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

My jaw dropped. “Flirting? I’ve done no such thing. Take that back.”

“No.”

“Take it back.”

“I will not.” He stuck his tongue out at me. Now who was twelve years old? But twelve-year-olds didn’t usually make a habit of groping women, so that’s where the similarities ended. His hands were heading straight toward me when, in my panic, I grabbed his champagne flute and splashed him.

“How’s that for flirting?”

Hand groping averted.

“Really?” he spat. “This is my best suit.”

With that, he stormed off, leaving me and my lurching stomach alone to think about all that had just happened. Not that I (or my lurching stomach) could think straight. The wild narwhal and bikini whale mating calls by the B-52s clashed into the headache I’d been trying to calm down all day. The dizziness was getting worse by the second. My ill-fated encounter with Elton wasn’t helping my nausea either. I’d felt it coming on for hours but now, it was accompanied with a sharp pain behind my navel. Mum was right. Wedding food was evil.

I reached into my bag for another dose of Mum’s organic snake oil.

She’d said it was flora with healing herbs. It was almost impossible to describe, but if pressed, I’d say it tasted like regret and homeless hippies. I gulped down as much as I could stand in one go. Ugh! It was even worse than I remembered. How could something so goopy make my throat so dry? Feeling irrationally like I might die of thirst any second, I grabbed my flute glass and chased the medicine with my sparkling cider. Only it wasn’t cider. It was Elton’s champagne. I must have splashed all my sparkling cider on him by mistake. My tongue felt oddly huge. The room was stuffy and suffocating. Stumbling for escape, I grabbed my clutch and went outside for some fresh air, leaving the muffled music and worst night of my life behind.

16

Don’t Blink

Jaxson

She was a vision walking down the aisle—all radiant with a glowing smile. The bride looked nice, too.

When my gaze fell on Emma in that organza dress, my heart stopped. She had her hair pinned up in big curls like she’d just stepped out of a vintage magazine or a Bing Crosby film. My new resolution to keep my distance from her was only twelve hours old, and I could already find flaws in the asinine plan.

I wasn’t even watching the bride and groom, and I suspected I wasn’t the only one. She was crying. And so, like any good friend would do, I used every glance she threw my way to make her laugh, thinking that would help. I certainly didn’t intend to draw more attention to her. But Emma was too magnetic, on and off screen. It was one of the reasons she was a star.

The reception was in the terrace ballroom with floor-to-ceiling doors spilling out into a small courtyard. The bridal party took thousands of photos with the magical backdrop of the setting sun while the guests mulled about, snacking on prawns and posh grilled cheese bites skewered with tiny bamboo swords. It took forever. I occupied myself in conversation with mates from previous projects and had a few laughs. It was a good time considering the slew of texts from Pinky. I refused to check them—I had to set boundaries somewhere. Switching my mobile to airplane mode, I decided to make the best of the evening and sit at the table with my mates because it was the farthest in the room from the bridal party table, definitely not because my seat was strategically aligned with a clear view of Emma, frowning while she nibbled on the kale salad. Somehow even her frowns gave me a sense of joy.

My respect for Emma was too severe to mess up our friendship. What almost happened in her hotel room the night before must never be repeated. Keeping my distance was the only way to accomplish that. I was determined to keep things strictly platonic, call her less often, dine alone.

I was James Bond, watching her covertly from across the room. She seemed to enjoy herself while dancing or conversing with starstruck wedding guests brave enough to ask for selfies. I found her scanning the party, probably looking for me to hold me to a dance. But I wouldn’t be that guy. I wouldn’t be the friend to selfishly steal all her attention from someone, someday, who could give her the love she deserved. My insides clenched painfully to back away, to surrender her heart so she could fly free. Or in this case, dance free.

Presently, she was dancing with Elton. A slow dance. Elton? Really? It took all my strength not to march right over there and cut in and mark my territory like a ring-tailed lemur. It wasn’t like me to entertain the green-eyed monster, it really wasn’t. But for some reason, it reared its ugly head with gusto. Beyond my control.

But I cared for Emma. Plain and simple. And one dance didn’t a courtship make. Of course, that didn’t mean I had to stand by and see any more of it either. I left like the coward I was.

I slipped out of the reception unnoticed by my friends who were busily engaged in beating the world record in tomfoolery. It didn’t take long for the valet to bring my car around, something I was grateful for since I almost changed my mind to cut in to dance with Emma. With a fleeting thought, I decided to take one last loop around the hotel to take in the ocean view before skidding out of there. I could make it back to L.A. in a few hours if I didn’t stop back at the bungalow in La Jolla. The drive would calm me, help me to get my feelings into perspective.

The moon cast a silvery glow on the water’s surface, waves crashing softly along the shore like a lullaby. My Tesla made almost