Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set by Gigi Blume (ebook reader with highlighter txt) 📕

through a few odd choices before settling on something she deemed worthy to jot down on the lined paper propped on her piano’s music shelf. If I were honest, I thought the instrument was there in her living room as a decoration more than anything. I couldn’t remember ever hearing her play it for the life of me.

“Just a little something for Harriet,” she said distractedly, scribbling on her sheet music. Her response confused me, but I didn’t indulge my curiosity by asking her to explain. I wasn’t here for that. To own the truth, I only wanted to sit next to her like this indefinitely. I ran my hand over the keys and played an arpeggio to accompany her—our fingers trickled together over the ivories, our knees touching every so often. A couple of times, the soft skin of her pinkie brushed against mine as she tinkered with the notes. She wasn’t a virtuoso. But that didn’t matter. She was simply adorable—the way she jutted her tongue out of the corner of her lips as she concentrated. The way her brow would crinkle as she considered her next chord, and then when she played an off chord, the way she’d wrinkle her nose, trying out two or three variations until she found one she was satisfied with. Then she’d write it down, and I played along, accompanying her new creation with complementary grace notes.

“Do that again,” she said. I repeated the motif I’d just made up, and she squealed, jotting down the first note. Then she frowned.

“You did that too fast. I didn’t catch it. Can you transcribe it for me?”

“Sure.” I played it again, slower so it could fuse in my fingertips and scribbled the notes on the music. I never considered myself a composer or even a very good pianist, but I loved playing music with her, so I was happy to oblige. She sighed contentedly and tapped my knee with gratitude. Her touch was intended so innocently. Just two friends hanging out, poking around on the piano, having a platonic good time. The hand on my knee was a benign gesture for Emma—like a high-five. But the warmth of her palm seared through my trousers, and I couldn’t concentrate. My eyes grew foggy around the edges, fixating on her hand. I was a wreck—and if I were being honest with myself—a single-minded ratbag. I cleared my throat as if that would help any.

“I actually came here to give you some news,” I said, tearing myself from her and standing on the bent side of the piano. She hadn’t opened the lid, so I was able to lean my forearms lightly on the surface.

“Oh?” she replied, plonking single notes with her pointer finger. She wasn’t looking at the keyboard. She was looking at me. I could physically feel her playful sparkle galvanize my restless nerve cells. This woman would be the end of me. “Good news or bad news?”

“Well, both… kind of. Which do you want to hear first?”

She tilted her head to the side in thought. “Hmmm… good news first.”

I always wondered what possessed people to choose good news first. I was a bad news first kind of guy. I liked to end on a positive. But Emma was unpredictable. I imagined it was just a coin toss in her head, and she’d have chosen differently on a whim.

“I bought a nightclub.” There. I said what I came to say. I’d been keeping the news under wraps for some time—until I could get the details in place. I wanted it to be a big surprise for her. I had this vision of taking her there blindfolded for the big reveal. Maybe I’d pull on a rope connected to a canvas drape, thereby uncovering the new marquee with great fanfare. She’d gasp and reward me with a hug. Or even a kiss. Then we’d jaunt inside hand in hand to robust applause from our happy staff, congratulating the new co-owners of Karaoke Unplugged. Only with a new snappy name perhaps. I hadn’t figured it out that far. But the insane amount of work on the movie musical was all-consuming. It was probably not the best time to make an extravagant purchase.

Emma blinked with her jaw unhinged. She looked like a beautiful fish—the cartoon kind with long eyelashes. When she finally spoke, it wasn’t the reaction I’d envisioned.

“You what?” she snapped. Snapped. A snapper fish. “Why?”

“Well, uh…” I wasn’t prepared to have to explain myself. I was hoping for that hug. “Why not?”

She raised one brow. “Seriously?”

I remained silent. She shook her head in disbelief, her smile the beginnings of a laugh.

“Is this another one of your weird hobbies? Remember when you enrolled in flight school?”

I planted my hands on my hips. “For your information, I only need ten more flight hours to get my license.”

She blinked at me. “Really?”

I nodded. “I have my eye on a Cirrus SR-22.”

“Aaaanyway, nerd,” she snorted. “Do you really think the world needs one more celebrity-owned nightclub?”

“Just wait for the best part.” I dipped into my pocket and presented her with a key. “I want you to own fifty-percent.”

Her features sank into a frown as her gaze shifted from the key to me. She closed the fallboard on the piano and daintily picked herself up from the bench. “No, thank you.” Holding her head high, she padded out of the room. She was barefoot.

Bloody hell.

“No, thank you?” I repeated, following behind in her wake.

“No. Thank. You.” She took off into the kitchen and reached for the ingredients for an Italian soda. She loved those complimentary highball glasses from The Olde Spaghetti Factory and asked Rosario to find the same fruity syrups so she could replicate the drink at home.

“Thirsty?” She held up two glasses.

“Yes, thanks.” I watched her fill the glasses to the rim with ice, eyeballing the measurements for the syrup, soda water, and creamer. The white floater fused into the red liquid as it slowly gave way to gravity, producing