Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  “She’s really into matchmaking.” That was a good enough answer for the likes of him.

  “Matchmaking?”

  Yeah, like trying to find a girl to put up with Elton.

  “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

  He took a step back (thank goodness) and gave me the most serious look he could muster and swayed a little.

  “You two aren’t… you know.” He either couldn’t find the right word or lost his train of thought altogether. I helped him along.

  “Dating?”

  “I was going to say f—something else, but yeah,” he slurred.

  Classy.

  The question came up every now and then in the press because Emma and I were close. But, no. We most certainly weren’t dating.

  “We’re friends,” I replied. Just friends.

  “Ahhh. The other F word.” He shook his head in a type of bro-code understanding. “I know what you mean.”

  Did he? Did he really?

  He hugged me, rubbing my back. That ice bucket was getting more and more appealing.

  Lucky for him, somebody hollered behind me, “Let’s do it!”

  “Yeah!”

  The whole lot of guys were shouting now and riling each other up. One of them was throwing the ice chests and chairs in the back of the truck. Somebody slung Randall’s arm over his shoulders, and they hobbled away together.

  “You guys coming?” The tall one, the best man maybe, waved at Elton and me to follow them. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked dumbly.

  “To crash the girl party. Come on.”

  Elton didn’t hesitate a nanosecond. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, man.”

  This wasn’t a good idea. I had better leave. My car was right there, just beyond the chain. Then it occurred to me I left the key with the valet. I’d have to walk back to the hotel anyway. I followed them, trailing a few feet behind so they wouldn’t notice when I slipped away. But something happened when we reached the porte-cochère. I just kept walking. My feet didn’t stop at the valet or the atrium or the lobby either. They were rooted in place as we ascended the elevator. They carried me down the hall on autopilot and right up to the bridal suite door, which the groomsmen pounded on with a command to open up. I could hear muffled screaming and giggles from the other side of the door. More pounding and demands to open up. Cries of ‘Go away’ and ‘No boys allowed’ came back from inside the suite. I nervously looked down the corridor to see if any of the neighbouring visitors might have poked their heads out to complain.

  “We should go now,” I pleaded.

  They didn’t listen to me. Elton and the tall guy each took one of my arms to keep me from breaking up our merry band. I think one of them said, “We need you, man. We’re in the end zone. Fourth and goal.”

  Ah, good ole American football analogy. Come to think of it, that was probably the other guy, not Elton, but my ears were ringing. Who knew if I imagined it?

  Then Randall slid down the length of the door and plopped onto the carpet. “Annie bear. It’s me. I looooove you.”

  Oh, brother.

  A soft voice called from the other side, “Randall?”

  “Let me in, baby. I need to see you.”

  Another female voice cried out, “Don’t let him in. It’s bad luck.”

  There was some shuffling and maybe something got knocked over, followed by peals of laughter, then the deadbolt clicked, and Annie’s shining face appeared, beaming at Randall on the floor.

  Somehow, we all piled inside—the bridal suite was a freaky pink explosion. How the girls managed to transform a plain hotel room into a princess war zone was a mystery to me. Gauzy pink streamers hung from the chandelier to the bed, twinkle lights draped everywhere, and a broken unicorn piñata dangled in the corner. Even the food was pink: fairy floss, cupcakes, pink champagne… all healthy stuff. Some of the guys flocked to the snacks leaving Randall in the arms of his bride while the other guys teased the ladies. They all wore monogrammed pink robes. Silk pink robes.

  This was a bad, bad idea. I’d seen this scene play out in countless wedding comedy films. It never ended well. I instinctively sought out Emma. She sat by the window nursing her head with an ice pack. What kind of wild party was this? I flew to her.

  “Emma, what happened to your head?”

  “Hi, Jax. What took you so long?”

  “I got held up fighting with myself.”

  She grinned sweetly. “Oh. Who won?”

  “The weaker guy.”

  “He’s my favourite.”

  “Well, here he is. What happened to you?”

  “I found myself at the wrong end of a piñata stick.” She bent her head to show me the injured spot. No bump, so that was good.

  “Hmmm. Did any sweets fall out of your pretty head?”

  “No. Just a few colourful words.”

  I kissed her sore head and held the ice pack for her. “Sounds delicious. Did you save me some?”

  “I have a jar full of them at home with your name on it.”

  “Can’t wait.” I glanced around the room, trying to make sense of the carnage. “Are you girls just sleeping on the floor… using the Twister mat for a blanket?”

  That earned me a small laugh.

  “I’ve got a room down the hall. The other girls have doubles, but I’m by myself, so…”

  There was a tinge of sadness in her expression I’d not seen before. It was probably just the head pain. I couldn’t leave her like this—not until I knew she’d be okay. I doubted there was a chance of concussion, but still…

  “I’ll bet you’ve got all the best cable channels,” I said.

  “I guess.”

  “How about we grab some of that pink popcorn and go watch some telly?”

  She looked toward the other women throwing cake frosting at the guys.

  “Unless you’d rather stay and clean…”

  She shot up on her feet. “Nope. They’ll never notice I’m gone.”

