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

In a flash, the robber fisted Wyatt’s shirt, pulled him from the booth, punching him right on the jaw. The other guy cursed and shouted they should hurry up and get out. The sobbing lady screamed. Everyone else gasped. Chaos ensued.

And Wyatt blacked out.

11

Wyatt

They took everything. Our luggage, my phone, my wallet. Everything except Reeses, and Georgia’s fake diamond ring. I came to with a bag of ice on my face. The first thing I saw was Georgia’s pointed scowl. A few other people stood over me to make sure I wasn’t dead. Perhaps dissatisfied I wasn’t, they walked off, shaking their heads.

Georgia frowned and crossed her arms. “Oh good. Now I can tell you off.”

I rubbed my tender jaw. This should be fun.

“Reeses. Where’s Reeses?”

“He’s in the kitchen getting spoiled.”

I peeled myself off the floor and sat on the edge of the booth. “Did the thieves get away?”

She waved her arms at the carnage of overturned tables and chairs. The gumball machine was a pile of broken glass and scattered gumballs on the floor. The pastry display was a sad, squishy mess.

“If you mean did the robbers get so angry because of you they wrecked the place and took all our stuff? Then yeah.”

“Because of me? You’re not blaming this on me.”

She moved her hands to her hips. The Wonder Woman pose. My sisters used it on me. Worked every time. “What is wrong with you? Do you have a death wish?”

“No.”

“Then why? Whyyyy did you insult the guy who was aiming a gun at your face?”

“Because he was ridiculous.”

Her jaw hung open as she attempted to form words. Instead, grunts came out of her throat that sounded something like Kuh. It was still adorable coming from her. Dangit.

“It wasn’t a real gun.”

“Oh? And how do you know that?” she stuttered. “Are you a gun expert?”

“I know a paintball gun when I see one.”

It took a moment for understanding to dawn on her face. She blinked a few times then came back with, “You still could have gotten hurt. It was pointed at your head.”

“I was willing to take my chances.”

“For a few bucks?” she cried. “Those guys were dangerous. They could have bludgeoned you.”

“But they didn’t.”

“Says the guy who got knocked out in one punch.”

“It was a fierce uppercut.” I moved my jaw around. No missing teeth as far as I could tell.

“You are impossible. Seriously, I can barely tolerate you right now. In fact, I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. I envy people who haven’t met you.”

Her words punched a hole in my gut. It was more painful than the fist to my jaw.

“I couldn’t let those simpletons take our luggage. Our traveling money.”

“Who’s the simpleton? You are. You’re worse than a simpleton. You’re a moron. I don’t care about the stuff. It’s nothing. It’s not worth what you did.”

“That’s easy for a poor little rich girl to say. Why don’t you call your daddy and ask for more money?”

That stopped her right there. But the shadow that fell over her face and the sleazy feeling on my skin made me wish I could take it back immediately. Dimples formed on her chin. Her nostrils flared. Her fists formed into tight balls, knuckles white with fury.

An apology was on the tip of my tongue but something stopped me from speaking. Perhaps it was the sting of her insults.

She took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, looking down on me with such disdain, I was certain I’d turned into slime on toast. With a swift sweep of her hand, she plucked up the gooseberry jam and stormed off.

I slunk in the booth, burying my face in my hands. That’s when I noticed my empty plate.

“Those blockheads ate my pancakes.”

I shrugged on my coat and went to check on Reeses. He was where Georgia said he was—in the kitchen. The cooks had given him a plate of ribs. He was so happy he didn’t even acknowledge me when I walked in. The cooks served me up some dirty stares, though. At least they didn’t kick me out.

One of them nodded towards the rear exit with a pointed look. I followed his gaze and pushed through the flimsy door. There was Georgia outside in the freezing air, sitting on a milk crate. Fuming. She was so hot with rage; the atmosphere around her was its own weather system. But her eyes, when they landed on me were cold as ice.

“Do you want to cash in on that face slap?” I said with a sorry attempt at humor.

“Go away.”

“You’re right. I am a moron.”

She half-laughed, not in a good way.

I went on. “Some people just need a high five. In the face. With a chair.”

That at least earned me an eye roll.

“I’m a simpleton. I’m the mayor of Simpleton. And I’m sorry.”

She wasn’t ready to speak. There was still a lot of anger in the air. But she breathed a heavy sigh, staring at the ground thoughtfully. Most likely agreeing with me.

I found another milk crate and set myself down next to her. It was confession time. Ever since I’d moved to New York I painted myself up as a clown. It was a facade mostly to fool myself. A way to bury the ever-present stress of a starving artist. A way to avoid the disheartening fear of failure. That maybe if I ignored the rejections, I might be able to make it one day. And make my parents proud.

My thoughts turned to the gig in LA. I knew it was a risk—packing all my worldly possessions in a suitcase to chase a Hollywood gossip story. That’s not what I was about. I had dreams of selling a spec script. Not selling my soul to a click farm. But my friend assured me the whole thing was super low profile. No press. And I was desperate for the cash.

I laced my fingers together and rested my elbows on my knees. Contrite as