Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  “Wait a minute.” Georgia narrowed her eyes on me and put on her Sherlock face. “It’s a girl, isn’t it? You’re twitterpated.”

  “Twitterpated? Who says twitterpated anymore? Have we inadvertently stepped into the Hundred Acre Wood?”

  “Maybe,” she said, stroking her chin. “Or another Disney movie. The one where you’re the Beast.”

  “I’m not the Beast,” I said. “I’m the clock. Sensible. Practical. On time.”

  “I still think you should have been considered for that movie.”

  “Can we change the subject?” I exclaimed impatiently.

  She wiggled her brows and grinned fiercely.

  “Are we circling back to the Christmas present conversation? Because I’ve had my eye on a certain pair of shoes.”

  I was almost tempted to give in to the idea. I didn’t want to think about Beth anymore. And I certainly wasn’t twitterpated. I could simply tell Georgia what I ordered her for Christmas, and the excitement alone would render her speechless. Hint: It wasn’t a pair of shoes.

  She batted her eyes while she waited for my reply. “I could send you the link and act surprised when I open them.”

  Her stare down wore on me. “Or…” She smirked. “You could tell me her name.”

  I hated this game. The mere fact she was my baby sister gave her an unfair advantage. She was ahead of me from the cute factor alone. I was a total wuss.

  “Elizabeth,” I admitted with a sigh. It was impossible to keep secrets from my sister, but I didn’t count on feeling such a relief in saying it aloud. Elizabeth. It was just a name. One word. But it was a weight on my chest that suddenly felt lighter with my sister sharing the load.

  A giant grin formed over Georgia’s face. I swore her teeth occupied her entire head. She wasn’t making this easy for me.

  “Elizabeth,” she repeated, taking the name out for a test drive. “Elizabeth Darcy.”

  “Whoa. Stop right there. Personality clashes. That’s all I admit to.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can’t see your face right now. It’s bright red.”

  I did have an overpowering sensation of heat on my head. A layer of sweat formed on my scalp. I told myself it was only because Georgia interrogated me. I’d perform horribly on a lie detector test. Yes, Officer. It was a crime of passion. Guilty on account of trying to function in society while twitterpated.

  “You want to go out for ice cream?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Does this Elizabeth live in an ice cream shop?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “And what’s the natural habitat of this Elizabeth creature? If I were to go looking for one. Asking for a friend.”

  Where would one go looking for an Elizabeth if one were on the hunt? Not that I was. The theatre company was on Christmas break. I should have been happy about that. I had my sister with me. That was a good thing. Then why was I making her visit miserable by my sour disposition? Maybe if I did go into the wild jungles of Beth’s habitat (AKA Lucas Lodge) I could get her out of my system. I just needed a reminder how much she drove me crazy. A few days away from her snarky scowls and witty repartee, and I was already forgetting that irrational desire to suddenly jump off a cliff. I read somewhere the best way to discourage kids from smoking is to expose them to too much of it, therefore giving them an aversion to it. Maybe that would work for me.

  “We could go to the Scoop Deck and take Lady with us,” I said, trying to deflect her questioning. “She likes the strawberry gelato.”

  “You’re going to get this dog sick.” She bent down and scooped Lady from the rug at her feet. “Poor baby.”

  She was overreacting. Lady was only allowed the drippings. But those big, brown eyes would watch every movement of the ice cream cone with a silent wish it would tumble out of my hands and into her waiting mouth.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, getting up from the couch.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get some ice cream.”

  I threw both pillows at her head, careful not to hit Lady, and padded across the room towards the door. I wasn’t going for ice cream. Not unless they served butter pecan at Lucas Lodge.

  “We’re not done with this conversation, big brother,” Georgia hollered to me as I retreated from the room. “I require answers.”

  So did I, little sister, and that’s what I intended to get.

  I found myself once again at the one place I swore I’d never set foot in again. The parking lot for Lucas Lodge was surprisingly full for its lunch crowd. I knew it was a popular place among Hollywood types--I’d seen the autographed photos on the wall--I just couldn’t imagine why. I scanned the cars in the lot for Beth’s atrocious clunker. A part of me hoped I wouldn’t find it, the other part of me, the sadistic part, was disappointed when I didn’t. What was wrong with me? Pathetic.

  But then, because I was an obsessed idiot, I got out of my car and walked around the parking lot just to, you know, prove to myself I was indeed an obsessed idiot. And that’s when I noticed the beat-up old Volvo hiding behind a delivery truck. She’d parked near the back, away from where the customers parked.

  I must have stood there in the parking lot, staring at Beth’s car for several minutes, deciding what to do next. Go in and face my demons or peel out of there and stuff them in the back of my head where they could torment me the rest of my days? Schrank.

  Oh, fabulous. Now I had Musical Theatre Tourette’s. I had to get that girl out of my headspace. She had set up residency there, and I didn’t like the way she decorated it.

  I was inside the lodge, getting seated by that same odd man before I knew what I was doing.

  “Here you are again, sir,” he groveled. “I knew it wouldn’t be long before you were back. Come in and take the best seat in the house.”

