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

popular guy in school. Now I know he’s laying it on extra thick. So smooth. A tiny grin tugs at his mouth and amusement coats his words when he says, “She’s my grandmother.”

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Did I tell her I’m having relations with a married woman? No.

Did I let her jump to conclusions about it? Possibly.

Did I get a small thrill from her jealous line of questioning? Yes, oh yes.

A rainbow of emotions crosses her features. She goes from complete surprise to confusion, then from relief to anger in the blink of an eye. If this was a 1950’s romance film, she’d have slapped me by now. I take her hand before she gets any ideas.

“Come on. Let’s see if there’s an employee lounge in this place.”

I tug her to me, guiding her along. Surprisingly, she falls into step with ease. I want to lace my fingers through hers but I don’t dare shift my tender hold on her hand. We make our way through a maze of enormous mixing machines, conveyor belts, and ovens. I consider leaving a trail of pita bread crumbs so we can find our way back.

We’re a couple of minutes along when Eugene’s voice stops us in our tracks. There’s a speaker on the ceiling and he’s shouting through it.

“Ne? Akúi?”

Rosemary perks up. “Yes! Eugene. We can hear you. We’re saved!”

“Ne? Den íne energopiiméno. Hello you.”

“Eugene?”

Radio silence for twenty seconds but it feels like twenty minutes. Then there’s some shuffling on Eugene’s end.

“Why this malakia doesn’t work?”

Rosemary calls back. “It works. I can hear you. Eugene. We’re locked inside.”

“Ne? Alexis?”

“No it’s me... Rosemary. And Ingram.”

“Alexis?” he says again.

Rosemary cries out louder. “ROSEMARY!”

“Alexis. Péxe ti lísta anaparagogís ee-oot-zeen.”

There’s a computerized beep, then the distinctive voice of Alexis responds, “I can’t find the answer to the question I heard.”

It occurs to me right away he’s trying to work his artificial intelligence speaker and can’t figure it out.

He repeats himself, “Alexis. Péxe ti lísta anaparagogís ee-oot-zeen.”

Alexis answers back, “Sorry, I’m having trouble understanding you right now.”

Eugene’s not speaking to us. Obviously. But Rosemary keeps trying to communicate with him anyway. She’s a bloodhound not giving up.

“The system he has in the factory must be connected to his Alexis device at home,” I say. I know this because I have an Alexis smart speaker.

I once spooked my mom when she was watering my plants for me. I was on a business trip in Vegas and bored out of my mind—and I knew what time she’d be there, judging my life choices. So I had a little fun. My neighbors later told me she screamed bloody murder thinking my apartment was haunted until she figured out I could control Alexis with my phone. We still laugh about it at family gatherings. And when I say we, I mean me.

Here at Eugene’s factory, he’s got his smart speakers in every corner. But I don’t think he realizes he’s connected. Old guys, am I right?

“Gamóto. Ilíthia mihaní.”

“What’s he saying?”

I shrug. “It’s Greek to me.”

She is not amused.

“Eugene! Eugene! Can you hear me? It’s Rosemary.” She’s waving her arms like a madwoman.

“Do you think he can see you?” In the dark.

“Don’t these things have cameras? Maybe he checks up on his factory workers.”

“Why would he need to do that? To make sure his employees aren’t pushing his pita bread on the black market?”

Eugene’s voice echoes, “Alexis. You e-speak Eliniká?”

“Shuffling songs by Metallica.”

I hear Eugene mumble something and even in Greek I know he’s cursing.

Meanwhile, Rosemary’s looking for the cameras.

“Maybe he’ll see us if we find the security camera,” she says.

If there are cameras, we’ll look like blurry red blobs. But I suppose it’s worth a shot.

Before I know it, we’re both running down the aisles and corridors screaming and waving our arms to the dulcet sounds of Metallica’s Whiplash. We shout out, “We’re here, we’re here!” while Eugene’s calling his device every name in the book.

“She no listen, because she’s a woman. Ti diáolo? Tzába leftá.”

Metallica stops abruptly while Alexis deciphers Eugene’s accent.

“Here’s a station you might like. Playing Katy Perry.”

Rosemary and I cry in unison, “Nooooo!”

Eugene must have done the same because Katy Perry is short lived. Then I guess he called over his ten-year-old grandson because a kid’s voice comes over the speakers.

“Alexis. Play Eugene’s playlist.”

Ohhhh. That’s what he was trying to say.

Then this music comes on and I can’t even. Whatever Eugene’s playlist is, it’s some freaky stuff. It’s pretty much edgy electric guitars and a guy screaming at the top of his lungs into a microphone. In Greek, I suppose.

Rosemary’s about to lose it right there in the bagging aisle. “Oh heavens. Make it stop.”

“Alexis, stop,” I say.

The music silences for about 30 seconds then comes back on even louder. This time it’s a Credence Clearwater Revival knock-off. Also in Greek. And, admittedly, a vast improvement from the last song.

I command it to stop again. Again the music comes back in full force. We could be at this all night.

“What is this anyway?” she asks like I have all the answers. Her guess is as good as mine but I take a stab at it.

“Sounds like classic rock in Greek.”

“It’s horrendous yet strangely danceable.” She’s tapping her toes now.

I could just picture a wild party at Eugene’s house with a bunch of old Greek guys rockin’ out to this stuff. I give up.

“I don’t think he could hear us,” I say.

She nods, staring off into the distance. She’s a trooper, but I can tell her confidence is wearing down.

I cradle her chin. “Hey. We’ll get out of here. Don’t worry.”

She raises her big, doleful eyes to meet my gaze. My heart bangs wildly but I need to keep it together for her. I try to lighten the mood.

“We can make the most of it while we’re here. What do you want to do?”

“I want my bed and my fuzzy blankets.”

I place my arm around her. “How about dinner?”

“Dinner?” Her eyes sparkle. It’s killing me softly.

“Sure. Maybe one of the factory