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

My whole body was charged with an unquenchable magnetic energy. She was the central force drawing me in. I could hardly stand it. But I knew my words were inadequate to share that with her. How could I? If I learned anything over my encounters with her over the past few weeks, it was that I was particularly adept in shoving my foot directly in my mouth. So I didn’t speak at all. There was enough noise from the friction in the air between us. It crackled. It popped. It snap, crackle, popped? Eh, okay, a little less breakfast cereal and a little more lightning and thunder. We were in a charged sphere. If we were in a sci-fi movie, you’d see a glowy dome surround us, sparks flying around the edges, and possible levitation.

The far-off voices of party guests counting in unison down from ten assaulted the electric cocoon Beth and I had formed. She turned her head slightly toward the ballroom to listen to the countdown into the new year. Ten seconds suspended in a single breath I was holding. Then she cast her glistening eyes to meet mine. The goddess deigning to acknowledge me. My pulse quickened as she opened her lovely mouth to speak.

“It’s midnight,” she whispered. “You’ll be a frog forever.”

A frog. Doomed to a curse without the kiss of his princess. It wouldn’t do. There was mischief in her expression—a dare. She didn’t think I would follow through. But I was never one to hold back on what I wanted. And I wanted her. I’d wanted her for several weeks but was too full of myself to accept it. Now I was done running from it.

I closed the gap between us, allowing my feet to carry me. I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to. Full disclosure: I didn’t want to. I cupped my hand behind her head; she was so petite, my thumb could reach around to graze her chin. She lifted her gaze to meet mine, hot and cold, and rimmed with a question. I answered with the caress of my lips to hers, slow and savoring. The skin of her lips was soft and pliant, so very dainty and tasted slightly of salt from her tears. I wanted to erase all her tears with my kisses, hold her and shield her from whatever grieved her. Everything within me was charged and culminated in her. In that kiss. Her delicate hands traced the edges of my collar, inching their way up to thread her fingers through my hair.

And then—she yanked, severing her lips from mine, and probably taking a few strands of my hair in her fists.

“Mother Abbess!” I cried reaching to the back of my head. It was stinging from the attack. Her face was flushed with rage and, clenching her teeth, she screamed, “What is wrong with you?”

Wrong with me? Wrong with me?

“You,” I snapped. “You are wrong with me.”

“Me?”

“I have been fighting against my better judgment for weeks. I tell myself that it’s a bad idea, me and you—but I keep coming back for more in spite of myself.”

She stared at me, color rising in her cheeks and was silent. Was it doubt in her expression? I found it excessively difficult to read.

“I shouldn’t let myself get involved with a girl like you, but I find myself unable to stay away, despite the warning bells going off in my head.”

She narrowed her eyes. “A girl like me? What exactly does that mean?”

Foot in mouth.

“A distraction,” I said. “A siren, crashing my ship into the rocks.”

She shook her head with astonishment—or maybe amusement. Crashing my ship into the rocks? Even I thought I was a moron.

“Elizabeth,” I softly bade. I didn’t want to talk. I lost all cognitive ability to speak around her. All I wanted was to kiss her again. One kiss wasn’t enough. Twenty kisses wouldn’t be enough. My desire for her was insatiable.

I reached for her, needing to convince her with a gesture I found lacking in the encumbrance of words. Pesky words. But she recoiled hastily, violently opposed to my touches.

“I can’t sleep at night. I can’t eat, can’t concentrate on anything,” I pleaded, appealing the best I could to her sense of compassion.

Note to self: This is not an effective tactic when it comes to strong-willed women. But I didn’t know better at the time.

“You are not the kind of woman I usually date,” I said. My foot was halfway down my throat by this time, so why not shove it down further? “But I’m willing to take a chance with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Lucky me.”

This was going all wrong. Where were my lines? Where was the script? Even so, I had the feeling if there was a script, this scene would go off-book anyway.

“Should I be grateful the amazing Will Darcy has condescended to bestow his glory upon me? I suppose you expect me to thank you for the unique honor of your attention, oh Great One.”

“I never said—”

“I’m not impressed by you,” she spat. “I never asked to be singled out by you, and I don’t care what kind of girl you usually date. I’m obviously not your type, and if you get over yourself for three seconds, you’ll realize you’re not my type either. I’m sure after all the flattering and warmhearted compliments you’ve paid me, you’ll survive. That last bit was sarcasm in case you were wondering.”

She was putting up her dukes. It was war with this woman. Also, was I reading her all wrong this whole time? Reading that kiss wrong? Because for a moment there, she was really into it.

“Hold up,” I said as calmly as I could, “Why are you still pretending to hate me? I thought we were past all that.”

“I’m not pretending to hate you. This isn’t some Netflix rom com. Life isn’t a movie.”

“Then why? What do