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

beat of the song currently blaring. It’s a peppy drum solo followed by the twang of a single electric guitar. I know this song but can’t quite place it. Ingram’s kicking and snapping, his whole face alive with the music.

“Can you believe this?” He does a spin and goes right into a box-step.

I listen as other instruments join in. “Is this...?”

“YEAAAAH.”

Whoa there, cowboy. Dial it down a notch.

Who woulda thunk Footloose would make the cut onto Eugene’s strange and wonderful playlist? But here’s Ingram, loving every second. It’s kinda weird seeing him pumping his fists and grinding those hips around in Armani slacks and a silk tie. He looks like the ritzy principal who just crashed the school dance—and maybe had too much punch.

“I can’t believe I remember the choreography,” he says with a grin that could split Andreas Fault. There’s definitely an earthquake somewhere in my body.

He waves me over. “Get up here.”

“Nah, I think I’ll just enjoy the show.”

He laughs. “Shut up and dance, funny face.”

Ugh! The old nickname rears its ugly head. Still... a familiar hum buzzes through me. Funny face. He always winks when he says it—accompanied by a flirty smirk that melts my gooey center. Forrest Gump was onto something. Maybe life is like a box of chocolates. I identify with the cream-filled kind.

I shake my head furiously but he takes that as an invitation, snatching my hand and pulling me up. I stand there like a fool while he does the heel-toe thing.

Heel-toe, toe-heel. Sliiiiide. I get a flashback of high school Ingram playing Ren McCormack in the spring musical, Footloose. I crushed on him big time from my little part in the ensemble. I thought he had all the moves, both on and off stage. Now his moves just make me giggle.

“You’re nuts.”

He wags his brows. “Should I try my backflip?”

“Don’t you dare—“

He catches my hands. “Then dance with me.”

I make a show of rolling my eyes and start to sway lamely. “Only because I don’t care for the sight of blood.”

He pulls me in for a jitterbug move. “You care.”

“No.” I rock into him and step out again, taking my hands with me this time. “I really don’t.”

This is actually a catchy tune. No wonder it’s stood the test of time. Also, the choreography is coming back to me. Sort of. Apparently, Ingram never forgot a step. I wonder if he’s one of those guys that re-lives the glory days by practicing his old dance moves in his boxers when no one’s looking.

Dangit. Why did my mind go there? Now the image is seared in my brain.

“Remember this one?” he says, doing what I used to call the hands-all-over-the-place move. There really is no other way to describe it. Your hands do the knee criss-cross thing, then slap your chest, your hip, and then you swing your foot behind you and hit that, too. Kind of a smash-up of Stomp and the Macarena. It was my favorite move—mostly because I thought it was cool to smack my foot. I was easily amused as a teen.

I join in, slapping all over my chest and butt. I’m pretty bad at it but I’m starting not to care. I swing my foot back and narrowly miss it. Must be this sensible skirt. Still, Ingram managed to get me laughing which surprises me in a warm fuzzy sort of way. I’m not a sad person—I’ve just been too busy to laugh. It’s scary how adulting creeps up on you.

We freestyle it for a while. Ingram does the moonwalk and I about lose it. I cup my hands around my mouth.

“Way to go, grandpa,” I shout over the music.

He throws me a challenging look. “Oh yeah?”

Then the tie comes off and he swings it like a Rally Monkey. Next thing I know he lassos me around the waist and pulls me in. There’s enough space between us still, but he’s shakin’ and bakin’ with hands on both ends of the tie. I’m caged in doing this hot dance-off with Ingram and all I can think about is him practicing his moves at home—in boxers. Must look away. Must look away. I feel the burn in my cheeks and I know my whole face is wildly flushed. If he dares to tease me, I’ll blame it on the exercise.

I’m saved by a drum-heavy break in the music. This is our line dancing moment.

“Grapevine!” Ingram calls out the moves like an emcee. He’s all smooth dance floor guy and I go the wrong direction, bumping into him. Yeah. Grapevine to the left first. Got it. It doesn’t faze him, though. He grins and calls out another move.

“K-step.” The cowboy within makes an appearance. He’s got his thumbs in his belt loops and I decide it’s a good look for him.

Yeeehaaaw! Save a horse... No, no, no. Concentrate on the dance steps, Rose. 5, 6, 7, 8...

Ingram goes for an epic hitch-kick. I end up doing my own thing, scissoring my arms, banging my head. My hair is history. Ingram gets the memo and now we’re dancing like fools, kicking up our heels and wiggling our hips. We lock eyes and a zing shoots though me. We’re connected by an electrical current and dancing is how we keep it charged. We must keep it charged or the universe will implode. It’s a thing.

I hardly notice when the song ends and transitions into another. My chest is heaving with glee, so high from the crackling energy. I’m glowing with white heat. I can feel that same fever in Ingram when he takes my hand and pulls me against his chest. It’s a piano-heavy rock ballad now. Something by Air Supply or Journey or one of those 80’s hair bands.

“Song’s over, Kevin Bacon.”

“And now we’re slow dancing.”

I shake my head and step back an inch, but he’s got me in his firm, yet gentle, hold. “I don’t have enough AquaNet for this song,” I say.

His lip curls a millimeter and he pulls