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

I could feel the flush of blood rush to my cheeks.

“For the money,” I said, dismissing his smoldering stare. I could never receive a compliment well, usually deflecting the resulting bashfulness with humor. “I entered into one of those Ponzi schemes,” I continued. “Turns out I was duped.” I shrugged and made a meh face. “Too late to back out now.”

He sighed an easy and unaffected laugh, never releasing me with his eyes. “So you’re a comedienne.”

“I get my share of comedy roles, yes.”

“Okay.”

He shifted in his seat, tallying his knowledge of me on his fingers. “I now know you have a knack for comedy, you’re a snappy dresser…” He gestured to my Doctor Who t-shirt. “and you’ve got the moves like Jagger.”

Holy Moley!

“You’ll never let me live that down.”

“But I still don’t know what makes you tick, Beth, short for Elizabeth, sometimes Lizzie.”

His stare was penetrating, searching my soul. “Why theatre?”

His tone shifted to earnest sincerity. Was this guy for real?

“Okay,” I conceded. “If you really want to know… there’s no other art, not even cinema, that can combine music, storytelling, dance, painting, costumes, lighting…” I gestured to the pirate ship. “Set design… and all of those things come together for three hours every night, and it’s a shared experience as it happens on stage. It’s the most magical thing in the world.” I crinkled my brow in thought, and his face softened, leveling into my orbit.

“The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts,” he said, holding my eyes, “but is also the return of art to life.”

“Jorge, that’s… wow! That’s beautiful.”

“That’s Oscar Wilde.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. I memorize prose just to woo the ladies.”

“Good one.”

We had come full circle, it seemed. He enjoyed teasing me far too much.

“So…” He grinned. “Ripped abs and foxy simper?”

“Well, it’s a little distracting to tell you the truth,” I said, gesturing to his bare chest.

“It gets hot in here,” he said apologetically. “Let me get my shirt. I’ll be right back.”

He was gone before I had a chance to stop him. I would have to get back to rehearsal soon. Checking my phone for the time, I had the notion to arm myself with some ammunition of my own in the form of poignant theatre quotes. I was determined not to blurt out the first idiotic thing that came to mind. I’d be ready with brilliant verse and resplendent sonnets upon his return.

“The internet does not a smart person make,” I whispered to myself as I scrolled the memes.

The sound of footfall announced his entry through the passageway. I hoped to high heaven that his shirt wasn’t a clingy, white t-shirt, because that wouldn’t have been much better for my concentration than his bare chest. Please be flannel, please be flannel.

“Here’s one for you, Shakespeare,” I bellowed, not daring to look behind me. “Movies will make you famous, television will make you rich, but theatre will make you good.”

The footsteps halted, and then there was a long pause. My estimation was that he was too overcome with my smarts to answer. But then a response did come, and it wasn’t the Latin demigod I expected.

“Terrence Mann,” the voice said.

I shot up from the stool, almost knocking it to the floor, and flipped around to see Will Darcy assessing my presence with intense scrutiny.

“What are you doing here?” I cried.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, lifting a solitary eyebrow.

It was a Mexican standoff. I felt like I was in a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western, where he was Clint Eastwood, and I was that other guy about to get his head blown off.

For what seemed an hour, neither one of us spoke. The last time we had exchanged words, they weren’t pretty.

At length, he declared, “I met him once.”

“Clint Eastwood?” Had I spoken that aloud?

“What? No. Terrence Mann.”

“Oh.”

“My father took me to see him perform in Beauty and the Beast. We were invited backstage.”

“I like Beauty and the Beast,” I blurted stupidly.

He had the most terrified expression; his body was stiffer than it usually was, and his eyes were so wide, they were fixed on me as if he were dealing with a hostage situation, and I was the terrorist about to blow us all to kingdom come.

“Yes,” he replied robotically. “That’s a good play.”

Don’t blow us up, his eyes spoke. Back away from the ledge.

I was suddenly very aware of a prickling in my toes. What was it about this man that ate away at my nerves so much? He was a haughty hottie. So what? There were plenty of those guys in Hollywood. They made me laugh. But Will had a special sort of arrogance—the kind that cast a shadow over everyone in his vicinity but was pointedly directed at me. The prickling in my toes spread up my legs, and I no longer had confidence they would support my weight. Traitors. I sat on the wooden stool before I could make a fool of myself.

“It’s a tale as old as time,” I agreed.

“Right.” He exhaled and shook his head vigorously.

“I just came for these.”

He frowned, and grabbing two prop swords, made a beeline towards the exit. But upon the appearance of Jorge, still shirtless I might add, he stopped abruptly and glowered at him.

I’d seen enough nature shows to recognize when a tiger confronts a lion. I could have sworn I saw Will bare a sharp set of fangs. Jorge, lingering in the shop entrance, took one glance at Will and turned an ashen pale. I marveled at the sight—he was like a stone carving from Tenochtitlan—majestic, protective, fiercely angry. Darcy stood his own, though. Strong and proud.

The coincidence of the prop swords in Will’s hands wasn’t lost on my overactive imagination. Jorge’s eyes flickered to them for just a moment and returned to hold Will’s stare lest he be tempted to use them. (They were dull anyway.) But with the release of a long-held breath, he turned his focus to me