositions from Lived Overseen, Morris sang harmonies, pantomiming the piano on his lap. Frank and several of our ensemble members sang along, too. Even Pinky knew all the lyrics to the Tony Award-winning score.

“Why aren’t you singing, Jenny?” Agnette asked her new friend. Jennifer smiled sweetly and admitted she wasn’t very familiar with the newer shows on Broadway. Agnette gasped at such a tragedy and vowed to educate her on the subject. She clung to her the rest of the night and wouldn’t let a moment pass without giving her some sort of advice.

“New York is the place to be if you want to make it,” she’d say. Or, “You should totally do cruise ship gigs like I did.”

I noticed Frank bristle at Agnette’s declarations which prompted Jennifer to throw stolen glances his way. Although Frank took every opportunity to sit next to Emma, his gaze wandered to Jennifer more often than seemed benign to me. I couldn’t help but suspect a secret attachment to Jennifer—the way his features shifted whenever he looked at her. The way his body stiffened when Agnette recommended she audition for Tokyo Disneyland. Then he’d turn and openly flirt with Emma. I balled my fists at my sides. If I ever discovered Frank was leading Emma on, my knuckles would get up close and personal with his face.

Agnette then convinced Elton to shift to Beatles songs. “Everybody knows the words to Beatles songs,” she said, nudging Jennifer with her elbow. Elton sprang right into I’ve Just Seen a Face followed by Strawberry Fields Forever.

“That song’s kind of depressing,” said Annie as the last chord rang out.

Randall cupped his hands around his mouth and cried, “I buried Paul.” in a distorted foreboding drone which made all of us erupt into peals of laughter.

Morris shook his head. “It’s an undisputed fact that John Lennon said, ‘cranberry sauce’ not ‘I buried Paul’ at the end of Strawberry Fields.”

This was met with tones of curious oooohs and mmmms.

“Hey, can I borrow your axe?” Frank bade, reaching out for Elton’s guitar.

“I didn’t know you played,” said Emma with amusement.

Elton reluctantly passed over the guitar, and Frank winked at Emma as he settled it onto his lap. “You didn’t? Well, let me remedy that. Okay, guys, let’s see if you know the story behind this Beatles song.”

He strummed an open chord and, unsatisfied by the sound of it, he picked at the strings, intoning the harmonics while adjusting the tuning keys. I could see Elton’s eye twitch disapprovingly.

“I just tuned it with my app.”

Frank tapped at his own ear. “Nothing can replace good old-fashioned ear tuning.”

If looks could kill, we’d have to bury Frank under the fire pit.

“Do you have a capo?”

Elton offered an amused huff. “Trouble with bar chords?”

“Nope. Not at all.” Frank winked and fingered off a showy riff on the strings. Emma’s eyes widened, impressed. Morris laughed.

Frank got the capo, settling it on the second fret and began singing Hey Jude. He sang the first note a cappella, and then fell into the rhythm of the chord progression. No one could resist singing along. Even Jennifer cracked a smile and offered some harmonies. Somebody manifested a tambourine seemingly out of nowhere. We were a loud bunch, each one of us belting at the top of our lungs, clapping to the beat. Yet Frank’s voice soared above the robust chorus, light and airy as he was famous for. The lyrics rang clear as a bell, reaching my soul as if they were intended especially for me. It was as though Frank’s voice carried over the blazing bonfire and straight to my heart, offering me sage musical advice. I soaked the Kool Aid right up.

Ya know, maybe I really was made to go out and get her. Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am looking for someone to perform with. That’s so me!

But it wasn’t Frank. It was me making it all up in my head, trying to pass Paul McCartney’s lyrics off as some divine message to expose my poor heart outside my chest—like a sad Ood in Doctor Who. Halfway through the song, I could have sworn Frank slipped and sang Hey Jax instead. The truth was I only heard what I wanted to hear. And I was okay with that; I was done watching from afar. Tonight. Tonight, I’d tell Emma how I felt.

When the last note rang out, spirits were high, and everyone was ready for more, crying for an encore. But Frank exchanged a shared look with Emma and handed the guitar back to Elton. Emma stood up from the blanket and called everyone to her attention. The sun had gone down completely, leaving only a crescent moon to cast a faint silvery glow on the surface of the water. Waves crashed and swished somewhere in the inky distance. The powerful sound intensified in the darkness. Our campfire offered the only light in which to see Emma, the blaze of the flames illuminating her face as she addressed all my guests. It made her look like some sort of warrior goddess. My heart swelled.

“In honour of Jaxson’s birthday, I have prepared a surprise. Frank helped me plan it, so stand up, Frank.”

This couldn’t be good. Before I had a chance to protest, Emma continued, “We’ve been roasting marshmallows all night—I know I like them when they’re gooey and melty on the inside. But while the fire is still crackling, we’d be amiss to pass up a roast of a different nature.” Here is where she looked at me, probably hearing a drumroll in her head. “Tonight… we’re gonna roast Jaxson Knightly.”

I shook my head furiously. “No, let’s stick to marshmallows. They’re more delicious.”

Nobody paid attention to my protests, partly because they were too busy hooting and clapping. Emma cleared her throat.

“But I had to ask myself. How do you roast the nicest man in Hollywood? The man literally has no vices—at least none that I know of.”

See there? It was