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

sliding along the icy pavement in those insensible shoes, arms flapping in the wind. Next thing I knew he was under me, a soft barrier from the hard ground. It’s like he was kind of heroic but in a fumbling, unlikely sort of way. This close to him, I was arrested by the smallest details. The gold flecks in his eyes, the lush, thick lashes any woman would envy, the small dimple on his left cheek.

“Ummm.” It was awkward. Really awkward. And I hoped he didn’t have a broken tailbone or something. “Are you okay?”

He blinked and sucked in a breath. “I think.”

A cold dog nose got into my face, sniffing and licking, awakening me from the temporary insanity in which I almost found Wyatt attractive. I pushed off from his chest and rolled over, sitting up to look at the car.

“It stopped sliding. Do you think we could back it up?”

Wyatt groaned as he sat up. That tailbone was going to bruise for sure. “Oh.” He sounded surprised and hopeful. “Maybe we’ll be lucky.”

Now, I’m not one to put too much stock into such things, but when a chronically unlucky person tempts fate, bad things happen. I was beginning to think bad luck followed Wyatt everywhere he went. For as soon as he uttered those words, the ice cracked and the front end of our little rental car sank into the lake.

We stared at it. Our jaws hung down. There were no words. This could not be happening. A fierce heat spread out from my chest and reached the top of my head, building pressure with each pulse beat in my temples. I felt my eyes narrow into precisely pointy death rays and I turned my head ever so slowly to direct them at the walking disaster sitting next to me. I would have remained in that position indefinitely on the off chance those death rays might actually work—if I could only concentrate enough. But my butt was cold and wet, not to mention the car sinking in the lake, and I wasn’t interested in concentrating on Wyatt more than I ought.

Two hours later we were warming ourselves in a greasy spoon down the street from the auto shop where the rental car was towed. Boonybushes, Nebraska. Population: eleven.

I did not kill Wyatt. I only made him wish I had.

The tow truck driver (whose name escaped me) owned and ran the auto shop, was the only mechanic, and sold his wife’s homemade jams in the front office. One could say he was a true renaissance man.

“How long did he say it would be?” I asked Wyatt as I bit into a fry. I just wanted to get back on the road and out of that one-horse town.

“I dunno. But now would be a good time to call whoever’s going to pick you up at LAX.” He slid his phone across the table. It was completely scuffed up, the screen so cracked it belonged on the backside of a plumber. I picked it up and wondered at the oddity of this guy. Did he make a habit of walking under ladders and crossing by black cats? I felt like saying, “You see Wyatt? This is why we can’t have nice things.”

I ran my finger over the screen, remembering my shattered phone. That was the least of my worries at the moment. It seemed so long ago. Funny how drastically my day had gone bonkers.

The home screen was locked.

“What’s your password?”

Wyatt hesitated. He’d just taken a bite from his burger. Barbecue sauce dripped down his hands. He held up a finger while he swallowed.

“C.”

I pressed C.

“A.”

“Okay.” I pressed the A.

“L-L.”

“Gotcha.”

“M.” A twinkle in his eyes. “O-M.”

I punched it in. “Call Mom? That’s some password.”

He took a sip of Coke. “A gentle reminder. I let the day get away from me sometimes.”

“Have you called her yet today?” I tapped on the dial pad.

He nodded, stealing one of my fries. “Did this morning.”

“Hey!” I slapped his hand. “I’m rationing those.”

“You can have one of my onion rings,” he said sheepishly.

I stared at the phone. Crack in the screen. Crack in the universe. Prisoner Zero has escaped.

“Oh no!”

“It’s just a French fry.” He held out an onion ring for me.

“No, that’s not it.” I snatched the onion ring and set in on my plate to enjoy later. “I don’t have any numbers memorized. How am I going to call my brother?”

Wyatt twisted his features in thought. “Online white pages?”

“Is that a thing?”

He shrugged.

“Anyway, he’d be unlisted.” If it were that easy to find Will Darcy’s phone number, he’d get calls from fan girls nonstop.

“Is he on Facebook or something?” Wyatt suggested. “You could direct message him.”

My brother’s idea of social media was to let someone run an official fan page. However...

“I know what I can do.” I tapped away to the search engine and found The Gardiner Theatre’s website. I could leave a message for Stella. She was a close family friend. She could get me through to my brother. It was the only thing I could think of. I was surprised to find the messaging system had a staff directory and was patched right through to Stella’s office. Interesting how she was probably more famous than my brother yet so accessible. Her chirpy British accent greeted me on her recorded voicemail.

“Stella. It’s me Georgia. Listen, my plane was snowed in and I need to get ahold of Wi—“ I stopped myself from using my brother’s real name. “Billy. Trying to get ahold of my brother Billy. Long story, my phone broke. I’m calling from a friend’s phone.” I noticed Wyatt’s lip twitch just then. “Give...Billy this number please.” I rattled off Wyatt’s number with his help and hung up, just a little despondent. What were the chances Stella would go into the theatre a few days before Christmas? They had a Holiday Show but she didn’t need to be there for that. I handed the phone back.

“Anyone...else you’d like to try?”