Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  “That’s a nice ride, isn’t it?” I said, sweeping my gaze over the Mustang.

  She wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel. “Sure is.”

  “You ever drive a car like this?”

  A shadow crossed her features. “No. I can’t drive a stick.”

  “Oh. Maybe I can teach you.”

  Her brows shot up. “Right now?”

  “No.” I laughed. “It’s a thousand degrees below zero out there. And I’m not in the mood to go to jail for grand theft auto.”

  “They might have better bathrooms in jail,” she joked.

  I laughed, peeking my head inside. Reeses was sitting comfortably on her lap, his fuzzy ears perking up at the sound of my voice. He didn’t move, though. Usually he was at my feet all the time. But he seemed to like Georgia. She stroked her fingers into the soft fur under his collar. He loved to get scratches there.

  “Pop the trunk,” I suggested. There was a Native American blanket draped along the backseat and I hoped there were more of those in the trunk. Al left the heater on in the shop, but it was nowhere near cozy. Georgia took a minute to find the lever but eventually found it. When I lifted the lid it was like Christmas came early.

  “I found the mother load,” I exclaimed. There was a neat pile of folded Native American blankets in the trunk as well as several pairs of moccasins and various leather goods. All hand made. “Whoever owns this car probably sells this stuff at pow wows. Oh wait. I found his price list. Dang, that’s dirt cheap.”

  I scooped up a few blankets and two pairs of moccasins tossing Georgia the smaller pair as I slid into the passenger side of the car. Georgia ran her hand along the fur lining of the shoe. Reeses sniffed it suspiciously.

  “I can’t just take someone’s stuff,” she said.

  “It’s just for the night. Unless you’d rather freeze.” I kicked off my converse and sank my chilled feet inside the soft, pillowy moccasin. “Ah. This is nice. It’s like a hug for my feet.” I unfolded one of the blankets and covered my legs. It was almost like camping.

  Georgia stared at the moccasins and bit her bottom lip. After a full minute she passed Reeses to me and took off her boots, lifting her legs on the bench seat between us. She wiggled her toes with apparent relief, pointing and flexing them. When she extended her toes, they brushed momentarily on my leg and I smiled inwardly at her red and white striped socks with dancing elves stitched in. The heavy blanket over my lap provided a cushioned barrier, but the gentle pressure of her small feet shot awareness through me just the same.

  When she finally slipped on the moccasins, she sighed.

  I nodded knowingly. “Right?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her face transformed. “They are like feet hugs, aren’t they? I’m buying these.”

  Feet hugs. She looked huggable all over. I shifted my vision elsewhere. Anywhere but on Georgia. I was comfortable and cozy under the blanket, but if I had to sleep on the murder couch to get my mind off the pretty girl a couple feet away, I’d do whatever it took.

  Something shiny caught my eye. The keys were in the ignition. They were really trusting at this place.

  “Should we put on some tunes?” I reached over and switched on the auxiliary power before getting a reply. A song came on I didn’t recognize. Georgia winced. I remembered her shutting off the car radio earlier. What did she have against good ‘ol honky-tonk?

  “What? Don’t you like music?”

  “I like music if it’s done well,” she answered.

  “Okay. Give me an example.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Pachelbel, Mozart, Hayden...Chopin.”

  “Really? I was not expecting that.” I turned the knob on the radio to change the channel. Most of it was static, some commercials, and more static again. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find an after-hours classical station,” I said.

  A smile cracked on her pretty lips and she leaned closer to me to give Reeses a nice scratch. That strawberry shampoo or lotion she used hit my senses. I breathed it in ever so covertly. Didn’t want her to think I was a weirdo or anything.

  “There! Go back,” she chirped. “That’s Elvis.”

  I turned the knob back. Sure enough, it was Blue Christmas.

  “How did you catch that?”

  She smiled smugly. “I have a good ear.”

  “A far cry from Bach or Tchaikovsky,” I mused.

  “It’s Elvis and Christmas. Classical music.”

