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

adopting. Adopt, don’t shop people would say. But I wanted an English Cocker. They’re not easy to find in California. I gauged Beth’s reaction. There was no judgment whatsoever in her features. Still, I felt the need to tell her my story.

“I was in Spain,” I explained. “I’d met some cool guys the production company hired while we were on location. They do that to save money—take on local talent for gaffer jobs and stuff.”

She nodded, showing she understood and maybe that I was boring her. But she listened intently so I went on.

“We’d go out a couple of nights a week for tapas and the best wine I’d ever had. Sometimes, one of the guys would host a casual cena at their house.”

She grinned. “Cena? You speak Spanish?”

“Muy mal,” I said. “Very badly.”

We laughed. I could have added that I learned quite a few Spanish curse words from Jorge, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“So anyway,” I continued, “one party we went to ended up being a birthday celebration for one of the guy’s nephews. The kid was like six or something. But somebody got him a puppy. A cocker with the most perfect coils of fur on his long, floppy ears. I lost it. It was like everything I’d ever wanted was summed up in that little dog.”

Kind of the way I felt about Beth.

She gasped. “You didn’t take the puppy, did you?”

“No. Sheesh, you think I’m that horrible?”

She batted her lashes once and regarded me innocently with those wide, coffee eyes.

“I don’t think you’re horrible at all,” she said simply.

I was dead. A spark lit the air between us and killed me on the spot. It was the Fourth of July, the Super Bowl, and the World Series all at once, and I’d stumbled upon the secret stash of fireworks. I couldn’t breathe. All the woman said was that she didn’t think I was horrible, not that she’d have my children. I was pathetic.

I shook it off and let go of the air held captive in my lungs.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, my voice two octaves too high.

“Was my growling stomach upstaging your monologue?” she said with a grin.

“Stella keeps going on about the artichoke hearts,” I said. “You think we should trust her?”

She smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It could taste like cardboard for all I care. I’m starved.”

I liked that. It was so refreshing to spend time with a woman who actually ate. Unlike the slew of body-shaming phonies Hollywood had to offer.

The line for the artichoke hearts was ridiculously long. I offered to use my clout to cut the wait and grab an order from behind the booth. But she insisted we stand in line like everyone else. I didn't mind at all. Her captivating company made the time pass by in a heartbeat. It was also adorable how much she was determined to pay. I think it was just the novelty of scanning her VIP card. She let out a squeak when it made the bleeping sound. The modern equivalent of cha-ching.

We devoured the artichoke hearts (which were insanely good) and completed a gastronomic tour of the entire carnival, eating our way from booth to booth. Lady went wild with the cornucopia of smells. When Beth didn’t think I was looking, she’d sneak bits of her food to Lady’s grateful mouth. Every so often, she caught me staring at her, and a soft smile would spread across her features. Then she’d do something awesome like shove half a funnel cake in her mouth. I figured it was her filter.

“You’re good at that,” I said, using my thumb to wipe stray powdered sugar from her chin. It was a feather-light touch, but it seared my skin.

She smirked through the doughy sweetness. “I’ve been practicing.”

I was coming undone. I’d never wished so earnestly for the rest of the world to fall away so I could wrap her in my arms and keep her forever.

“So,” she said, licking her fingers. “You didn’t finish telling me how you got Lady.”

Oh, hail poetry. Did she really have to lick her fingers? I was going to hell in a handbasket.

“There’s not much else to the story,” I replied. “My friend helped me find out where the puppy came from and the next day, we were at the breeder’s house.” I smiled at the memory. “There were four more puppies in the litter, but I knew her the moment I saw her.”

“Love at first sight.”

“Yeah.” I gave Lady a scratch on her delicate, little head. “She’s my cocker-a Espanish girl.”

She laughed and tried on her best Italian accent. “Hey, Butch! Haow about a espaghetti especiale heavy on the meat-a-balle?”

“What’s-a matter you?” I bellowed. “Dogs don’t talk.”

“He’s-a talkin’ to me.”

We roared with laughter.

“That’s my favorite scene,” I said, smiling way too much.

“Me too.”

The laughter tapered off as our eyes met in a sobering glow. She got me. This woman who was so determined to bury me, put down her shovel for just a long enough moment to see me. The real me.

A weight of silence descended in a fog of electrons moving through a magnetic field. Charged particles spiraled around us. I felt like I was in the time vortex. If I were a braver man, I would have moved through that quantum space of rotational dynamics and kissed her. It would have been epic. But I didn’t. I let fear grip at my feet, cementing them on my popcorn-littered lawn. Then I reminded myself of the last time I couldn’t control my urges. She’d pulled my hair and bit me.

“Do you want to go into the Maze of Mirrors?” she said, clearing her throat. It was the slap in the face I needed. Get back to reality—the one where I had no chance with her. The one where I would fight tooth and nail just to get to a common ground with her—where we could be civil enough to be something almost like