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

against it. Her head tossed back, and her fingers flexed beside her body, palming the door. She was flush all over—chest rising and falling with each quivering breath. She caught my gaze on her. Now, where were we?

“I’m ready for my close-up, Mr Knightly,” she said, eyes ablaze.

Bloody hell. She was ruining me. This was the part of the movie where the hero would go to her in swift strides, pressing her firmly against the wall and claiming her forever and ever. In my movies, the scene would fade to black. I wasn’t interested in making gratuitous films.

She bit her bottom lip, taunting me—willing me to follow through. And I was considering it because I was a rat bag. What was wrong with me? Who was I? If any other man looked at Emma the way I was looking at her right now, I’d break his face. What gave me the right to do so? I was asked to shelter her. Protect her. To keep her safe from creeps like me. What was her mum thinking entrusting me to the task? Even I didn’t trust me. That was why I’d suggested she hang out with females—I knew my limitations and couldn’t allow myself to hurt her.

Reluctantly and painfully, I tore my gaze away from her, bending over to gather the blankets and pillows off the floor. Looking at the tangled mess of linen, I felt so dirty—as though I was guilty of something. Shame washed over me in sobering waves. Oh, my dear Emma. What had I done? I needed to jump in the ocean or go home and pour ice down my shirt. Then I’d have to climb some Tibetan mountain and make restitution. If I’d touched her, I’d have thrown myself into a volcano or something.

“What are you doing?” she asked tenderly.

“I… just remembered the valet.” I looked at my watch for effect, not really seeing it. “I better head out before I’m stuck here.”

Poor choice of words. I didn’t feel stuck. If anything, the idea of leaving her alone made me physically ill. I busied myself with putting the bed back to rights to avoid the disappointment in her eyes. Adjusting the sheets and fluffing the pillows wasn’t helping with my self-reproach.

“What about dinner?”

I straightened my coat, purposefully buttoning it up, and met her at the door.

“You can have my chips.” Then I smoothed down her unruly hair and kissed the creases between her brows.

“Turn that frown upside down, babe.”

She didn’t speak or sigh or cry as I unlatched the chain, silently bidding her to lock it after me. When I was alone in the stuffy hallway, after the door clicked behind me, I heard Emma replace the chain. Good girl. Bad Jaxson.

15

Be More Chill

Emma

I cried. I cried so much it wasn’t even a little bit cute—not that crying was ever considered cute. To own the truth, I always cried at weddings. And awards ceremonies. And Pixar movies.

But something decidedly more intense triggered in my internal sprinkler system when Annie started down the aisle. She was a rainbow-haired tattooed goddess in a lacy champagne dress. So gorgeous. I dutifully took my place in front of the congregation like an obliging bridesmaid and silently congratulated myself for making this match. I steeled my emotions, pep-talking myself to get through this day without streaking my mascara, but there it was— the familiar tickle in my nose.

Not going to cry. Not going to cry.

Even more pathetic was that Annie’s mum wasn’t crying. Only me. I scanned the wedding guests rising to their feet to honour the bride in procession to her waiting groom. All happy faces and admiring smiles. And there was Jaxson, sitting a few rows back on the groom’s side of the room. But he wasn’t looking at Annie. His gaze was fixedly planted on me and my ridiculous display of girlish sentimentality—disapproval etched on his face. Silly Emma. A proper actress could control her tears. I was a fraud.

I hadn’t started the day in the best way. I had the smallest breakfast in the history of breakfasts, was still wallowing in my piñata misery, and the mortification of playing the awkward temptress with Jaxson ran through my memory like a midnight B-movie. I practically threw myself at him. I’m ready for my close-up Mr Knightly. Ugh! How could I have been so daft? It was as though all the little hits on my pride were fuelling my present residency of Waterworks Town.

And if losing my cool in front of two hundred strangers wasn’t bad enough, Jaxson thought it would be fun to add to the ever-growing list of things Emma Woods does to scare children and the elderly by making me laugh. His elongated face and exaggerated expressions layered giggles on top of tears as he held my attention. He scratched his head and patted down his pockets like he was searching for something. This alone was a marvel to watch and entertainingly so. Eyebrows raised comedically high, he seemed to find what he was looking for in his left breast pocket and reached inside. His fingers tugged at the object, pulling and pulling endlessly—a never-ending string of… something invisible. His lips puckered in a whistling fashion like a mute Steamboat Willie while he mimed the gesture of retrieving the longest handkerchief on earth from his suit pocket. He milked it, too—periodically wiping his forehead of sweat from the manual labour of the task.

Once the hankie or string or yarn (or whatever) had run its course, he spent the next few minutes examining it, tasting it, trying to figure out how to use it. This was accompanied with more head scratching, tongue twisting, and melodramatic eye bulging. Then he folded it up, pressing it into his hand to make it small, scrunching his face with the effort. I couldn’t take my eyeballs off him, even though Annie was already at the altar and everyone had sat in their seats—Jaxson taking longer than the rest