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

“But I figure if there was any way to roast Jaxson, it would have to be just like he makes his movies. Overdone.”

Hearty guffaws and an explosion of laughter rippled around the fire. This was encouragement enough to keep Emma on a roll.

“Jaxson has always had an eye for talent. He saw potential in me ten years ago. I’m forever grateful for that. And now, well, now we have Frank. Clearly, Jaxson’s lost his touch. What can I say? You had a good run while it lasted.”

This was met with a mixture of whoops and boos. Frank crossed his arms like he was offended or something, but it was obvious they’d rehearsed this.

“Well, you know, Emma, as much as I might agree with you on some points, let’s not forget we’re here to honour the man of the hour.”

Now, there’s something I could get on board with. Frank turned to me and inclined his head with respect.

“Jaxson, I really look up to you, man.”

“Thank you.”

“And I can’t help but feel you have so much wisdom to pass down. I just want to learn from your experience. For instance, how did you take it when they introduced talkies? Did you ever imagine such a thing?”

Oh, hardy har har. Age jokes. That was a painfully long wind-up for a woefully mediocre joke. But he kept going. “What about when things changed to colour? That must have been a shocker.”

Wow, Frank, you slay me. That deserved the slow clap of doom.

Then Emma chimed in. “Enough over-the-hill jokes. Jaxson looks great for his age.”

“So true,” Frank agreed. “Jax, you don’t look a day over fifty.”

Emma stage whispered, “He’s thirty-five.”

“Oh?” Frank scratched his head. “In that case, I take it back. You don’t look a day over sixty.”

Morris responded with his best rimshot impression. Ba dum ching. Harriet threw a marshmallow at Frank. And Randall cupped his hands around his mouth and heckled, “Don’t quit your day job.”

That got more laughs than the real jokes.

“Okay, okay.” Emma quieted everyone down. “In all seriousness, we love Jax. That’s why we’re all here to celebrate. I offered to take him to Outback Steakhouse for his birthday, but he firmly told me no respectful Aussie would ever dine at Outback. Jaxson, our reservation is tomorrow at seven. Happy Birthday.”

She gave a small bow to thunderous applause and blew me a friendly kiss. Elton and his girlfriend shouted at me, demanding I give a speech. If they knew me at all, they’d know I was terrible at speeches. I probably held the record for the shortest acceptance speech in history.

Doing my best to remain diplomatic, I smiled. “Thanks for your kind words. It’s just what I always wanted. I only hope to repay you the favour on your thirty-fifth birthdays.”

Assuming I didn’t run back to Australia with my tail between my legs.

After that, Emma and Frank continued the roast with a few jabs at Randall. Something to the effect of a quickie wedding and scrutinizing if Annie had a belly bump. She didn’t. Thin as a rail.

Morris and Elton were the brunt of a few New Yorker jokes, however most of the quips were directed at Morris’ receding hairline and something about him driving a minivan full of children around Manhattan. They were mildly funny but only just so.

When they got to Jennifer, however, it all went to pot in the form of a horrendous poem composed by Frank. Cringe level: seven thousand. He took out his phone and opened the Twitter app, pretending to scroll through the feed.

“If you want the fair fax about Jen,

Read over her Twitter again.” Here, he showed everyone his screen.

“She’s got lots of likers,

especially from bikers.

And she’s such an odd contradiction.

So sweet but without much conviction.

‘Motorcycles cause lots of friction’

says commenter @ magic_dixon.”

The mood shifted, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something of an inside joke too sinister to share with the rest of us—Frank and Emma were the only ones laughing. Jennifer’s features turned stone cold. After the most uncomfortable lull, Pinky spoke up, most likely trying to keep spirits high.

“Oh, do me. Do me.”

Emma shook her head and replied, “You’re too easy a target, dear.”

But Pinky persisted, almost begging to be the subject of a roast. To her credit, I imagine she was doing her best to keep things lively. Unfortunately, it didn’t work in her favour because after some cajoling, Emma finally said, “Hmmm, okay then. When I first met Pinky, I wondered why her friends gave her that nickname. Was it because of the movie Grease? Did she have pink hair or put something red in a load of whites? Then after getting to know her, I discovered it wasn’t because of hair colour or anything to do with a colour at all.” She held up her pinkie finger and wiggled it. “It’s the size of her brain.”

A wet blanket of silence fell over the group. Nothing but the sounds of crackling logs and crashing waves remained. Emma’s expression faltered as a comedian would when booed off the stage, and she plopped on her blanket without another word.

Pinky was the first to speak up, chuckling uncomfortably as she murmured, “Oh, I get it. Pinky finger. That’s… clever.”

It wasn’t clever. It was rude, and everybody knew it. Even Frank, who was usually as subtle as a wallaby in the queen’s knickers, looked away and busied himself with skewering a marshmallow.

“I think I’ll go for a walk.” Jennifer stood and offered her hand to Pinky. “Want to come?”

Pinky gratefully accepted and off they went. Elton and his girlfriend soon followed as did Morris, Annie, and Randall.

“Where’s everyone going?” Emma cried. “It’s pitch black out there.”

I got to my feet, circled around the fire to where Emma sat, and brushed sand from my trousers. “Grunions, Emma. Remember?”

Her wide, expressive eyes met mine from beneath her lashes like a sad puppy who’d been dog shamed. Her lip quivered with a reply she didn’t