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

“Ya think?”

Sharp. Sarcastic. Biting. I’d take that over the silent treatment.

“That was everything I owned. The stuff they took. It’s funny how feral you can get when you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

She turned her head to me a tiny bit. “What do you mean, everything you owned?”

I flipped up my palms. “It’s just how it sounds. My roommate got a cat. Hated dogs. His apartment. His rules. My loss. So I packed up, emptied my bank account, and got on a plane.” I made an airplane gesture with my hand to illustrate.

Georgia considered my words for a moment before saying, “You mean those bags...that was all your stuff in the world?”

I nodded. “I mean, I left some things behind at my parent’s house. A beat-up guitar I play poorly. My old baseball cards. A bowling ball.”

She was silent for some time, I supposed trying to wrap her brain around my plight. My circumstances must have sounded extreme. So far removed from her world. But I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I just wanted her to understand.

“So that’s why I put up a fight. I didn’t think about you or anyone else in that diner. So I’m sorry. Also the robbers ate my pancakes, so...”

A smile cracked on her features. “And you go crazy when you’re hungry?”

“Something like that.”

She cast her eyes down, passing the jar of gooseberry jam back and forth between her hands.

“I’m sorry I called you a moron.”

“Nope. I deserved that. I’m sorry I insulted your...richness.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “See, I liked a girl in college who came from money. A daddy’s girl. But she was pure evil. I guess those old feelings came flooding back. It’s no excuse but I’m sorry just the same.”

“What makes you think I’m rich?”

I ticked my fingers. “College student. First class seat. American Express black card. Loads of cash. It’s a wild guess.”

“Graduate student. And I’m not a daddy’s girl.” She ran her thumb across the label on the jam jar with a hint of lonesome recollection. “I’m an orphan.”

Then she quickly added, “Orphan, someone who has lost their parents. Not often frequently.”

I blinked at her. “You know that joke only works with an English accent.”

And just like that, she cracked up. My heart felt a thousand pounds lighter and for that tiny suspended moment in time, the world felt right. Everything was going to work out just fine.

Until the manager poked his head outside to announce the police had arrived. Then everything shifted.

We went inside and waited our turn to make a statement. I heard one of the officers flippantly declare, “This sort of thing happens in these parts every year at Christmas time.”

Every. Year.

One would think somebody would get wise after all this time and hire a security guard. But the officers took statement after statement with bored expressions.

Then they got to me. Wrote down my full name. Wyatt Boyd Silva. The cops chuckled when the restaurant manager told them of my stupidity. So I informed them the robbers had paintball guns and grinned with a healthy dose of satisfaction.

Boo-yah.

Then they moved on to Georgia. Wrote down her full name. And my heart sank.

Georgia Marie Darcy.

Darcy. It wasn’t a common surname. It was akin to the likes of Presley or Disney or Barrymore. It was an elite name. A famous name.

I tried to reason with my clouded brain that maybe her name was more common than I’d thought. But the clues were there all along. And when the officers grilled her about it, my suspicions were confirmed.

“Yes,” she said with trepidation. “He’s my brother. Please don’t leak this to the press.”

She uttered the word ‘press’ with definitive ire, like it was poison on her lips. She hated the press.

But I was the press. A slime ball in her eyes. The guy with the inside scoop on the biggest secret in Hollywood. Will Darcy’s hush-hush wedding.

My exclusive story.

My throat swelled. My palms clammed up. I was feverish all over with dread.

Just my luck.

The girl I started to have feelings for was Will Darcy’s little sister.

12

Georgia

Wyatt was uncharacteristically quiet as we finally left the restaurant. Sure, he’d just been robbed of virtually everything he owned, but a tiny bit of luck did shine down upon him, so I figured he’d be a little more chipper. Turned out, in all the hullabaloo, and in an effort to get outta there before the cops showed up, the robbers overlooked Wyatt’s camera, which was tucked under a counter, plugged into the power socket. Hooray for small miracles.

We made our way back to the highway much later than we’d originally planned. Reeses trotted along at our feet wagging his tail, happy as a clam. Completely oblivious. To him it was just another day in the life of the most adorable Jack Russell terrier in the world.

“I guess we missed the bus,” I said.

Wyatt continued in silence.

“Do you suppose another one will come along?”

He only responded with a grunt. I hadn’t bothered to ask anyone about busses back in the diner—seeing as how they all wished they could slip arsenic in our to-go cups. The only reason we got free sodas to go was because they were handing them out to everybody. We weren’t special. In fact, everyone just wanted us to leave already.

We reached the spot where the bus had dropped us off earlier. I didn’t have a watch, but I was pretty sure two hours had passed quite a while ago. The sun was low in the sky and the afternoon winter chill descended upon us with a blanket of gloom. That bus was long gone.

Neither one of us spoke for some time, standing there on the side of the road feeling stupid. I said a silent prayer hoping things would turn around for us. At this point, I’d happily go back to spend another night in that vintage Mustang. Anywhere but here.

Wyatt’s