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

closer, clashing her against me and claiming her soft lips. I could carry her away like the Pirate King carries Edith. Steal her for my very own and sail away on the high seas. From the corner of my eye, I could see the rise and fall of her chest. Her heart raced as fast as mine. She had to sense the primal attraction between us. It was heady and strong and if we weren’t in a crowded restaurant, I would have taken her into my arms and kissed her senseless. Forget the consequences.

“May I have my hand back, Your Majesty?” She tried to keep her calm, speaking through gritted teeth.

I slowly lifted my hand from hers. A chill claimed my palm where her warmth had been. She snatched the bill to her chest, putting distance between us as swiftly as she could, but before she escaped completely, I blurted, “Wait.”

She froze in her tracks. I was surprised at how effective that was. She didn’t turn her body back towards me but shifted her eyes just enough for a sideways glance.

“Elizabeth…” I said. I didn’t know where I was going with this, but I’d opened my mouth, so I was committed to finishing the sentence. “…about the other day. I realize I might have said some things that may have offended you. But I don’t have the talent…” to what? To use my words while conversing with infuriating women? To repress my inner caveman? “…to act naturally in social situations.” It was the best I could do for an apology. I mean, come on—the pixie wouldn’t give me back my dog.

“And?”

Oh. Was I supposed to keep talking? Because my mind went completely blank. I fixed my eyes on the soft curve of her jaw line. The way it yielded to the gentle slope of her graceful neck, the rogue wisps of hair falling from the confinement of her loose bun, caressing the skin above her collarbone. Oh, to trail my fingers along the goose flesh there. Hail Poetry.

“Well?”

She grew impatient, likely set off her rails by the intense scrutiny of my whacky stare.

“Uh, keep the card,” I blurted, sliding out from the booth. “To run a tab.”

“Run a tab? This isn’t the Old West. We don’t run tabs here.”

I was done. I was so done. I didn’t care if I left my card behind. She could rack up charges on all the fandom t-shirts in the world for all I cared. I needed to leave before I let the Pirate King take over. As I left the building, I decided my suspicions were correct. They definitely piped something through the vents. But why did it affect only me?

18

Taco Wednesday

Beth

“Why do rich guys think they can impress women by throwing their money around like glitter?” I plopped onto a barstool and slammed the check holder on the counter. I didn’t care who saw me sitting on the job. I’d had it.

“Did he leave you another hundred-dollar bill?” Charlotte gave me a quick glance and continued chopping limes.

“Worse. He told me to keep his credit card and took off.”

“So charge it and give yourself a nice tip.”

“What’s twenty percent of three dollars and fifty cents?”

“Um… seventy cents.”

“Hmmm.” I slumped lower on the barstool. “That won’t even buy me a nail polish at the dollar store. I hate him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why does he have to bother me at work and challenge me to a staring contest?”

“It’s pretty obvious he’s into you.”

“No way. He’s a bully. He just came to flex his muscle in my face.”

“Exactly,” she nodded. “A very nice muscle.”

“Shut up.”

A nice muscle. Lots of nice muscles. Everywhere. Ugh! I wondered if washing that man right outta my hair was actually a thing. It was worth a try. And what was that stupid little speech of his? I don’t have the talent to act naturally in social situations. What kind of lame apology was that?

Will came back the next day. And the day after that. Each time he sat in the same booth, and I brought him his Bud Lite, which he never drank. We didn’t speak a word, and I happily charged his card with an added twenty percent gratuity. I was rolling in the big bucks now. I almost had enough for an iced americano at Starbucks. A few more visits, and I could afford a cinnamon bun. Woo hoo!

I noticed a new addition to the autographed black and whites on Sir William Lucas’ celebrity wall after Will’s third visit. It was signed “the best service in Hollywood” next to a loopy signature in gold sharpie. Brilliant.

When a few days passed, I thought I’d be rid of him, but the day before Christmas Eve, he came again, but this time he brought a guest. Why he chose Lucas Lodge to have lunch with Fitz Hanlon was a mystery beyond my understanding. Sir William Lucas was all over himself with joy, imputing Will’s frequent visits as a compliment to himself. Charlotte had to refrain him from creating a plaque that read William Darcy’s table.

I actually grew to like Fitz a lot. He still owed me a rematch in ping pong after he beat me impressively at Cole’s party. I called him out on having an unfair advantage because he was stone-cold sober. He didn’t deny it. I didn’t admit I was horrible at ping pong, either.

I brought Will his usual Bud Lite which he frowned at and then turning to Fitz, I greeted him with a smile. His presence at the William Darcy table rendered it impossible to ignore Will altogether, but I was willing to play nice for Fitz’s sake. His features brightened when I approached the table, followed by an amused perusal of my uniform.

“Oh em gee, Beth! Why are you dressed like a wench?” His smile was contagious, and his energy was enough for the whole restaurant to run on for a week. To say Fitz was like the energizer bunny was an understatement.

“This is