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

only because Will looked certifiably gorgeous? He was certainly good at jumping on rooftops and hanging one-handed from helicopters. But his ability to pull off the quiet moments were enthralling. The raw emotion and gut-wrenching agony in his performance in the third movie when his character’s wife died got me right in the heartstrings. I wondered what experience he pulled from when he shed those tears. Maybe he was thinking about his sister. Or his parents. Suddenly, I felt a deep connection with him. Then I kicked myself because that was exactly what delusional fan girls did. Which led me to wonder how much fan mail he got from adoring women. It made me rage with jealousy.

That made me the most pathetic fan girl in all the land.

When Stella told me not to worry about transportation, I thought she meant we’d carpool. That was just one example of how incredibly ignorant I was of the lifestyle of the rich and famous. People like Stella didn’t carpool. People like Stella sent limos. The driver who picked me up at my front door regarded me from under the brim of his chauffeur hat. I couldn’t help but notice a three-day stubble and dimples for days. He flashed his pearly whites and offered to assist me down the concrete stairs from my second-floor apartment. I declined gratefully but did take him up on the hand he offered to help me in the car; he was totally the swooniest limo driver I’d ever seen. Not like I had much experience.

I scanned the beautiful interior and found it fitted up with a mini bar, stocked with bottled water and soft drinks and a complete entertainment system. Also, I was the only passenger. I figured I must have been his first stop, and we’d pick up Stella along the way—kind of like the way airport shuttle drivers operated. But when I asked him how long it would take to get to Stella’s house, he informed me she was already at ‘Pemberley.’ I thought he said Pepperdine at first, so naturally, I expected to arrive at a university, but when we climbed the hill in a super-fancy, residential neighborhood, I realized Pemberley was something else entirely. We passed beautiful houses that cost more than I would likely make in a lifetime. They were all unique and grandiose with green, stately lawns, and many of them were still decked in elegant Christmas decorations more glorious than any mall. As we made our ascent, the houses were spread apart by larger areas of land, and each one was even more magnificent than the last. I tried to look for street signs. Was Pemberley the name of a street or perhaps a bed and breakfast nestled amongst these great houses? But then we came upon it. The news vans lining the streets were a good indicator we were close. We were at the utmost top of the hill.

The name Pemberley Estate was cast in wrought-iron arches over grand gates that would give Buckingham Palace a run for its money. We crossed under it and navigated down a long driveway lined with jacaranda trees on either side. I loved jacaranda trees because they reminded me of spring and even though it was still early in the year, the lavender blooms already covered the branches. We journeyed a great distance before the house itself came into view. Rounding a corner, my breath quite escaped me as my eyes took in the vision of a majestic French chateau-style mansion situated like a sentinel above the neighborhood.

I wanted to laugh. Was this place for real? Surely, it had to be a hotel. It was stark white with a slate-gray roof and several arches in the front entry. And were those turrets on the far end of the house? This was bananas.

But although the place was ridiculously huge, it also had a cozy atmosphere. Maybe because it was hedged in with rows of evergreen trees or rose bushes lining the edge of a small vineyard. Or maybe it was just the Disney-esque Christmas decorations or carnival tents scattered throughout the property. All I knew was that whoever lived here had taste. Hashtag rich-people-goals.

“Pemberley was built in 1934 at the height of the Great Depression for a department store executive,” the driver cheerily chirped through the partition.

I chuckled. “That’s pretty ironic.”

“I know, right?” He laughed. “Anyway, it recently went through some major renovations to give it a contemporary update. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s gorgeous. The maintenance alone probably costs more in a month than I make in a year.”

I could see him shrug in the rear-view mirror reflection. “I guess,” he said with a dimpled grin. “The Darcys spared no expense to bring this charity event here.”

My little heart did a flip at the mention of the name Darcy. Then it sank to my feet like a weighted yoga ball. This was Will’s house? As in he lived here? Honestly, I didn’t know what I pictured his home to be like. I guess I never gave the idea of Will living anywhere much thought. He was kind of a wandering soul—floating somewhere in the cinema firmament.

“Take me home,” I blurted.

“What?”

“Turn around. Take me home. Please.”

“But we just got here.”

I was suddenly extremely dizzy and lightheaded, not to mention the ringing sensation in my ears. It was either the effect of Will Darcy’s massive house or a nuclear bomb had just hit L.A.

“I’m going to be sick.”

The driver’s face went white. He was probably concerned I’d hurl all over the upholstery.

“Let me just get through this traffic,” he said.

Oh, but that wouldn’t do. Stella was a few cars ahead of us, greeting people as they disembarked.

“Oh, Bard,” I cried. “Go, go, go!”

“All right, all right.” He swiftly put the car in reverse and did his best Knight Rider skid, burning rubber away from the line of Bentleys and Lamborghinis. The screech of tires turned Stella’s head and as we raced backwards, I could