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

I inched to see it closer. He didn’t take it off the branch, just cradled it in his palm.

“This was the year my parents met,” he said. “My mom bought it at a craft fair, and she continued to buy one bulb a year to put on the tree.”

I could see a few of them from where I stood. Some were elegant or hand-painted masterpieces and others were simple, like one that just looked like the slice of a tree trunk.

“Georgia and I never gave up the tradition. She brought this one from New York this year.”

He tapped at a tin Statue of Liberty with a holly crown and the current year in raised metallic red.

“It’s a tree of memories, I guess.” He smiled as he took in the sight of all those memories. Some happy and others not so much, I supposed.

“I love it,” I said. “We’ve always had a fake tree because the branches make my dad itch because of allergies. And my mom isn’t sentimental enough to decorate it with crafts we made in school. She has to color coordinate. One year, all her decorations were purple. Even the presents were wrapped in purple paper.”

“Ouch.” He laughed.

“Yeah,” I said, remembering. “That was the year my dad mysteriously had a lot of extra work at the office. They’re funny like that in a passive aggressive way.”

“They sound charming.”

“Oh, they are. It’s almost scary how charming they are.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he said with the most devastating smile. It made my heart gallop to know I was the only one in the room and Will Darcy was still smiling.

“Do you have a fake tree in your house?” he asked. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“Me? Nah. I’m almost certain my dad made up the tree allergy, so he wouldn’t have to do the whole tree lot thing.”

“What’s Christmas without the tree lot thing?”

“I know, right?” I agreed enthusiastically. “It’s an integral part of Christmas. Like baking cookies.”

“Or going to those neighborhoods to see the lights,” he added.

“Or singing Christmas carols.”

“Or watching the Charlie Brown Special.”

The energy between us was palatable. Who knew this misanthrope of a man could be so much fun? Misanthropes don’t care for things like Christmas lights or cookies or Snoopy. Maybe his grinch heart grew three sizes, or maybe three ghosts had visited him. Or maybe I was wrong about him all along.

Will held my gaze for a long moment, sharing the same heady air particles and probably having his own epiphany about cookies and lights and Snoopy. Then he bent down, reaching for something under the tree branches and came back up with a box wrapped in embossed red paper with a gold bow.

“Merry Christmas, Elizabeth.”

His words were softly spoken and he held out the box in front of me. I stared at it. What the…?

“You got me a present?” I couldn’t imagine he’d actually thought to get me a present. Maybe it was one of those generic gifts that wealthy people keep under their tree for unexpected guests. Like lotion. Or salt and pepper shakers.

“I didn’t get you anything,” I said.

“It’s not a quid pro quo kind of thing,” he said, urging me to take the box. “It’s a gift. Please. Open it before I feel like a complete idiot.”

I laughed, taking the box from him. “I’m sure you have zero experience feeling like an idiot.”

“Not until I met you, Elizabeth Bennet.”

“What?”

His lips curled into a devilish grin. “Just open it.”

I placed my buzzing clutch at my feet, so I could use both hands to carefully loosen the paper without ripping it. For some reason, I wanted to savor every moment like it was the only gift I would ever have in my entire life. I wanted to make it count.

“Are you one of those never-rip-the-paper kind of people?” he said with annoyance laced in his tone.

“Not until I met you, William Darcy.” I gave him a wink, and I swear he turned into butter. Then I savagely ripped at the paper, crumbled it into a ball and threw it at him.

“A bit of my family tradition,” I said with a laugh. “California snowballs.”

My family wasn’t just boring fake trees and purple decorations. We had fun. Every year, after we unwrapped all the gifts, we’d have a snowball fight with crumpled up wrapping paper. We called them California snowballs.

Will gave me his best you’re on, sister expression and tossed the paper in the tree. When I opened the box, my heart stopped. It was beautiful. Nestled in a cushioned bed of silk was a blown-glass bulb with a hand-painted scene of a pirate and a maiden. The pirate looked very much like the Pirate King, and the maiden wore the same dress as I did in the show. What’s more, was that the face bore a striking resemblance to me. At the bottom of the hand-painted image was the year. He got me a year bulb. Not just any year bulb, but a custom-made art piece he likely ordered weeks before. I didn’t know if I wanted to implode spectacularly or throw my arms around him to rival any wonderfully sappy Hallmark movie. It was too much. Why couldn’t it be soaps or lotions?

At length, when I hadn’t spoken for some time, he asked, “Do you like it? Too weird? I’m not good at painting faces.”

Hang on now. He painted this? Now, I really wanted to implode.

“It’s… it’s… amazing.”

Good one. Here I was standing next to Michelangelo, and all I could come up with was amazing.

He shifted on his feet and shrugged in a school-boy-with-an-art-project sort of way and grinned at the floor.

“Something to remember me by,” he said shyly. “Or not. Whatever.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure I wanted something to remember him by if it meant needing an object to have a piece of him in my life. You don’t need to remember someone if they’re right there next to you. And so I looked up at