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

out’ camps, I grabbed my keys and jumped in my car before I could change my mind again. Spending time alone at the bungalow turned out to be a disaster of an idea—I was the worst houseguest imaginable.

Twenty-five minutes later, I was at the hotel, passing my Tesla to the valet and checking the group chat to find where the guys were. I was already itching to leave even though talking to myself all night was the alternative. It occurred to me, somewhat belatedly, that my walk would have been significantly shorter had I decided to self-park. My Tesla came into view on the other side of the chained-off car park just meters away from Randall’s pickup truck. Turned out I knew most of the guys there—mostly crew I’d seen around the studio lots. Also, Elton.

By the time I arrived, they’d already gone through a few cases of tinnies and polished off most of the snags. They were all a bit too tanked, but Randall had the presence of mind to offer me a shrivelled piece of meat and a bevvie. He was no Gordon Ramsey, but he tried his best to hold onto the tongs as the brat rolled between the spaces in the grill. He could hardly keep his balance, let alone heat up an already over-cooked snag, so I set him down on the ice chest and finished the job.

Elton thought he’d be a comedian and slapped me on the shoulder. “If I’d known ya was comin’, I woulda thrown anotha’ shrimp on the barbie for ya.”

Tosser.

“Funny. That’s real original.” I’d heard that same stupid joke too many times to count. “We call them prawns in Australia, actually.”

“How ‘bout a Vegemite sandwich?”

I was really beginning to regret this whole night.

“You’re off ya chops, Elton. Lay off the juice for a bit.”

He laughed. Annoyingly. “Get a load of this guy! Off ya chops!” He slapped my back some more, chittering like a monkey.

The other guys weren’t quite so gone, but they were loud. Really loud. Most of the conversation was a heated and polarizing discussion about football, what plays were fouls, which players cheated, and predictions for next year. I was a rugby man, so I didn’t have much to add to the conversation. Elton didn’t have a lot to say on the subject either. I supposed he and I were more poet than sport fan. He was an all right guy. I just wasn’t in the mood.

“Where’s Morris?” I asked.

“His wife and kids flew in, so he’s spending the weekend with them. His girls wanted to meet Goofy or Snow White or some sh—”

“You came down a day early.” It was more of a statement than a question, but he felt compelled to answer.

“Yeah. I hitched a ride with the ladies.”

“The ladies? You mean Annie and her friends? Why?”

He shook his head at me. It was a gesture that screamed, ‘What am I going to do with you, Jaxson?’

“It was a van full of women. Why do you think?” He took another sip of his beer.

“I can think a lot of things, Elton.” Like Emma. In the car. With Elton.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, he asked, “You know Emma pretty well, right?”

“I do.”

“I just can’t figure her out, you know?”

“Can’t help you there, mate.”

“We’re pals, Jaxson.” He waved his hand between our chests, holding on to my shoulder with the other. His breath ranked of processed pork and bitter hops. “I feel like I can talk to you.”

So he was one of those.

“If you say, ‘I love you, man,’ I’ll dunk your head in that bucket of ice.” I meant it, too.

He laughed. “I mean, what is she into? What does she like?”

“Emma?”

He nodded sloppily. What was it to him? What could I say about Emma? I could say she collected books but didn’t particularly like to read them. That she liked junk food but never gained a pound. Or how she loved talking on the phone for hours, watching comedies, and playing video games. She loved to dance and was good at it but couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without tripping on her gown. Or how she was completely silly during talk show interviews but when she sang, it was a little slice of heaven.

She loved animals—especially dogs. She was the sweetest woman of my acquaintance. And why was that Billy Joel song suddenly playing in my head? She’s Always a Woman to Me. What did Elton need to know about Emma?

“She’s really into matchmaking.” That was a good enough answer for the likes of him.

“Matchmaking?”

Yeah, like trying to find a girl to put up with Elton.

“Why do you want to know, anyway?”

He took a step back (thank goodness) and gave me the most serious look he could muster and swayed a little.

“You two aren’t… you know.” He either couldn’t find the right word or lost his train of thought altogether. I helped him along.

“Dating?”

“I was going to say f—something else, but yeah,” he slurred.

Classy.

The question came up every now and then in the press because Emma and I were close. But, no. We most certainly weren’t dating.

“We’re friends,” I replied. Just friends.

“Ahhh. The other F word.” He shook his head in a type of bro-code understanding. “I know what you mean.”

Did he? Did he really?

He hugged me, rubbing my back. That ice bucket was getting more and more appealing.

Lucky for him, somebody hollered behind me, “Let’s do it!”

“Yeah!”

The whole lot of guys were shouting now and riling each other up. One of them was throwing the ice chests and chairs in the back of the truck. Somebody slung Randall’s arm over his shoulders, and they hobbled away together.

“You guys coming?” The tall one, the best man maybe, waved at Elton and me to follow them. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” I asked dumbly.

“To crash the girl party. Come on.”

Elton didn’t hesitate a nanosecond. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, man.”

This wasn’t a good idea. I had better leave. My car was right there,