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

She chuckles. Like we’d actually eat an old sandwich. Or maybe we would. “Heck yeah. Bonus if there’s stale pizza,” she says. I love the way she takes a thought and runs with it. She’s fun to be around. I could get used to this.

We scope out the whole place. We don’t find anything we haven’t seen before when we were looking for a way out. I feel like we’re just going in circles. Everything looks the same. Then a shiny door catches my eye. I know we’ve passed it earlier but since it doesn’t lead to the outside, it didn’t interest me before. I figure maybe it’s a storage room—until I feel the cold handle and crank it open. A flood of white light escapes along with a gust of chill. I didn’t notice a walk-in refrigerator on Eugene’s list of assets. I’d have remembered a detail like that. They’re worth a small fortune. Most of the equipment here is. If we had to do an asset sale, a walk-in would carry a pretty price tag.

Rosemary hovers at the threshold. “Why does a pita bread factory need a fridge? None of the ingredients are perishable.”

I incline my chin toward large bins on the shelves. “Flour stays fresher when it’s kept cold.”

I walk in, hoping to find that turkey sandwich. Or maybe a bottle of red wine. I’m not so lucky, but I do find little pint-sized tubs of something. “Come here. Take a look at this.”

She shakes her head, holding the door wide open. “No way. I’m not getting locked in there.”

I worked in a restaurant one summer. I consider telling Rosemary that walk-ins have safety latches to prevent exactly what she fears, but after our experience tonight, nothing would surprise me.

I peek at the plastic pints. They’re dated with sharpie scribbles and some other chicken scratch I can’t read. I grab a couple and bring them to Rosemary.

“Yesterday’s date,” I say. “Whatever it is, it’s fresh.”

She opens a lid and sniffs. Her expression brightens. “It’s hummus.”

I sniff, too. Not that I don’t believe her, More like I want to experience it with her. I know I’m being ridiculous, but when it comes to her, I’ve got a serious case of FOMO.

She dips a finger and I about come undone when she brings it to her mouth and takes a taste. There’s a smudge of hummus on her bottom lip. I want to wipe it off with my thumb and lock my eyes on hers while I have my own taste test. See how she likes them apples. I doubt she’s doing this to me on purpose, but tell that to my... apples. I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.

She sucks in her lips and the hummus is a memory only to be replaced by a silky dew upon her lips. With a wave of awareness I realize: we may have arrived today as adversaries, but I’ll eat my hat if we leave that way.

The two tubs of hummus are still in my hands but I’ll drop them in a flash if it means I could press her against me. She draws me in with her glazed eyes and parting lips. Despite the cold on my back, I feel heat wash through my blood, originating behind my navel and flooding to my chest, my arms, my legs, and... I’m reminded of Shakespeare’s prose... any other part belonging to a man. I know, I know. I didn’t pursue theatre as a career but I’ll always be a tad dramatic. And right here, right now, in the doorway of the walk-in refrigerator, I plan to seal our love with a righteous kiss. Thank you, Willie Shakespeare.

I’m half a second away from tossing the hummus over my shoulder to free my hands when a beep beep beep sounds over our heads.

Freaking refrigerator door alarm.

I don’t want to let it bother me but Rosemary jolts back, startled out of the steamy-times stupor and blinks like she’s coming to from my evil spell. The moment is gone. It’s not how I pictured our first kiss anyhow.

Her cheeks are blazing, I can tell she’s trying to regain her composure. Yeah. I did that. She’s into me and doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’ll go get a bag of bread,” she says and hurries off.

I give myself a minute to take a calming breath, letting my blood cool. Back on the shelf I find five more varieties of hummus. I stack them in my arms and go to meet Rosemary. She’s at one of the stainless steel prep tables twisting her hair up in a bun. She’d brought over four packages of pita bread. Either she thinks I eat like a pig or she’s got a carb addiction.

We don’t speak. We don’t address the elephant in the room. We don’t pass GO. For the next ten or fifteen minutes we test every variety of hummus with the oddest selection of dinner music imaginable. Most of it is similar sounding Greek rock songs, but every now and then a top ten hit from the seventies sneaks in there. We’re nibbling away to the Bee Gees when I decide someone’s got to say something, anything at all. So I address the obvious.

“This one must be pesto hummus.”

She smiles with her eyes, mouth full of pita. She’s more relaxed now that she’s fed. If I’d known her hunger was the source of her saltiness all these years I’d have carried a Snickers bar in my pocket.

“I like the sun-dried tomato,” she says, dipping another triangle of pita in the tub. I like watching her eat. She’s not shy about it. When a dollop of hummus falls on her blouse, she doesn’t miss a beat and wipes it right off with a piece of pita.

“Waste not, want not,” she says with a wink. I’m reminded of the sweet girl I once knew and how she grew into the most alluring woman. How I’d pine