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

drops her head on the counter and makes annoying snoring noises.

“We have a lot of capital to throw into marketing, new product lines, rebranding…”

Snore.

“The higher the risk, the higher the profit.”

Snore. Snort.

“And we’ve got a slice of dozens of different pies.”

Her snoring settles into a soft cadence.

“Rose?”

Her head shoots up and she stares right at me. There’s distrust behind her eyes—like the way we all felt when Darth Vader told Luke he was his father.

So I bring it home.

“You asked how I managed to get reservations at The Royal Crown. They were our clients.”

Her expression shifts as if to say, ‘No freaking way.’

I nod really big, “Way.”

Her jaw hangs open. I smirk smugly.

“They were stuck in the eighties. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and stuffy waiters in bow ties. The owner fought me tooth and nail with every change we wanted to make. But he was also too proud to close down. I think his family finally talked some sense into him.”

“That flashy new chef they brought in three years ago,” she says. “I remember there was a line around the block just to get on a waiting list. I thought it was kind of ridiculous.”

I shrug one shoulder. “Marketing, baby. And I own twenty percent. Everybody wins.”

She whistles. Maybe she’s impressed. But more likely she likes to whistle. She stares into the distance, furrowing her brows. I can hear the equations spinning around in her head. At length she turns her gaze back to me. I’ll never get used to those soulful eyes.

“Do you think Eugene has a fighting chance? Do you think he could win?”

I scan the carnage of our unorthodox dinner and give her a wink.

“If we work together, I think so, yes.”

And if she’s willing to take a chance on me, I won’t let her regret it for one second.

5

ROSEMARY

Ingram made a futon of sorts out of fifty-pound bags of flour. It’s lumpy and now my butt looks like a casualty of the Columbia drug cartel, but it’s better than sitting on the hard floor. Presently, we’re playing a game to pass the time. We’re tossing pita breads like frisbees into the giant mixing bowls. It’s harder than it sounds because pita breads are floppy and unpredictable. We have an inaccurate tally of how many times we’ve scored a point, but every time one of us misses, he or she has to come up with a clever pita related joke.

I toss a pita and miss.

“That was pita-ful,” says Ingram. I’ve decided he’s born to deliver dad jokes and that makes my tummy twist in a funny way.

“Are you taking my turns now?” I nudge him with my shoulder.

“Only because I pita you.”

“Okay, that’s just fal-awful.”

“And yet you’re laughing.”

Busted. I let down my guard an hour ago and I don’t know if that scares me or excites me. There’s so much history with us. It seems impossible to bury the hatchet in one night, but I see he’s trying and that counts for something.

He tosses and misses.

“I’m not giving you a free pass on that just because you used one of your jokes on my turn,” I say.

“Hmmm... can I re-pita one of my jokes?”

“I’m going to have to ask the judges.” I lift a finger to the imaginary gameshow judges. “Can Ingram re-pita one of his jokes? Ding ding ding. They say no.”

Technically it probably counts but I’m not giving it to him, mostly because I want to see him squirm.

He twists his lips in thought as if they were connected to his brain somehow. I really need to stop staring at them or obsessing over how they might feel pressed to mine. I have the feeling he was about to kiss me when we found the hummus. But we were saved by the bell, so to speak. And why does that send a jolt of disappointment through me?

“Man, this is hard,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “I’m trying to come up with more pita puns but... I falafel short.”

Wow, he’s the king of corn and I figure that alone deserves a break at picking up the pitas off the floor so we can play another round. I get up and feel his eyes on me as I bend over to pick up our mess. I make an effort to keep my skirt from riding up or he’ll get more of a show than he bargained for. I’m pretty sure I’m wearing my granny panties today. I kicked off my shoes a while ago, so I’m relaxed and comfortable. Even the music is blending into background noise. I’d thrown my hair up with the elastic I keep around my wrist and I’m feeling cute until I pass my reflection in the shiny surface of one of the machines. It’s still dark in here but I can see myself well enough and OMGOSH, have I looked like this for the last hour and a half?

My cute, playful bun, which is usually quite cooperative, must have a mind of its own today. Instead of the tousled and windswept look I was trying to achieve, there’s more of a sad unicorn vibe going on. My hair is just too thick and decided it was a good idea to stick straight up in a pointy horn at the top of my head. Good grief. I snap the elastic out of my hair and fluff it out one-handed. I’ll bet there’s flour in my hair now.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Ingram cracks a grin. “About what?”

I point to where my horn once was. “Hello! I looked like a great-horned rhino. This whole time, Ingram. Not cool.”

Not to mention the dusting of flour all over my rear.

He gets up and I remember there’s flour all over his rear, too. If I could just get him to turn around...

“I don’t think you looked like a rhino,” he says, drawing close enough to notice my pupils dilate. His voice is husky, too, which only makes me hyper-aware of this thing that’s happening