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

“Mine’s the master bedroom, so you can have the bathroom in there all to yourself.”

He wagged his brows provocatively. “I don’t mind sharing. I’m a giver like that.”

I could sense a rush of heat flood my cheeks. “You’ve got a one-track mind, don’t you, Mr. Wickham?”

He flashed his ever-so-white teeth, and a twinkle overcame the whole of his expression. “Maybe,” he replied. “But right now, I’m just slap happy. I mean tired. Right now, I’m just tired.”

“I’m sure that must be it.”

“And maybe a little bit slap happy.”

“How ‘bout I slap the happy right out of you?”

“I would like that very much, Beth short for Elizabeth—”

“Yeah. I got it,” I interrupted. “Go to sleep.”

He reluctantly obeyed with a pout to his lips but not before several attempts to convince me to join him. At last, I was rid of him behind my bedroom door, and hoping he wasn’t going through my drawers in search of incriminating baubles, I stole into Jane’s room. I was so worn out by the day’s events, I was almost inclined to take the bed without pulling back the covers. But I knew once the fever from the effect Jorge had on me wore off, I’d be too cold to sleep yet too tired to burrow under the covers. And as I felt my way around the bed in the dark, to my surprise, I found the form of Jane fast asleep and occupying the entire bed diagonally. She’d been home the whole time? At that moment, I wished I did have a secret futon hidden away, but I was so exhausted and my head so full of the words from Jorge’s story, I yanked an extra pillow from Jane’s bed and fell into a hard, fast sleep on the floor.

I woke in the morning to the shrill echo of screams. They were far away at first in the hazy cloud of a half-dream state, but as I shed the weight of sleep, I shot up to find myself alone and wondering if I’d overslept. Strangely, the first thought in my head was pointe shoes I never attempted to buy. Didn’t they have to be custom fitted or something? The second thought in my head was that the scream wasn’t Jane’s, but another woman whose wailings I unfortunately recognized. My mother. I shot up, finding that at some point, Jane had covered my body with her comforter. Always thoughtful, that one.

As I rushed out of the room and into the hallway, I noticed three things:

My mother was screaming my name and pacing in the vicinity of my bedroom door.

My bedroom door was wide open, and a dripping wet Jorge emerged from the master bathroom wrapped in only a towel. A tiny towel.

Lydia was eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen bar, laughing between bites.

When my mother saw me, she scurried down the hallway and cried, “Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie. There’s a naked man in your shower!”

It took all my efforts and Jane’s gentle urging to get my mother to calm down. The half-naked presence of Jorge didn’t help matters. He stroked her back, offering her water—all while she flailed about, waving her arms in the air and gasping for breath. No wonder he thought she was having an apoplexy. Between each labored breath, she would cry about having a heart attack.

“I’ll be remembered for dying on this hideous beige carpet,” she bellowed. “Just like Elvis.”

Jorge valiantly swooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch. There she was, shocked dumb against the bare chest of the Latin demigod, much like I had been yesterday. Did this guy make a habit of scooping up women upon first acquaintance?

“Elvis died in the bathroom, Mom,” I said as Jorge placed her down. “And you’ll be fine.”

“Fine? Fine says you. You who don’t even call your poor mother.”

“Take a deep breath, Mrs. Bennet,” Jane said as she demonstrated, channeling her inner yoga guru. Surprisingly, Mom followed her example. Was Jane some kind of mom whisperer?

“Lizzie…” Mom said after a few calming breaths, “Why was there a naked man in your shower?”

“That’s actually a funny story.” Jorge laughed, his wet thighs just inches from her vision. Her eyes went wide, sweeping over him in open assessment. She turned her head ever so slowly to me like a possessed doll in a horror movie.

“And why,” she said with a strained calm, “is he still HERE?!”

I motioned for Jorge to leave the living room. He wore a surprised expression, clearly clueless to the reason he had to go, and with a shrug, padded down the hall, stopping to retrieve his clothes from the guest bathroom before closing himself in my room.

I then proceeded to explain all the events that led to his current state of undress—the gastro pub, Lydia’s vomit, and the chivalry of Jorge’s assistance to get us home safe. In my new G-rated version, Lydia had fallen ill with food poisoning, not for drinking her weight in tequila. I concluded with the assurance to my helicopter mom that it was all very innocent, and I’d roomed with Jane for the night. She looked to Jane for confirmation, my own mother giving more of her faith in my friend than me. Jane nodded in grave agreement but betrayed me in saying, “Mrs. Bennet, I was just as surprised as you were. But yes, Beth slept on the floor of my room.”

“On the floor?” cried Mom. “On the dirty carpet?”

“The carpet’s not dirty, Mom,” I tried to explain. “It’s just a little stained.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, surely judging my housekeeping skills, and then, as if Lydia had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, looked to her and said, “Who are you?”

“That’s Lydia, Mom.” I sighed. “My friend who got sick, remember?”

Lydia waved cheerily. “Vomit girl.”

A light went off in mom’s head and she nodded. “Oh yes. Nice to meet you, you poor thing. Have you tried apple cider vinegar?”

Mom and her internet remedies. She had new