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

What was wrong with me? We were in the middle of a song, and I had been just going through the motions. And here she was, ready to go into the lift.

“Oh, sorry, let’s try that again.”

“Fine. But I was thinking my character should display a little more loathing towards you. You’re a mongrel and a scurvy pirate, after all.”

“Duly noted.”

“You’re also a self-absorbed, arrogant, haughty, conceited, proud, spoiled, overbearing Judge Thurpin.

So today was her Sweeney Todd day.

“For the record,” I remarked, “the Pirate King may be a scallywag, but he’s no Judge Thurpin.”

“And I don’t care if you’re a movie star. I don’t need to get to know you before I form an opinion.” She used air quotes to punctuate the last three words.

“Are we still talking about the dance lift?”

Her posture straightened, and she lifted one brow, inching toward me with purpose. My mouth went as dry as the Atacama Desert.

“What do you think, Mr. Darcy?”

She was doing that thing that boxers do on pay-per-view ads when they engage in an intense faceoff. I’d heard it described as the art of defying your enemy with your eyes. It was supposed to be intimidating. But Beth, staring me down from mere inches away was having an altogether different effect on me.

I was Judge Thurpin. Hopefully, she didn’t have a straight razor tucked in those yoga pants. I instinctively shielded my neck.

“Hold please.”

I was never so relieved to hear Cole’s voice. All action ceased on stage, the entire cast directing their attention on him. But he stared straight at me.

“Is there a problem, Will?” he said with a bored expression.

Oh yes. Several problems.

“We missed our lift, that’s all,” I replied.

“Well, if you miss it next time,” he remarked with a scowl, “just mark it and fix it later.”

By fix it later, he meant more alone time with Beth. No, thank you. I was already toast. I made sure I didn’t miss the lift again.

All I wanted to do after rehearsal was blow off some steam. There’d be a party somewhere in Hollywood. I’d just have to make a few texts, and I’d be in the midst of loose women and free-flowing booze by prime time. But Stella had other plans for me. She’d scheduled the caterer to meet us at my house to consult about the charity event. The last thing I wanted to do was sample duck confit and essence of deconstructed foam. Couldn’t we just order steak and call it a day?

To my surprise, Stella was waiting for me when I arrived home. I may have taken the long way there to clear my head, so who knew how long she’d been sitting in my vestibule. Los Angeles rush hour traffic wasn’t the forest of zen one would hope for in seeking relaxation. However, I was pleased to find Stella with a shopping bag filled with Chateau Mouton. I considered it a peace offering.

“That nice man let me in,” she said without preamble. “Ephraim.” She sat on my rustic entry bench, perched upright with a paper grocery bag at her side. The bench had a couple of decorative throw pillows, but it wasn’t a comfortable place to sit.

Next to her on the bench with her furry head in her lap, was Lady. My English Cocker Spaniel. When she saw me, she jumped down, wagging the little nub where her tail should be. I gave her a scratch behind her long ears before inquiring after Stella with interest.

“Why are you sitting in here?” I asked, taking her bag. “You could have made yourself at home.”

“I did,” she said. “But your dog insists on waiting at the door for you.”

I laughed, kicking off my shoes. “Follow me to the den. My couch misses me.”

I led her to the den where I invited her to sit. She chose my father’s armchair. It was old and looked out of place, but I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. Besides, Georgia would kill me.

“Are these for the tasting?” I asked, holding up the bag of wine.

She wrinkled her brows, “What tasting?”

“You told me the caterer was coming today.”

“Yes. I did,” she said with a nod. “They came hours ago.”

“Oh. How was the food?”

“My dear William.” She laughed. “They just wanted to see the kitchen and make a plan for serving and such. It was nothing. But the owner is a most fascinating man. He wants to interview me for his cooking show.”

If it was nothing, why did she make such a big fuss to make sure I came? I decided not to ask.

“So did you pick the menu?” I chose to say, spreading my body across the sofa. “Nothing pretentious, I hope.”

Lady placed herself in the strategic position where my hand fell over the side of the couch. Her snout would make its way into my palm and if I didn’t make a move to massage it, her soft paw would tap at my wrist. She had me trained so well. Stella watched the transaction with interest and answered my question with a smirk.

“Oh, you need not worry about that. I’ve chosen a proper English dish.”

“Why does that scare me?”

She laughed. “Oh, don’t get your pants in a twist. We’ll be serving traditional roast with Yorkshire pudding. I figure since I’m choosing the menu, I get to pick something that reminds me of home.”

Her eyes sparkled at the thought of good ‘ol England. I wondered if she missed more than the food. I imagined she must visit often, but with a theatre to run in Los Angeles, and an academy in New York, when would she have the time?

She rose from the armchair, snatching one of the bottles of Chateau Mouton and winked. “Shall we have a nightcap?”

“How romantic, Stella,” I said with a wink. “I didn’t realize you cared so.”

“Somebody has to take care of you,” she said, looking behind my bar for a corkscrew. “It might as well