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

he released me, stepping back just enough to give me a choice. To let him in or shut him out. I didn’t want to do either. I liked things the way they were.

“So…” I tapped his shoulder. “Is the ball in your court or mine, because I lost track?”

“I didn’t realize we were playing ball.”

“It’s an expression. I’m pretty sure I’m one up on you since I proved I can lift… well I’m not suggesting you weigh two hundred pounds, but you’re tall and have lots of muscles, and muscles weigh a lot. You’re solid, so yeah. I win that round.”

He laughed, almost in a way that one did after promising not to do so. “Okay,” he said. “You win.”

I beamed. “Great. What shall we do next?”

“Something safe. Maybe you can stay on the stationary bike. You can’t do much damage from there.”

“You never know.”

He put on some music, and we each did our own routines in opposite corners of the room. He had so much equipment, we kept ourselves occupied for the greater part of an hour. The exercise was a good outlet to funnel all the crazy I’d been feeling lately. There was nothing like a little physical agony and sweaty pits to put things into perspective. My legs felt like noodles by the time Jaxson shut the music off and asked if I was hungry. Like he needed to ask.

We ate standing at his kitchen counter because I was afraid to ruin his dining furniture with my soaked unitard. Jax said my perspiration (AKA feminine glow) didn’t offend his smeller, but I kept a good five feet away from him anyway. It didn’t matter, though. There were enough onions in our tacos to cancel out any other offending odour. It was a good thing we both loved onions.

As we cleaned up after ourselves, I wondered why he hadn’t said what he wanted to talk about. Maybe it was about the changes in the script. We’d already covered those concerns. Maybe he wanted to know what my feelings were on the cuts—if I sided with Frank. If so, he already had my answer, and I wasn’t about to bring it up again. I realized while I was lost in my reverie, Jax had stopped what he was doing and was watching me from across the kitchen. He stood behind the large stainless-steel chef table, resting his fingertips on the edges. One thing about Jax—he considered himself an amateur chef and insisted his kitchen be fitted with professional fixtures. Now, that table stood between us like a formidable silvery barrier. He looked at me with a weary expression on his features. His posture was rigid, and there was something about him, like he was no longer Jax. Like he had taken on the worries and cares of a heartbroken man. And when he spoke, I knew why.

“Penelope.” His voice was transformed from his easy Aussie cadence to the clipped American dialect of Colonel George Donwell. He took a tentative step around the counter, spine erect, shoulders back, and waited for the reaction I was supposed to give. Penelope’s action was to cry, overjoyed to see her fiancé come home from a senseless war. But I wasn’t interested in crying, especially after wiping the perspiration from my face earlier. Nope, wasn’t gonna cry. But that didn’t stop Jax. He approached and stroked his thumbs along my cheeks to dry the imaginary tears, cupping my face in his hands.

“Tears are in the past, Penelope. Words are for the future. Say you’ll have me.”

Okay, so the dialogue was a work in progress, what can I say?

Then his lips touched mine—tenderly at first, a feather-light caress as if a question. I answered back with breathy sighs, walking the line between the script and my visceral reaction. It was a perfectly natural response; the man caught me unawares. Well, maybe not completely. I did, after all, make this very request. But that had been hours ago and now that I was sweaty and oniony, I was just so unprepared for this. Maybe that’s what he was going for—to see what kind of authenticity he could use in the film.

He brushed his warm lips softly against mine, exploring and caressing them. It was agony—wanting this and knowing it wasn’t real. My heart thundered in my chest as he took his time, branding me with excruciatingly slow, sweet kisses. I involuntarily let out a small moan, and that seemed to drive him to deepen the kiss, capturing my mouth with more intensity until a growl escaped the back of his throat. I clung to him, afraid my liquefied legs wouldn’t hold me any longer, and he slid his arm around my waist in response, keeping me from falling into a shapeless heap on the floor. My skin burned, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through my body like a tidal wave of longing. I was a ball of hot want under the sizzle of his touch and gave back his kisses tenfold, layering the performance in potency with each pass of my lips on his.

Jaxson pulled away for a brief moment, catching his breath—his eyes, dark and stormy, moved over my face with a hazy, unfocused gaze. I thought for a moment he’d come to his senses and was considering a way to end whatever this was without too much awkwardness. But we were way beyond that. I mean, I was really committed to my role and if it meant practicing our love scene over and over—well, we’d just have to do it until the director was satisfied. And by the all-consuming look on his features and his laboured, ragged breathing, I could tell he certainly wasn’t satisfied. Oh, well. We needed a lot more practice. Pucker up.

My thoughts wandered to the many screen kisses I’d had. They were all meh by comparison. Knowing Jaxson was usually behind the camera, I wondered fleetingly how much experience he had with love scenes because, dang… he was bloody good