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

in my dorm room, waiting out the months until she graduated high school so I could ask her out. Does that make me seem like a creeper? Give a guy a break. She turned eighteen that May.

Now she’s opening up again—that hot moment in the walk-in forgotten. Her smile is contagious. The joy she gets from seven varieties of hummus is just a glimpse at her zeal for life. That’s the Rosemary I know.

We eat our way through the gastronomical tour of Eugene’s hummus, guessing all the flavors since neither one of us could decipher the sharpie scribblings on the plastic lids. There’s a spicy one, probably jalapeño, a smokey sweet potato, and one with so much roasted garlic I dare Dracula to just try his luck. The one I like the least is red, I’m guessing there’s beets in there. Rosemary likes them all and can’t decide on her favorite until she tries the brown one. I almost didn’t bring that one out because I thought it was black beans or something. And heaven knows it’s not a good idea to have beans if you’re trapped with an attractive woman all night. Then again... what’s hummus made out of? Oh yeah. Garbanzo beans. Wonderful.

She digs right into it. This woman has no fear. She moans the moment the dip hits her lips and her eyes almost roll back into her brain.

“Mmmm. This is amaaaazing.”

I want to tell her she’s amazing. Just the brave factor alone makes me want to get on my knee right now and ask her to have my babies. Too much? I did say I was dramatic.

She shovels more of it into her mouth. Yep. I’m a goner.

“You must really like black beans.”

She covers her mouth with her hand to hide a giggle, but I already saw her teeth covered in brown stuff.

“I do when they taste like chocolate,” she says and wags her brows.

“Chocolate?” I take a tentative taste. It’s surprisingly good. Who knew?

“Eugene’s been holding out on me,” she says. “This is a total game changer. It’s just what my plan needs to—“ Her eyes shoot to me and she stops cold.

“To what?” I bid.

“Never mind.”

There’s that guarded look again. She thinks I’m the devil in blue jeans. She doesn’t trust me. I’m the enemy who wants to steal her client. But nothing could be farther from the truth.

“I know you want to save this company. Believe it or not I do too. But we have to look at the data—”

“The data?” She snorts. “We don’t interpret data the same. You see black beans. I see chocolate. You don’t understand the heart and soul that goes into small businesses. You think you can waltz in here with your five-thousand-dollar suit and your daddy’s fancy firm behind you, but you don’t see the dream you’re about to rip apart.”

“I’m not my dad.”

I know where she’s coming from. My dad’s shady business dealings were all over the internet. The only reason he was never investigated was because he suffered a massive stroke. That’s when I took over the company. I vowed then as I do now, that I’d restore it to what it was when my grandfather started it in the basement of his Brooklyn brownstone all those years ago. Besides. It’s a four-thousand-dollar suit.

She retreats into that far-away place inside herself where I’m not invited. And I thought we were making some headway, here.

“Rosemary, listen to me.”

She hugs the chocolate hummus to her chest and hunches over it, like a monkey who doesn’t want to share. I don’t think she’s listening to me at this point but I have to try.

“It’s true my firm absorbs failing businesses. We try to salvage what we can but many times it’s in their best interest to close down. Sometimes it’s their only shot and keeps them from declaring bankruptcy.”

She pretends not to hear me, scraping the bottom of the tub with her finger. Aaand now is not the time to let that vision rile me up.

Focus, Gram. Focus. Think of a crowded subway. Gum on the sidewalk. Sunday school. Moving on.

“We gather all their assets and do what’s best for them. And we use some of that capital to let each employee walk away with a generous severance package. Usually about six months’ salary.”

Her gaze slides to me. Her look says it’s not enough. I’m still an elitist scumbag.

“Some of the capital? And you pocket the lion’s share.”

“No. We don’t take anything except our fee. Two to three percent.”

She looks me over. “So what are we talking here? What’s your pita bread payday look like?”

She wants transparency. I’ll give it to her.

“When all is said and done? Maybe ten grand.”

She grunts. “That’s two suits for you.”

She can’t be serious. She’s a businesswoman. She should know better.

“I have a staff of professionals on my payroll, each one specialized to get the best rate for a company’s assets. They’re savvy and talented but don’t come cheap. So, truth be told, salvaging a failing business isn’t all that profitable.”

Something shifts on her features, like maybe there’s a sliver deep inside where she wants to believe me.

“If it’s not profitable, then why do it?”

“Because more often than not, the businesses we take on have a fighting chance. Maybe their problem is sloppy accounting or they just need new branding. If that’s the case, we can save them. That’s where the big money is.”

Rosemary scrunches her face at me like I’m such a liar. I know what she’s thinking. Saving small businesses is her thing. Her little ‘consulting firm’ which consists of her and only her operates very differently than my powerful company. I know because I stalked her one-page website. She charges a flat fee. A teeny tiny one. But I admire her gusto. In some ways she reminds me of my grandfather—bootstrapping his fledgling business in that basement.

“Big money, huh? See my face? This is me. Not impressed.”

“I’m not trying to impress you, I just—“

“Yawn.”

“Rose, listen. We act as angel investors.”

She