  We listened for a bit, swaying where we sat. The lyrics reminded me of how alone I’d be this Christmas. The first away from my folks. Then I watched her face. She had a sweetheart back in New York or was he in LA? And she was stuck with me in Nowhere’s Ville, Nebraska with no phone to call him—thanks to me.

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Hmmm?” She was too into the music. “Elvis?”

  “Uh, no.” I shook my head. So silly, this one. “Your boyfriend or...fiancée or whatever.”

  She stopped swaying and stared at me blankly. “Fiancée? I never said I had a fiancée.”

  I gestured to her left hand. “It’s a little obvious with a year’s salary in diamonds on your ring finger.”

  She glanced at the ring then back at me and laughed. She had a sweet laugh. It made my heart swell—which I would have liked if I wasn’t so utterly confused. Did she think I was funny? I wasn’t trying to be funny. I could be so much funnier. At least, she might think I was if she was into dad humor. I was full of corny jokes.

  “It’s fake,” she said on a sigh. “My brother makes me wear it to keep the men away.”

  Fake. The ring was fake?

  “Y-y-you...I mean...uh.” Yes. I could speak English. “It doesn’t look fake. It looks very real.” She was single. The ring was fake. I was in real trouble.

  “Well, my brother gave it to me so it must be fake. He’s so overbearing. It’s annoying.”

  “Billy? He seemed nice over the phone.”

  “Ha! You don’t know him. He thinks jerky guys will see a ring on my finger and leave me alone. But only the nice guys really notice it. Like you.”

  “I...errr...you think I’m a nice guy?” Because that was what I decided to focus on. Dork.

  “I think so.” Her eyes widened. “You’re not a psycho killer or anything are you? I’m an idiot.”

  “No! You’re not an idiot.”

  “I’m naive.”

  “I don’t know about that.” If she was, it was a good look on her. It was refreshing. “There’s nothing wrong with trusting people. It’s a good quality.”

  “Really?”

  “Definitely.” I ticked a brow. “And I’m not a psycho killer. I’ve had so many opportunities already, Clarice.”

  She laughed. “Quid pro quo, doctor.”

  Then a commercial came on and we listened quietly as though it was the most interesting snippet of entertainment in the world. It was a child’s voice inviting the surrounding counties to a living nativity at some church. He played the drummer boy apparently. That made Georgia smile. Then she turned her gaze back to me.

  “So what about you?”

  “Me?”

  She giggled. “Yeah. Any girlfriend or...fiancée?

  Ha. Hardly.

  “Uh, no thank you.”

  “No thank you? Why?”

  “No reason. I’m just super busy, that’s all.”

  She snorted. “I don’t buy it. Cute guy like you. There’s a story in there somewhere.”

  “Perhaps.” I grinned. It was a goofy grin. The kind that made me grateful to have had braces. Otherwise it would have been a creepy grin.

  Her ring was fake. I was still stuck on that. And she thought I was cute.

  The commercials ended and the music resumed with Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. Georgia bounced in her seat.

  “This is such a bop.” She turned up the volume. Loud. “Come on.”

  She opened her door.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

 
“Just come on. Let’s dance.” She leaped out of the car and danced her way to an open space of the garage. Reeses jumped out after her and hopped on his hind legs to join in, wagging his tail. He was a pretty awesome dog. He could do almost any trick. And he loved to dance.

  Georgia rocked out, so carefree and sparkling. She was radiant—the way she smiled at Reeses, mirroring his movements. The way she sang along and flung her hair around. There was something magnetic about her, how the air crackled around her. And I was just shards of metal unable to resist the pull.

  I threw off the blanket from my lap and sprang into action. Muscle memory took over as I wrapped my hand around Georgia’s small fingers, pulling her in to me. It was a simple Lindy Hop sequence. One, two, rock step, one, two, rock step. She fell right into rhythm with me. Her delicate hand landed on my shoulder, and I grazed my free hand around her waist.

