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

lids were brushed with a hint of dramatic gold eyeshadow. It seemed to me he was going for that stage makeup look. I’d have to ask him for some advice on contouring when we got closer to dress rehearsals.

“Have any celebrities worth talking about gone to eat at the lodge lately?” Mom asked on Sunday. We were gathered on the deck in the backyard where Dad had built an area for outdoor entertaining. It was normally used in summer, but it was warm for a November afternoon, and the large farmhouse table fit seven of us better than the dining room table would have. I was able to convince Jane to invite Bing, and I was a little giddy at the arrival of Jorge. I could hardly believe this gorgeous man was at my parents’ doorstep, looking for me. He’d brought a bottle of Argentinian Malbec from the Mendoza region. Dad loved it. I didn’t know why that made me so proud. I didn’t make the wine. I didn’t even bring the wine. I supposed I was responsible for inviting the man who’d brought the wine, so I claimed a little pat on the back.

Presently, Mom made small talk, but I was sure she was fishing for more information on Will Darcy. I’d told her a little about his arrogance, how we clearly didn’t get along, and about our adventure in the costume shop. I didn’t, however, tell her about Jorge’s relationship with him and the Darcy family. She’d heard enough of my aversion to the man and decided to be offended on my behalf. But with the presence of Bing at her house, she dropped subtle hints, trying for any morsel of intelligence about Martin Darcy, what the house must look like, or if there was anything Bing could slip in his pocket for her that Martin might have touched. Bing was too naive to understand her meaning. And so, she brought the subject around to Lucas Lodge where she lived vicariously through my brush with the rich and famous and their eating quirks. The truth was, I didn’t pay much attention to celebrities, most of them producers or screenwriters who I wouldn’t recognize just by their order of the Windsor Castle Club Sandwich and a Perrier. But there was one celebrity I did recognize, and thankfully, he didn’t sit in my section. Will came alone to the lodge on Saturday, and he took a table in the far corner. It was a fair distance from my section, but there were a few openings through the arches separating the two dining halls where I had a clear view of where he sat. A couple of times, I caught him glaring at me. What he was doing there, I couldn’t tell. It certainly wasn’t for the fine cuisine. I could only surmise he was looking for some fault in me, perhaps because he’d seen me with Jorge, and he wanted to ruin me as he’d done to him. Maybe he hoped to get me fired. In any case, I didn’t consider that worth talking about at my mother’s indelicate prompt, and so I simply said, “No. Not really.”

It was more or less a pleasant afternoon. Dad made his famous tri-tip and mashed potatoes, which everyone praised. I was sure Bing had a generous second helping of everything, and Dad polished off the Malbec almost single-handedly. We all laughed on the subject of Mom finding Jorge naked in my shower, which I noted embarrassed my poor little sister Mary. She was a senior in high school and as polar opposite of me as she could possibly be. She was generally quiet and never caught without a book in her possession; She didn’t have a large social circle and was usually clammy in nature. She was a little shy of Jorge and Bing at first, but Jorge couldn’t have been more polite and sweet with her, even bordering on charming. It gave me the warm fuzzies when she opened up to Jorge, becoming more chatty than usual, and a little pink faced. He was entirely attentive to her and even spent twenty minutes discussing her favorite books.

At the mention of the shower story, however, Mary buried her nose at once in the book she’d brought to the table. Even though books and devices weren’t allowed.

“I must apologize,” Mom said to Jorge. We all thought she was referring to barging in on his shower, but she’d changed the subject without warning. “You must not be used to this kind of food. I should have insisted we serve Mexican, but my husband wanted to make his all-American barbecue. Next time you visit, we’ll have something from your culture.”

Words couldn’t describe the mortification I felt in that moment. I wanted to throw a burlap bag over Mom’s head and pretend the racial faux pas we’d just heard came from a sack of potatoes.

“He’s from Burbank, Mom,” I said. “I’m sure they have barbecue in Burbank.” I turned my eyes to Jorge with as much I’m sorry for the existence of my mother in my expression as I could communicate silently, but he wasn’t fazed at all and was rather pleasant in his reply.

He gently placed his powerful hand on my forearm and chuckled, “It’s okay.” He turned to Mom and responded, “Actually, I don’t have any Mexican heritage. My mother’s family is from Costa Rica. It’s a common misconception.”

“Every culture chars meat on the fire, Marie,” Dad growled with a mouthful of steak. He was a man of few words, and those few words were usually sarcastic.

I could almost hear the thoughts turning over in my mother’s head. She was most likely wondering if there was any difference between Mexicans and Costa Ricans. I wouldn’t be surprised if she thought Costa Rica was actually Southern Mexico. For my part, I knew the geographical and even perhaps the cultural differences, but I’d be ashamed to admit I had no clue about the cuisine of