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

“No. I just memorize phrases I like. Do you? Your last name sounds Spanish. And your mom has an accent I can’t place.”

“That’s the New Mexico accent. It’s a mixture of Native American, Spanglish, and Southern, I guess.”

“And Silva? Is that a Spanish name?”

“Portuguese, actually. Although my grandma used to say we were part Jewish and part Navajo.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Then again, she also said she wrestled an alligator, so...”

I laughed. “Maybe she did.”

“Maybe she did.” He pulled me from the sofa and placed a warm hand on the small of my back. “I do know she had the best empanada recipe. My mom makes them every year.”

My tummy growled in response. We hadn’t had a good meal since the turkey.

“And a word of advice,” he said as we walked. “Stay out of Vickie’s room unless you want nightmares.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Wyatt wasn’t kidding about the empanadas. They were sweet and savory at the same time, made with some kind of mincemeat, raisins, and pine nuts. The dough was a pillowy, deep-fried, out of body experience for my mouth. I ate five of them.

“This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted,” I said with a mouthful. I just couldn’t get over it.

“It’s the fresh-roasted piñóns from our orchard that make the difference,” said Anita proudly.

“Were those all the trees I saw on the way in?”

“Piñón harvesting has been our family’s livelihood since the eighteen-hundreds,” said Wyatt.

I thought that was the coolest thing ever. Much cooler than my family’s legacy as far as I was concerned. It seemed so rugged and earthy.

After we stuffed ourselves to the brim, Anita set some empanadas aside for our trip. Then, once Wyatt’s phone charged for a little bit, I called Will. He barked at me for making him worry, then in a softer tone told me a friend of his could get a private plane ready in a matter of hours. He wasn’t going to deal with any more of this road trip “nonsense.”

Jaxson Knightly, an A-list director and one of my brother’s groomsmen, had acquired his pilot’s license and was poised to come rescue me.

“That’s not scary at all,” I half-joked. He didn’t laugh.

In the end, I agreed to meet Jaxson at Santa Fe Regional Airport the next morning.

Anita was thrilled at the news and was already making plans to have an early morning gift exchange before we left. Wyatt questioned what we would do about the motor home. I suggested we could return to celebrate New Year’s Eve with his family and drive back to California at a leisurely pace since the nuns didn’t need it until January. I’d call and let them know. He brightened at the idea and was in the best of moods the rest of the evening.

Vicky came home. Finally. She was a sweet girl of seventeen. Not very talkative, but sweet.

Baking had always been a therapeutic pastime for me. It gave me a quiet outlet to spend time alone with clouds of flour and sugar. I loved making treats for my brother during the holidays and it did wonders to soften him up a bit when he was in a prickly mood. Sharing the baking experience with Wyatt’s family gave me a sense of home I wasn’t accustomed to. Anita and Vicky mixed the shortening, eggs, and anise seed while Wyatt and I measured the dry ingredients. Every so often his forearm would brush against mine alighting my skin with electricity. His lip curled ever so slightly and I knew he felt it, too. It became blatantly obvious he took advantage of the opportunity for little touches when he insisted on helping me roll out the dough.

Once the cookies were cooled and we’d finished them off with a dusting of cinnamon sugar, my senses were on overload. The scent of sweet anise filled the kitchen, spilling out into the living room and while we sampled our labors on the sofa, Wyatt’s denim-clad leg intermittently bumped against my knee. I don’t know which was more euphoric, the unbelievably delicious cookies or the exquisite delight of Wyatt’s close proximity. Every bit of me was on fire—my blood intoxicated with overwhelming bliss.

I was grateful when Anita suggested we go into town early to reserve seats at the church and see the sights. The snowy streets of Santa Fe were exactly what I needed to cool down the fever in my beating pulse.

20

Wyatt

Dad wasn’t home when Georgia and I blew into town. If he knew we were coming, he might have blown off his domino game with his buddies, and he was near impossible to reach by cell phone. But at least he’d be at St. Francis Cathedral for Mass. Mom parked at the end of Canyon Road and said to meet at the Cathedral by eleven just in case we got separated.

“Your dad can’t save seats once Lessons and Carols starts, so don’t spend too much time fooling around.” She stared directly at Vicky as she said this. My indifferent teenage sister glanced up from her phone long enough to pretend she was paying attention then went right back to her group chat.

“Lessons and Carols?” asked Georgia.

“The choir performs some music before church starts,” I explained. “You’ll like it, I think.”

“You won’t,” chimed in Vicky, jumping out of the car. “Trust me.”

So she was paying attention to the living after all.

“It’s a little too archaic for her taste,” I said, offering Georgia my hand. She smiled sweetly and pressed her delicate fingers in my palm. My heart sputtered to a stop. Her touch was that powerful.

“Archaic is right up my alley,” she replied.

We made our way toward the park where we were to meet up with my sister Palanca, her husband Steven and little Sophia before trekking the mile or so on the Farolito Walk, ending at the Cathedral for midnight Mass. It was a family tradition, one I was anxious for Georgia to love as much as I did.

Her eyes lit