  Her eyes shimmered with surprise—delighted I knew how to swing dance. Most guys didn’t bother learning to dance at all. But my mom and dad were big in the swing-dancing scene, taking me and my sister along with them to competitions—and now it was ingrained in me. I twirled Georgia a few times, leading her out then bringing her back with a gentle tug. She followed well. A lot of ladies would try to lead or were too stiff. But Georgia seemed to respond to the light pressure of my hands, spinning out, rocking back, and then again into my arms. Her entire face was a smile—heck—her whole body was. I couldn’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

  The saxophone wailed the upbeat musical interlude and we were really flying by now. That’s when I decided to go for an aerial. She seemed into it. I gave her the signal—an eyebrow wag along with a pronounced nod. Any swing dancer would recognize the nod. The eyebrow thing was just something I added myself. She raised her brows in response. She was ready.

  I decided on the Cherry Drop Dip—one of my favorites. I did the pivot thing to start us off; the classic move to signal my partner into position. All she had to do was lock her arm and keep her core solid. My right leg swung around, guiding her behind me. She was right there, so responsive. So I went for it. I pumped my hip, lifting her off the floor. She was up with a little squeal. So cute. Adrenaline shot through me and maybe I got a little too enthusiastic. Or maybe she wasn’t expecting me to flip her around. I wasn’t really sure what happened in those three seconds when I bumped Georgia off my right hip and swung her around over my left leg. Her legs flailed up and bounced off my back. Her arms wiggled under my hold. And my leg wobbled—the leg supporting Georgia’s weight. She teetered, poised to fall, and although the floor wasn’t greasy in that area of the auto shop, it couldn’t have been all that clean. So I abandoned all form and grabbed her. I wasn’t about that flashy dance move at this point. My only thought was not to let her fall—again. At least this time we weren’t on icy ground.

  I pulled her into me, straightening our bodies into an upright position. Disaster averted. And she was so close. Our noses almost touching. Her eyes, huge pools of maple syrup shined at me, blinking. I could make out every lash—long, feathery fringe brushing against her brows as she gazed at me.

  What was that expression? Surprise? Whimsy? Desire?

  I zeroed in on her lips. They were parted ever so slightly. And dang! This girl had kissable lips. I could get lost in the softness of them. I could nuzzle right in there and wrap myself up for a long winter’s nap.

  Not that there would be any napping involved.

  Then she smiled softly and I got spooked or something because I jumped back. Reeses yelped. Did I step on his paw? I stumbled to right myself, tripping over the fluffy moccasins on my feet. Reeses leapt into Georgia’s arms to avoid my backward trajectory. I did that thing with my arms to find my balance, but that only made things worse when my body hit a work shelf. The thing was made of a flimsy aluminum. Really, it was a wonder it could hold anything at all because as I fell to the floor, grasping for anything to break my fall, the whole shelving unit came crashing down on me. And all the mechanicky stuff on the shelves came tumbling down with it.

  8

  Georgia

  The more time I spent with this Wyatt guy, the more I was convinced he was Charlie Brown in the flesh. I’d never met anyone with worse luck. And what a klutz! He did dance well, though. That was nice. But outside of doing the boogie woogie, he was a walking disaster.

  “Are you all right?” I went to reach for him just as a box of washers fell on his head.

  “Ow.” He winced, but at least didn’t seem too damaged. Reeses leapt from my arms to comfort him. “Not now, doggie.”

  Wyatt peeled himself off the floor and assessed the mess. “This will be fun to clean up.”

  “I’ll help you,” I offered.

  He gave me a sheepish grin rubbing his head. “Actually, could you check if there’s an ice pack somewhere?”

  “Ice pack. Got it.”

  I hurried to the office where I found the first aid kit. Just Band-Aids and a half-used tube of Neosporin. Then I looked in the freezer. There were plenty of Hungry Man dinners but no ice pack.

  “Welp. I guess this will have to do.”

