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

jagged glass edges at Colin. That only works in movies. All I did was uncork the wine and splash it in his direction. Some got on his face, some on his furry collar. I didn’t stick around to see for sure, because I ran out of there as fast as I could. I stopped at the bar to retrieve my purse, grabbed the foil tray of yams I was saving and made my way with brisk steps towards the door. Unfortunately, Sir William Lucas cut me off at the pass.

“Where are you going?” he questioned. “We have customers.”

I glanced at the grandfather clock behind the bar. “My shift is over.”

He looked at the clock, looked at my yams, looked around the restaurant, then looked back at me.

“You’re not going anywhere until you close the check at table five.”

Ugh! Table five. The hippies. I needed to get out of there before Colin got it in his head to follow me home. I reached in my apron with my free hand, marched over to the hippie table, retrieved the plastic check holder, and placed it on their table.

“Thank you for dining at Lucas Lodge,” I said rapid-fire fast. “Our bartender will collect your payment when you’re ready. Please take your time.”

I exchanged a conspiring glance at Charlotte whose wide eyes betrayed her confusion. I was sure she’d figure it out once I was gone. I was backing away from the table when the hippie man stopped me. “I can pay right now. Hang on a sec.” He reached into an overstuffed backpack, pulling random items out to get to his wallet. He took forever. I shouldn’t have told him to take his time. I tapped my foot with nervous glances toward the kitchen when I caught the sight of Colin emerging with a damp towel in his hand. The entire front of his shirt was wet with red wine diluted with water where it looked like he’d tried to clean it but just made it worse.

Great.

I wondered how small I could make myself and how long I could effectively hide under the table—although the hippies might have had something to say about that. Seriously, how much further did he have to dig to find his wallet? Sir William appeared at my side with a plastic smile plastered across his face.

“Allow me to relieve you of your load, My Lady,” he said, taking hold of my tray of yams. I only clutched it tighter.

“No, thank you, Sir William Lucas,” I replied through my teeth. “It is no burden to me.”

“Nonsense,” he said, tugging the foil edge of the tray. “I insist.”

“The lady doth protest,” I said curtly, tugging it back.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. I don’t know what his deal was, but he continued to play tug of war with my yams until the flimsy aluminum tray buckled under the strain and gave way to a shower of yams, which flew in syrupy clumps into the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The metallic crinkle of aluminum, the golden, sweet goodness flying out of reach, the eyeballs bulging out of Sir William’s sockets. I could have sworn someone cried Noooooooo Luke Skywalker style. It might have been me.

But then time stopped, and everyone’s attention was fixed on the hippies who had yams dripping down their faces and hair. My yams. My beautiful yams.

This is why I hate working holidays. One year on Mother's Day, I dropped an entire plate of Eggs Benedict on a woman’s lap. True story. I was just a disaster magnet.

Sir William’s face went from white to fire-engine red in three seconds. I swear he had steam shooting out of his ears. The hippies weren’t even as angry as he was.

“Get. Out!” he growled.

Wonderful! I’d wanted to leave five minutes ago.

“I can clean this,” I said with an apologetic look towards the hippies. They shrugged at me, licking the yams from their faces.

“No,” said Sir William with a bite. “Go home, Miss Bennet. Get out and don’t return!”

I heard Charlotte audibly gasp from behind the bar. Miss Bennet? He never called me Miss Bennet. No more Lady Elizabeth. He stripped me of my title. He was…

“Are you firing me?” I cried. “On Thanksgiving?”

I turned my eyes to Charlotte. She stared at the scene with her mouth hanging open. Colin shrank back into the kitchen, and the hippies took selfies. But Sir William stood his ground, breathing heavily and pointing to the exit.

I took a moment to let that sink in and with as much pride as I could muster, I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder, snatched the horribly bent aluminum tray from the floor, and walked out of Lucas Lodge. On the bright side, Colin didn’t follow me.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I could have come over with a new flamboyant boyfriend and a tray of yams, but we’ll have to make do with what we can scrape off this aluminum tray. Oh, and I’m unemployed.

Technically, I wasn’t unemployed. I still had my theatre job—for the time being. Colin probably did have some say in that regard if he was vindictive enough, but I held onto a sliver of hope he’d forgive me if I paid for his dry cleaning.

I would have gone home if I hadn’t promised my parents I’d celebrate with them. Dad liked to deep fry the turkey, and Mom made everyone matching t-shirts every year. She’d paint cartoonish turkeys on yellow shirts, and we’d all pose for a photo which made it into the annual Christmas card ‘letter.’ She said the letter was to keep distant family updated, but we all knew it was an excuse to brag about our accomplishments—even if it meant she had to make some of them up. The Lucas family always got one, and they lived a block away. Of course, Mrs. Lucas was just as bad as Mom. She’d adopted the unorthodox custom of sending a bi-yearly letter—one at Christmas and one in June.