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

I followed her down the corridor, knowing exactly where she was headed. I found her in Stella’s office just as she stuck a post-it note to Stella’s computer.

“Emma?”

Her lips curled in response to my voice, and she came straight to me, snaking her arms around my waist.

So much for hands in pockets, Knightly.

Her hugs were the highlight of my existence, yet she couldn’t know how they affected me. She was far too innocent to realize—which was rare in this town.

My stomach growled, and she giggled against my chest. This moment was everything. My heart was full.

“Somebody’s hungry,” she said through a smile.

“I skipped lunch.”

“Let’s go for pizza and root beer.”

Reluctantly, I stepped away—just enough to see her face. It was a slightly painful exercise. “Your mum’s expecting us.”

She ticked her head, still holding on to my shirt. “Precisely why we should fill up on pizza first.”

I smiled warmly, rescuing a stray hair from entering her mouth. “It won’t be so bad. We’ll pick up some flowers on the way.”

“I don’t think I can cope with another obnoxious meal of kale and quinoa seasoned with the herbs of Mother Earth.”

I bopped her nose with my finger. “I’ll take you out for gelato.”

She frowned adorably and sulked out of the office. We were met, upon returning to the Cry Room, by Elton and Elton alone.

“Where’s Harriet?” asked Emma.

Elton shrugged and nodded toward the door. “She went home, I guess.”

“Home?” exclaimed Emma. “I thought you were her ride.”

“Didn’t you drive her here?” he responded calmly.

“Yes, but she asked you for a ride home because I have plans.” Emma was completely out of sorts with this development, running outside in search of her friend. When she returned, breathing heavily, Elton was at the piano playing her composition.

“You know,” he said, fingering the melody, “I think we should record this.”

Emma brightened at the idea. “Really?” That seemed to recover her spirits quite rapidly.

“Sure,” said Elton, watching her reaction with unveiled interest. “I can’t remember ever hearing something so perfectly full of emotion and sincerity.”

What a load of tosh. But Emma was all teeth and dimples, her eyes shining with gratitude. I couldn’t take that away from her—however false Elton’s intentions were. She was so high on the praise he gave her, she not only devoured the mediocre dinner her mum prepared but paid forward all the compliments she’d received onto the meal. No matter how I felt about it, I had to admit she deserved that gelato. And then some. Unfortunately, the gelato was the only thing in my power to give her.

Her good mood extended into Saturday when I picked her up for our meeting with Roberto Martinez.

“Just call me Martín,” he said, shaking my hand, and blushed at Emma. She had that effect on men, but one of the things that endeared me to her so much was her modesty on that score. She never used it to her advantage, nor did she truly know her power. She smiled warmly and scanned the bar, marvelling at how different it looked in daylight.

“How’s Harriet these days?” Martín asked her once he found the courage.

“Oh, fine,” she answered distractedly. “I didn’t realize the walls are purple.” She scrunched her nose. That was something I knew she’d want to change.

“I thought she might come today,” he said so quietly, Emma must not have heard him.

She tapped her chin, looking up. “I like the copper tiles on the ceiling. Can we get those polished?”

“Uh… sure, I guess,” he said.

Aesthetics were something I figured we could discuss far into the future. For now, I wanted to see the books and go from there. I was sure there were leaks in the budget we could fix if we tightened our belts, and a shiny ceiling wasn’t on my radar. Still, I was pleased Emma was taking interest in the project considering her initial reaction a week prior. It was exciting. Once we got everything in order and made the cosmetic changes Emma would oversee, we could announce our ownership to the press with a grand re-opening. When I expressed those thoughts to Martín, Emma rolled her eyes playfully. This was what I could give her. I couldn’t give her more than friendship. It wouldn’t be fair. But I could give her this.

Our relationship was in a perpetual state of perfect symmetry: I was always looking out for her, and she was always pushing her boundaries—making me laugh, bringing joy to my otherwise busy life. We were made for each other.

We left the bar a couple of hours before they opened for customers, so Martín and staff could prepare. We spent the afternoon on Emma’s deck, reading in companionable silence, watching the sun set over the horizon to the crashing of waves on the shore. It was a perfect day. Mrs Woods sat with us for a while, chatting about nothing of consequence. I wanted to reach out and hold Emma’s hand. Just hold it while the sky went from blue to orange to black, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Two friends with such a bond, even the space of a twenty-four measly inches was like the Grand Canyon. I made an excuse to budge up closer to her with the pretext of sharing my phone screen to watch dog videos. She rewarded my efforts by resting her head on my shoulder.

I could have stayed that way all night. But the cold February breeze set in, and we eventually went inside for another organic dinner. I could hear Rosario’s protests with every bite. And who could blame her after Mrs Woods threw out all the Crisco and chemical cleaners?

I glanced at the pile of avocados on Emma’s plate—the only fat permitted in this new dietary dictatorship.

“Would you like to come back to Karaoke Unplugged with me?” I asked her. “I’d like to watch operations while the night is in full swing. Get some insight on how the place