  I grabbed the frozen dinner and snagged a couple of ginger ales from the fridge. This was a well-stocked refrigerator. A package of Italian salami and cheese taunted me. I took that, too.

  I got back to the garage to find Wyatt and Reeses in the Mustang, snug under one of the blankets. I slipped in to join them.

  “This is all I could find,” I said, handing him the frozen dinner. He accepted it with a smile and placed it on his head.

  “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. At least it wasn’t an audience of hundreds. Here.” I handed him a ginger ale.

  “Thanks.” He rested the can on the other side of his head.

  “That’s for drinking.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have a free hand.” He winked. “Salisbury steak dinner and a soda. I’m all set.”

  “Well when you’re done heating it up with your head I’ll pop it in the microwave for you,” I joked.

  He chuckled. I tore open the salami and cheese pack and we recounted his ridiculous fall while we nibbled. I fed him his first few bites before he abandoned his makeshift ice pack so he could use his hands.

  I shut off the radio to save the car’s battery and we talked for a long time about Christmas traditions. He told me about making minced meat empanadas with his mom (well, less making them and more eating them) and I told him about our California snowball fights which were really just an excuse to throw crumpled up wrapping paper at each other.

  We finished our snack and moved on to dessert. Candy canes and some cookies Wyatt had in his backpack. We gobbled those up. Then he insisted I at least text my brother to give him peace of mind. Wyatt already had Will’s number saved as ‘Billy’ in his phone’s contacts. So I sent a quick text while Wyatt took Reeses out and then I set the phone to silent.

  They weren’t gone long. Even Reeses was done with the cold.

  “Brrr.” Wyatt stretched his feet on the dash. “You know what sounds really good right now?”

  “An antacid?” I was beginning to regret all that salami.

  “Nope. A warm, cozy fire and a mug of hot cocoa.”

  Ah, yeah. That did sound nice. I became more aware of the chill inside the garage and tucked my blanket under my chin. Even with the central heat on, the place lacked the insulation to keep it in.

  “Mmmm. That’ll be something to look forward to when we get to California.”

  He laughed. “I doubt the amenities are that snug at the Motel 9.”

  “Oh. I guess not.”

  I was on the verge of inviting him to come visit while in Los Angeles but then I thought better of it. My brother guarded his privacy.

  Instead I asked, “What did you say you’re doing in L.A. on Christmas? Some top secret news story?”

  He hesitated. “Yeeeah.”

  “Is it political?”

  “Can’t say.”
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  “Papal visit?”

  He laughed. “No. Kinda the opposite.”

  “Hmmm.” I scrunched my brows together. What could it be?

  “Okay. I can tell you this.”

  I perked up and Reeses took the opportunity to nuzzle under my arm.

  “All I can say is that it’s an exclusive. There’s a good chance the story hasn’t leaked. If I get this, I hold all the cards. It’s a good payday.”

  “So if it’s such a secret story, how did you learn about it?”

  “I know a guy.”

  I snorted. “Riiiight.”

  “Whatever.” Wyatt shrugged and reached in his bag for more snacks. “Snickers?”

  “No thanks.” My tummy couldn’t handle any more junk food.

  Wyatt noshed on his candy bar. Not a care in the world.

  “What about you?” he asked between bites.

  “Me? I’m just going home for Christmas. That’s all. Nothing exciting. No top secret missions or anything.” Did I sound too obvious? I probably did.

  “No, I mean. What do you do? Back in New York?” He popped the rest of the candy bar into his mouth. It was more than half. He watched me, waiting for my reply while laboring to chew the huge bite of peanuts, chocolate and nougat.

  My brother liked to warn me not to give people too much information. Part of it was a little excessive even for a celebrity. But part of it was founded in the very real fear someone might try to take advantage of me again. So I went with vague.

  “I’m a student.”

  I didn’t say I studied classical piano at Juilliard, or that just the night before I played a private concert for the Governor of New York and several senators. That was why I had to cut my trip so close to Christmas.