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

bag and moved to England to chase down my dreams, Mum made me a mix tape. A mix tape. That woman, she’ll forever be stuck in the eighties. But I still played that tape from time to time, even in recent years. I had to buy an old boom box on eBay just to listen to that one cassette in my Beverly Hills home, and thankfully, the darn thing hadn’t eaten it up yet, so hooray for old stuff, I guess.

The first song on the playlist was Sting’s If You Love Somebody Set Them Free. The stupid thing about me was, I didn’t listen to the tape until I’d been in England for a year, and things weren’t going well for me. I was the typical broke actor dealing with rejection after rejection. Then I found the tape—still in the small zipper compartment of my suitcase—and I wept like a beluga whale. Soon after that I enrolled in Film School, which was the best decision of my life. I might not have met Emma otherwise.

After my bonfire birthday party, I drove home, poured myself two fingers of scotch, and clicked the tape into the player. I settled on the wingback chair in my study, fully prepared for the waterworks to appear. This whole jealousy thing was new to me. I’d never been so consumed by so many emotions all at once. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. Because when you love someone, you set them free. Thanks for the pep talk, Sting.

Emma’s attachment to Frank was glaringly obvious. The way they’d been flirting for weeks, the silly inside jokes, the small touches. It was time she moved out from under my shadow, time I set her free.

That turned out to be harder in practice than in theory. Over the years, Emma wiggled her way into every part of my life. She was like a tiny mite under the surface of my skin. She burrowed into my heart and soul and just camped out, doing Emma things, slowly morphing me into her so much so I didn’t know where I ended, and she began. I thought about the restaurants I frequented. Did I like those places or was it Emma? Or the movies I chose to direct. Maybe my decisions were heavily influenced by whether there was a part for Emma. Our Friday night tradition at the local greasy spoon wasn’t enough. I wanted to see her every day at work, too. Perhaps I went too far in writing a part for myself in Field of Hearts. It was a dream come true, though, and when we hit it out of the park on Wednesday, it was pure magic. Emma’s eyes sparkled when we sang our duet, and in that moment, I didn’t care about Sting or blue turtles or Frank or anybody. I just wanted to kiss her and maybe make it last forever.

Later that evening, Mr. Perry from Highbury Pictures called with a better offer than I could have imagined. He wanted to make sure no one else got a chance to pick up Field of Hearts, even going so far as to approve the project without consulting the studio’s greenlight committee. That kind of power was rare these days.

I was on such a high, my first instinct was to tell Emma. She was just that person for me. The one I shared everything with. So much for Sting’s wise words.

It wasn’t news to deliver over the phone. I wanted to see her face, maybe go out to celebrate. I drove through the rain to her house and when I arrived, I ran a thumb over the grooves of the key Rosario had given me, deciding if I should take the liberty or knock like a gentleman. I chose the latter.

“We’re greenlit.” I rushed in when she answered. I was exhilarated to see her. Floating on a cloud.

“What? Already?” Emma closed the door, and we just stood in the foyer with goofy grins on our faces.

I nodded and held out my arms. “Yeah, ‘cause we blew their brains. I got a call an hour ago.”

She flew to me and on instinct, I gathered her in my arms and lifted her off her feet. It was the most natural thing in the world, twirling her around like we were our characters in Field of Hearts. George and Penelope were so happy to be together. Happy the war was over. But this was more real than anything. Truer than pretending. I was done pretending. Perhaps I’d been too afraid before. But all at once, that fear escaped me, and all I could see was Emma before me, wrapped in the embrace of our shared joy. Our lips met in the slightest of touches—a mere extension of the innocent displays of affection we had always shared. Well, all except the hot and heavy stage kisses which didn’t count. This kiss was chaste and modest and very well could have meant nothing more than all our previous encounters. But her lips were soft and delicate, and I found myself weakened by their tempting sweetness. It was an exploration. A soft caress of my lips to hers—asking permission. Are we really doing this? We’re not pretending anymore?

By the way her breath hitched, and her body gave way to me, I was pretty sure this was the real deal. And she was into it.

I took her into me with gentle kisses that could only be described as the most ardent love. A low moan resonated in her chest, and I noted she tasted faintly of red wine.

My control was rapidly slipping. I bloody wanted this woman with all my being. An electric charge flashed through me as deft fingers reached around my torso, clinging to the fabric of my shirt. Heat covered my skin and although every inch of her soft form pressed into me, it wasn’t close enough. It would never be close enough. She was generous and wanton, warm and lively. She was