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

vision of artless beauty—blithe and joyful under the onslaught of doggie kisses. Her hair cascaded in a tousled wave on the rug and her dress, a flouncy white number with a flowered print, gathered adrift along her thigh, revealing just a pittance more leg than was appropriate. It was a hallucination. Definitely a mirage brought on by immense stress and lack of sleep.

I blinked three times. One. Two. Three. Nope. Still there. Moments ticked by, suspended in a bubble. I was either in a demented manifestation of purgatory or the heavens had opened up and bestowed my deepest desires upon me. I looked back on my life. Had I done anything good to deserve this? Nada. Zip. Zilch. This was definitely purgatory.

I cleared my throat—not to startle her or anything—but because a solid lump was lodged in it. She shot up to her feet, adjusting her dress, and ran a hand over her hair.

“I uh… I was just…” she stuttered. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

I hooked my thumbs in my pockets to try to retain some semblance of control. My lips curled at the corners, and I gave her an unveiled once-over from her toes to the top of her head.

“What do you suppose it looks like?” I teased, my voice thick and velvety all the while my pre-prepubescent self cracked his vowels underneath the veneer. Only one girl had ever made me nervous. Jennifer Greene in sixth grade. It took all the courage I could muster to ask her if she planned to go to the middle school dance, but her face turned white, and she ran away to her huddle of friends. I was so humiliated, I decided to skip the dance altogether. For the next few weeks, I was the subject of pointed stares and giggles from a clique of eleven-year-old mean girls. I swore I’d never let a girl get to me that way again. But here was this pixie in a white flowered dress in my bedroom, and I was once again that twelve-year-old boy drawing pencil portraits of my crush.

I was toast.

She hesitated before answering, eyes wide like a kid caught with a chin full of cookie crumbles.

“It looks like I’m stealing your dog?” she said.

Interesting.

“Are you?”

“No!” she cried. “I swear.”

I took a step towards her. “Cross your heart?”

“Yes.”

I took another step.

“Hope to die?”

“Yes, yes.”

One more large stride, and I’d be right up against her.

“Stick a needle in your eye?”

An obstinate huff stuck in her throat, and she grunted. She was a spitfire, this one. She was determined to confuse the heck out of me and then clobber me with a blunt object, or so I presumed.

“Lady has to pee,” she said, crossing her arms. “I was just looking for a leash to take her out, but if you’d rather, I could go—”

“No.” I wouldn't let her walk away. Not now. Not ever. She couldn’t just waltz into my life, into my dreams and into my home just to run away. There was still so much to resolve between us. So many things I still wanted to say that I refrained myself from doing so in the letter. How I felt about her, how she drove me to the brink of madness, distracting me, turning my world inside out. How I… loved her. A warmth spread over my chest with this sudden awareness. Doggonit, my sister was right. I loved Beth. Every infuriating inch of her. I wanted to act upon it. To kiss her, to gather her in my arms and tell her the truth of it. To make retribution for the pain I caused her. But not now. Now, we’d walk the dog.

“The leash is downstairs,” I said softly. “I’ll show you her favorite places to go.”

She nodded, acknowledging the heady trepidation that still lingered between us. It was raw and tender but on the mend. She wanted a truce as much as I did. But it would take time. Anything that was worth it took time.

Lady wagged her little nub of a tail and scurried under our feet as we descended the grand staircase. Beth paused at the top and blinked.

“Holy William. How did I not see these before?”

What was that? Now, she was using my name as a curse word? When did this new development arise? What happened to musical theatre Tourette’s?

“What do you mean, not see these before?” I asked. “How did you get upstairs?”

A soft pink blush overspread her features. “Never mind.”

I chuckled knowingly. She must have gone up the service stairwell. Only Beth. My thoughts drifted to the narrow stairway in the bowels of the theatre. It seemed so long ago that we were locked in the costume shop. So much had changed since then. Namely, me.

We took a side exit into a small garden Lady particularly liked. I frowned at the stacks of boxes and miscellaneous decor. They were using it as a staging area for the party prep. I decided to be peeved for Lady’s sake. A big, plastic bin sat right on the patch of grass she used as a bathroom. She sniffed the intruding object and did her business as close as she could get to her usual spot.

Beth laughed. I loved her laugh, the way her voice lightly bubbled over our heads, the curve of her lips as the sound came out, the dots of pink on her cheeks. Lady was unabashedly smitten with her. To be honest, Lady was friendly with everyone, but there was a weird cosmic connection she found in Beth. It was as if everyone else was hamburger and Beth was filet mignon. Hamburgers are awesome, but filet was the best ever. Or maybe I was just projecting my own feelings on my dog. Hard to tell. Beth was good with her.

“Have you had her since she was a puppy?” she asked.

“Yes. Got her from the breeder.” I wiped sweat off my brow in anticipation of her censure. I was so used to getting slack for not