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

Oh, he’s going down.

But then he’s so close to me, his pant leg brushes along my leg and I forget my name for a split second. His fingertips caress the length of my arm from the sensitive skin of my elbow down to my wrist. His thumb lingers there, on the inside of my wrist, for a moment, tracing a soft circle, turning me into moon sand. A tremor quakes through me and I wonder what happened to that empowered woman who blazed in here this afternoon? Then his eyes rivet to me with a burning gaze. Oof. Yeah, empowerment is overrated.

His fingers leave a trail of sparks over my Mount of Venus, and... (no need to clutch those pearls. The Mount of Venus is the fatty flesh at the base of the thumb.)

Ahem. 

Ingram takes the stack of pitas from my hand and proceeds to collect the rest of them off the floor and the one that made it into the bowl. We return to our places on the flour sack futon but I’m not in the mood to play pita frisbee anymore.

Hmmm... I wonder how we should pass the time.

The air is thick with anticipation (and flour particles) so Ingram clears his throat. “I saw your brother’s show a few weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah? He didn’t mention it to me.” Not that he would. I’m sure Bing noticed some discord at his wedding between Ingram and me. Bing is way too sweet and non-confrontational to say anything about it.

“I don’t think he saw me at the stage door,” he says. “There were too many fans wanting selfies and autographs.”

Wow. My brother, the Broadway star.

“You should have gotten his attention. He would have cut through the crowd to give you a bro-hug.”

Ingram chuckles. “Yeah. He’s a hugger, isn’t he?”

“Sure is.”

His eyes cut to mine. “Are you a hugger?”

Ummm...

“Did you like the show?” I deflect.

“Not gonna answer?”

“Nope.”

“All right. Fair enough. I loved the show. There are no words.” Ingram does the mind blown gesture with his hands. “I liked it better than the movie.”

I agree wholeheartedly. Bing plays the lead in Moulin Rouge at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre and I’ve seen it five times already. It’s like he was born to play that role.

The conversation turns to the good ‘ol days when Bing and Ingram ruled the high school musical scene. Everything felt so important back then. It was like the world didn’t exist outside of the theatre program. Life was so vibrant and magnified. I remember my Freshman year, how I idolized the Seniors—especially Ingram. He’s the only reason I auditioned for the Spring musical, Footloose. But he and Bing were so caught up in all the cool Senior things, they hardly noticed my presence in the chorus.

I kick my feet up on Ingram’s lap and his whole body stiffens. I know my feet can’t smell that bad. He’ll just have to deal with it. Or make another flour sack futon because I need to stretch out.

“How long do you think we’ll be locked in here?” I ask, knowing he’s wondering the same thing. “Do you think someone will come by tomorrow, or will we have to eat hummus all weekend?”

“I don’t know.” He lets his hand rest on my ankle and the warmth of his palm soothes me. “But come morning we’ll have to come up with a plan. Once we’re well rested.”

“Well rested. Riiiight.”

“Speaking of a plan. I’m serious about us working together. Tell me where you’re at on this.”

Part of me wants to keep my ideas close to my chest. But I think we’re beyond that now.

“I’m thinking a whole social media campaign. Instagram, Facebook, Twitter. It has to be punchy and humorous.”

He nods, urging me to continue.

“If there’s a big enough budget, I’d like to do a commercial—Harmon Brothers style. Funny. Memorable. I’m talking five-minute commercials people will share all over social media. The kind with thousands of comments.”

His eyes dance and I see the moment he’s totally with me on this. “I can get the Harmon Brothers.”

He can get the Harmon Brothers? The guys who made the Squatty Potty commercials? He’s all casual about it of course. Like, hey, let me just speed dial my friends the advertising geniuses that make the masses crazy over toilet products.

I play it cool. “Great. Make it so.”

“And we’ll integrate the hummus into a new line,” he says. “Stuff like marinated olives, falafel mix, healthy oils... really dominate the market on the Mediterranean diet.”

We’re on a roll now. “And a whole new rebranding campaign,” I add.

“No doubt. ‘Eugene’s Pita Bread?’ That name’s gotta go.”

“I’m way ahead of you,” I say, winking up at the cameras, just in case. “Sorry, Eugene.”

He leans in toward me, brightened by all this business talk. “Really? What have you come up with so far?” This is his passion. He’s in his element. Also, his hand has traveled a few inches up my calf. Not gonna let that get to me at all.

“I’m thinking something with a Greek god name. Artemis, Orion...”

“Thor?” His voice rumbles to a deep register and even though he’s giving me a smoldering look, I know he’s teasing me big time. I swat his hand which is getting dangerously close to my knee and swing my legs down.

There’s an awkward lull in the conversation and I feel the need to define this new dynamic. Are we like... friendly now? Just this afternoon I was ready to go primal on the guy. I would have done anything to keep his paws off my client’s business. Did he totally smooth talk me out of my fight? Maybe I misjudged him and his company. Or am I being played? I should definitely clear the air and lay the ground rules.

I open my mouth, searching for the right words, when he flies to his feet like his butt’s on fire. I check it out just to be sure. For quality control purposes, of course.

“No way!” he cries, rockin’ out to the