  There was a best seat in the house? The only seat I was concerned with was the one where I could observe Beth surreptitiously. I wasn’t so lucky. I hadn’t been hiding behind my menu for long before I saw her approach my table. She wore the biggest frown I’d ever seen, and her eyes were set on kill mode. She deposited a bottle of Bud Lite in front of me with a clunk. No glass. No cocktail napkin. Then she walked away. That horrendous costume she had to wear swooshed as she retreated, leaving lots to the imagination. The way she swayed her hips made the skirt swing side to side; it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. I guess I’d always had an over-active imagination. Did I have a weird obsession for medieval maidens? Possibly.

  She ignored me for the next hour. I would have been upset with any other waitress in the same situation. But I was relieved. I let the beer sit in front of me untouched. The condensation had long disappeared—it dripped down the bottle and left a soaked ring on the table and now was likely flat and warm. I glanced a few times at my menu whenever Beth was out of sight. Nothing appealed to me. My stomach was in too many knots to eat anything. She approached the bar a few times to chat with her co-worker. The bartender, a twenty-something girl with thick-rimmed glasses and a face full of freckles, would glance my way then whip her head back to Beth. I knew they were talking about me. Probably conspiring to slip poison in my next drink. But the next drink never came. The poison was delivered in the occasional snide glances Beth condescended to give whenever she passed to wait on another table.

  This idea of mine was the most asinine thing to come out of the bowels of my brain. Ever. It was worse than the time I thought it would be fun to skydive. What was I doing there, stalking a woman like a scary clown? I didn’t even have a plan beyond finding her car in the parking lot. I didn’t know what I would say to her if she did decide to pay any attention to me. All my faculties left me as I crossed the threshold to this fluffed-up elks lodge. I’d bet my car they pumped opium through the vents. But Beth worked without much apparent aggravation from the opium or me for that matter. She did her job with swift efficiency, greeting customers with a genuine smile never once bestowed upon myself since I’d known her. She h
ad an effervescent smile that reached her chocolate eyes with a small glint of playfulness. There was an indulgent merriment behind them—like she had a secret too fabulous to share. I wanted to know what it was. I wanted to know everything.

  No! This experiment wasn’t working. It was supposed to remind me how much of a bad idea it was to obsess over Beth. I was perfectly content with my career and my dog. I wanted my life back.

  The faux leather portfolio holding my bill appeared on the table.

  “Anything else?” Beth had her arms crossed, waiting for my reply. The smile had been replaced once again with a scowl. I had to laugh at that scowl. It was strange I found humor in it, but I realized in that moment the sourpuss face she wore was reserved only for me. Everyone else was the recipient of her smiles. But I was the only one to deserve her frowns. You have to admit—that’s pretty funny and ironic. Especially since it dawned on me that my grumpy attitude was likewise reserved for her.

  I reached for the check itemizing my one beer. “Three dollars and fifty cents?”

  Beth ticked her head to the side. “Is there a problem?”

  “How does this place stay in business?” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  I slipped a credit card from my wallet and placed it in the bill holder. But as she reached for it, I stopped her hand with mine and held it there flat against the table for several moments, catching her eyes. Her hand was so tiny and delicate. I could have devoured it in my grip and pulled her 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 my uniform, thank you.”

  His jaw dropped, and he bounced his expression from me to Will and back again. “You work here? I didn’t know that. Will, did you know that?”

  “Yes,” was Will’s bored, laconic reply.

  Fitz rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind Will. He’s in a mood.”

  “A man of few words,” I agreed.

  “Come sit next to me,” he said, sliding over in the booth.

  “I can’t,” I said. “I’m on the clock.”

  “She can’t socialize while working.” Will had his face buried in the menu but chanced a glance in my direction. “She hardly speaks to me at all.”

  “Well, I can’t say I blame her.” Fitz laughed. “So, what’s good here?”

  “Order anything you want,” I said with a grin. “Will has a tab. Should I start you with some oysters Rockefeller? The filet m
ignon is also an excellent choice. It’s grass fed and wrapped in bacon.”

  Will narrowed his eyes and offered me a thin-lipped smirk. Game on.

  Fitz groaned appreciatively. “Mmmm. Sounds delicious. Medium rare for me. Will?”

  “Oh, Will likes his meat bloody,” I said with a devilish smirk. He just nodded stupidly. “I recommend a bottle of Opus One to pair with your meal.”

  Will’s eyes popped out of his head. “That’s an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”

  At least I got some kind of reaction from him.

  “Sorry, but that’s the best we have,” I said. “I hope it’s good enough for you.”

  “What does a place like this get off having eight-hundred-dollar bottles of wine?”

  “Is there a problem, Your Majesty?”

  “The sign outside boasts of the best Taco Wednesday in all the realms. Who does Taco Wednesdays? It doesn’t exactly scream fine dining.”

  “Well, Your Majesty, perhaps if you got off your lofty perch, you’d see how the other half lives.”

  “Oh? Let’s see.” He ran his finger down the appetizer menu. “Does Opus One pair well with the St. James Nachos, or do you recommend the Regency Chili Fries?”

  Actually, the chili fries should have come with a side of Pepto Bismol, but I didn’t tell Will that. Instead, I contented myself with, “Tell me. How’s the weather up there in your castle? Can you see Catalina on a good day?”

  His eyes flashed over my atrocious costume. “Enjoying the view immensely, thanks.”

  “What are you two even talking about?” Fitz cut in. Will and I ceased fire and turned our heads to him like synchronized swimmers. His eyes volleyed between us. “You sound like an old married couple.”