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

I worked, so it didn’t cross my mind he’d be looking for me. What on earth could the man want with me? That’s when I panicked. Had Will complained about me? What could possibly be so pressing that couldn’t wait until Monday’s rehearsal? I swallowed hard as he approached me, leaving his Shirley Temple at the bar. His approach was stiff, and he wore a grave expression which made his features appear even whiter than usual. Still, upon closer inspection, I was convinced it was just the wrong shade of foundation. He smiled through contorted looks of discomfort and greeted me awkwardly.

“Might I have a word with you in private?” he asked.

My shift was close to ending and save for a few tasks and a lingering party in my section, I was free. A glance at Charlotte gave me leave to take a few moments with Colin, so I directed him to a booth away from the few stragglers still dining. I admit, I was nervous to hear what he had to say, and I’d be lying if I said my palms weren’t sweaty. He spoke in a painfully formal manner, laying out all my good qualities in an orderly but suspect fashion. I’d been let down by directors before and that was usually the way they did it. The difference was I was used to hearing the ‘You’re talented but not what we’re looking for’ speech at auditions, not in the middle of a run. Besides, he was the choreographer—not the director. Did choreographers have the power to fire actors?

But after Colin listed the several attributes about me he found alluring, the word ‘but’ didn’t follow. Nor did he make any mention of any complaints by Will or any other company member. What he said next both distressed and diverted me.

“I know I’ve been a little too obvious, but I can’t help it. I wear my heart on my sleeve.” Here, he folded his hands around mine. “But almost from the first moment I saw you, I said to myself, that girl is the one. We have chemistry, you and me.”

He clasped my hands with renewed strength as his thumb drew circles over my knuckles. Fortunately, the sweat on my palms gave me the moisture needed to pull free from his grip, and I did so with confusion and dread. I was still not entirely sure where he was going with this and not wanting to jump to conclusions, I said, “I don’t understand.”

Almost immediately, his composure shifted from one of supplication to haughty self-confidence, and he grinned.

“Oh, my dear Beth,” he said. “You little kitten. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

Kitten? I was so occupied with the office of restraining my laughter, I couldn’t find a moment to reply and so, he went on.

“I like a measure of modesty in a girl. I find it extremely attractive.”

“Whoa.” I stopped him right there. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but I’m not that kind of actress.”

He was taken by surprise at my declaration, and he paused for a moment to understand my words. He laughed. He cackled so hard he could hardly breathe, and after a full minute, he composed himself the best he could and said, “You are hilarious. You’re not only beautiful, you’ve got a great sense of humor. You’re everything I’m looking for in a woman. And let me tell you, there are lots of women who want to date me. Lots. But I choose you, Pikachu.” He gave me a cheeky wink and sighed in relief having said what he came to say. Confident enough to assume I’d accepted his overtures, he added, “When can I meet the parents?”

I was so taken aback by his soliloquy, words were slow to form in my addled brain. First, he wasn’t there to fire me. That was good. Second, he wasn’t suggesting what I thought he was. That was also good. Third, he was… was he… asking me out? That was unexpected. That was also improbable since it was obvious to me and I’m sure everybody else that he played for the other team. Which was perfectly fine. But I was in such a shock, I didn't think before I blurted, “You’re gay.”

I immediately regretted my words, hoping I hadn’t offended him. Unsure what the politically correct way to say it was, I apologized. Then I questioned everything I thought I knew about people and stereotypes, second-guessing my impression of him. Was he, or wasn’t he? Maybe he was a swing hitter. Maybe he was in the closet. No. Not in the closet. Not with a faux-fur collar and Lemondrop Rothy’s. Nothing in the world made any sense. Charlotte was right. My gay-dar was screwy.

“Gay?” He laughed. “You’re adorable. I’ll admit, though—I get hit on all the time. Can I help it if men find me attractive?”

He waved his hands over his chest with a flourish.

“I’m hot. As much as I like the attention, I have to be true to myself. I love the ladies too much.”

I was so mortified I could hardly form words except, “Oh.”

He didn’t seem affected by it, however, as he continued his overtures without much restraint. His spirits were animated as he pattered on about all his remarkable attributes, most of which he attributed to his affiliation with the Rosings Institute of Dance and its founder, Catherine de Bourgh. It was as if he were on an interview for the position of being my boyfriend. His long list of reasons why he was the best candidate for the job flowed from his lips with such liberty and indulgence, I hardly could utter a sound in edgewise. He was so sure of himself and in turn, sure of my approval, he made plans for our future, notwithstanding as he put it, “Our cohabitation.” He actually asked which side of the bed I preferred. Yeah. That was a hard pass. Bed was my favorite place in the world. Why would I