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

or wasn’t dating? It was none of my business. Charlotte eyed me speculatively, but thankfully kept her thoughts on the subject to herself. The downside to her silence, however, was the empty space I had to fill with my own thoughts. They were probably more annoying than anything she could have said.

At length, I stood up, once again ready to triumph over my killer heels, and led Charlotte out the door.

“Don’t let me keep you. I’m sure Colin is looking for his heiress girlfriend.” I gave her a conspiring wink.

“Oh, that.” Her face flushed. “Catherine kind of assumed I was an heiress when she found out my father owned a restaurant. I guess she just thought it’s a big conglomerate restaurant chain.”

“And you didn’t bother to correct her,” I nodded.

She grinned. “It’s not like she’ll ever step foot inside Lucas Lodge.”

“That’s what I thought about Darcy.”

We parted with a promise to find each other later. She didn’t want to leave me alone, feeling guilty she had to get back to Colin when she was the reason I came in the first place. I let her know I was fine on my own for a while and that I was hoping to try my chances on the roulette table. I usually played red and black. I didn’t mind risking the fifty-fifty odds. I was exchanging some cash into chips when I ran into Fitz.

“You clean up well.” He cat-whistled with an appreciative once-over. “They should let you out more often.”

“Thanks.” I blushed. “But I have to return the glass slippers by midnight.” My thoughts raced to the earlier Cinderella reference I exchanged with Will. Why did I sabotage my own thoughts like that? I blinked them away.

He grinned with his devastatingly swoony dimples. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I must say, it’s a welcome surprise.”

“Ditto.”

“I’m bored out of my mind.” He scanned the crowd with a disappointed air. “Will keeps taking off, and I don’t know a soul here.”

So they were there together? Great.

“I’m sorry, did you say Will?”

He nodded. “I regret ever agreeing to carpool. I’m not entirely sure which one of us is the designated driver but if I meet Mr. Right, I’m out.”

“Well, I know I’m a poor substitute, but I’ll be your date until you find what you’re looking for.”

“Girl, you’re anything but a poor substitute.” He took my arm in his. “You are absolutely delicious. Let’s go gamble.”

Next to crawling into my pajamas with my subscription to the Broadway Channel, I considered it the next best thing to spend the evening with Fitz. I couldn’t think of a better person to laugh with while watching the modern dance performances on the small stages scattered throughout the property. The costumes were interesting to put it nicely (bubble wrap anyone?), and the choreography was certainly something we’d never seen before. I learned I didn’t know much about the Avant Garde, and I was perfectly fine with that. Give me Fosse any day of the week. Fitz held my hand and pulled me from one thing to another like children in an amusement park. He taught me a few roulette tricks, cleaning out everyone at the table before we were kicked out. We downed a few drinks (hooray for the open bar) and danced like fools. At last, we found an unoccupied room with a ping pong table and challenged each other to a duel, finally giving me a chance for a rematch. But we were both so tipsy, the ball hardly touched the table. The effects of the alcohol also broke down our inhibitions, and I felt emboldened to ask, “Tell me about this Mr. Right you’re waiting for. I could be your wingman.”

He grinned, allowing the thought to burrow deep in his fantasies. Dang, this man was cute. He hit the ping pong ball with his paddle, sending it to bounce off the table.

“My standards are too high,” he said. “I’m convinced he doesn’t exist.”

I retrieved the ball and clobbered it into the net.

“There’s nothing wrong with high standards.”

“What about you?” he asked. “What’s your idea of the perfect guy?”

I broke out into a show tune. “I’ll know when my love comes along.”

He threw down his paddle and ran to the upright piano against the wall (because naturally all the rooms had pianos), gracing the keys with his skilled fingers. “Ah, good ol’ Frank Loesser.” He ran into an ascending arpeggio. “One of my favorites.”

He was an astounding pianist. He was playing the song by heart, most likely in the correct key, probably not missing any notes even in his half-inebriated state.

“You sing Sarah Brown, and I’ll do Sky Masterson’s part,” he said, playing the tonic.

I fudged through the song, making stuff up as I went along. I didn’t care. It was fun. Fitz, on the other hand, was born in the wrong decade. He was so classy, I’m sure he would have given Frank Sinatra a run for his money. And boy, the man could croon.

“You never answered my question. About Mr. Right,” I pressed.

“Did I say Mr. Right?” he said with a grin. “I meant Mr. Right Now.”

I craned my head to take a peek at the party guests through the door. So many men and women dressed to the nines. Beautiful people any day of the week, but tonight, the magic of a new year paired with extremely expensive designer clothes made them look like they stepped out of The Great Gatsby.

“How about that guy?” I said, pointing to a stylish man who favored a red bowtie over the traditional black. He followed my gaze.

“Straight.”

I crinkled my brows. “How can you tell?”

“Honey, you learn to have a sixth sense about these things after too many rejections.”

I frowned. “Oh.”

He tinkled a few notes on the piano, something romantic and lamentful.

“That’s pretty.”

“Thanks. I wrote it.”

He continued to play, the melody taking shape. “It’s a musical I’m working on, but it’s far from finished.”

“You’re writing a musical? That’s amazing! What’s it about?”

“Oh, it’s a love