  She was out the door so fast I almost missed it.

  We snuck down the hall to her room, hoping nobody (namely Elton) would follow us. She was wearing one of those pink robes the other bridesmaids had. And, cripes, where were her shoes?

  Get her to her room, Knightly. Make sure she’s okay. And get the heck out.

  “What movie do you want to see?” she asked innocently as she slid the key card. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I followed her in.

  “Anything.”

  She flicked on the lights, opened her suitcase, and untied the robe, letting it fall into a silky puddle on the floor.

  Make sure she’s okay. Get the heck out.

  The discarded robe revealed a pair of cotton pyjama shorts with a banana pattern and a matching tank top. Her hair was a proper mess, and she wore no makeup. My mouth went completely dry.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Make sure she’s okay… and…

  “Huh?”

  She pushed her arms through the sleeves of an oversized sweatshirt and slugged it on over her head, messing up her hair even more.

  “I’m getting room service.” She picked up a menu from the nightstand. “The burgers look amazing.”

  Forget burgers. Emma looked amazing.

  “I can’t stay long, actually.” I reached inside my pocket and fiddled with the valet ticket. Escape was so close.

  “You say that all the time, and then you wind up staying, and I have to share my chips.” She picked up the phone. “I’m getting you something.”

  My stomach rumbled. I’d taken one bite out of that sausage Randall dropped in the barbecue ashes and rendered it inedible. As Emma ordered the burgers, I realized I hadn’t eaten since brekkie. I sat on the foot of the bed and scrolled through the channels, half-listening to Emma’s animated vocal expressions as she asked for extra pickles and onion strings. Two more things to add to my list of things Emma loved.

  We decided on a classic black and
white movie and piled the pillows on the floor to get comfortable. I thought that would be a safer alternative to sitting on the bed. It wasn’t. Every so often, Emma decided the pillows needed more fluffing, so she wiggled until she was cosier. Then she was cold, so she wedged her frigid hands into my coat. Finally, she wanted all the blankets taken down from the bed—so I spread them out for her. I got a quick peck on the cheek for the gesture, and then she snuggled under my arm—too close to my battering heart.

  “Thanks, Jax. I feel better now.”

  That made one of us.

  “Emma…”

  I needed to tell her. It was better she knew the truth no matter how much she might hate me. But she was so sweet, cuddling in the folds of my pea coat (which I wisely kept on). I didn’t want to bring up her mum when she’d clearly had a bad night. It could wait for another day.

  She lifted her shining eyes to me with a silent question. So trusting. So unaffected.

  At length, I asked, “Did you have a nice time today? Other than becoming a human piñata?”

  She sighed, burrowing her head deeper into my chest.

  “I don’t think Annie’s friends like me. I’m a Star Belly Sneetch.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “They just don’t really talk to me, that’s all. I feel…”

  “Like you don’t belong?”

  I felt her shrug her shoulder against my side. “I’m just being daft.”

  “No.” I shifted away from her just enough to turn my body to face her, caressing her chin with my thumb. “You’re not daft. Well… that buddy movie you made last year was half-baked, but you’re not daft.”

  “I just felt like Annie was torn between paying attention to them or me, and it shouldn’t be like that. I was like an outsider.”

  I studied her sad face and had the passing thought that maybe I’d sheltered her too much. I’d built a bubble wrap fortress around her. That all my affection—however well meant—was suffocating her.

  “You forget how famous you are, Emma. I know you don’t like to see it that way, but you are. And that intimidates people. It’s not anybody’s fault. It’s just the way it is.”

  She crinkled her brows as she considered my opinion. I never could understand how she did it. All the fame and lights and paparazzi, and it never went to her head. She was just Emma. A funny, clever, sensitive, artistic, and intelligent English Rose. Too bad other people didn’t see her that way.

  “Thanks for being here.” She held my gaze, letting her features darken with another thought. “What if I’d never ever met you?”

  “You did. Don’t think of such silly things.” My fingers wrapped around a strand of her hair, twirling it, taming it.

  “I’m glad Weak Jaxson won,” she said on a sigh.

  My heart tugged in response. The jury was still out on that as far as I was concerned. Weak Jaxson didn’t seem to have any control whatsoever. Heat rose on her features, giving her an incandescent glow, and her gaze turned glassy and heavy.

  “You’re not watching the movie,” I whispered.

  She searched my features. “Neither are you.”

  “Maybe I’m directing one.”

  “Oh?” She swallowed the word, breathing shallow. “Where would the camera be?”

  “Right over here.” I didn’t bother pointing. She wasn’t looking anyway.

  “And what are my lines?” she said, her breathy tone barely audible.

  “You don’t have any lines.”

  A hint of something crossed her features. Fear? Shyness? Her irises grew wide and round with expectancy.

  “Are you going to call action, Mr Knightly?”

  “I need to frame the shot. Do you think I have a fair shot?”

  She fisted the collar of my coat, and her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips parted slightly, just a sweet breath away. She smelled so good, like caramelized sugar and vanilla. Even in the dim light, I could make out the warmth of her bright face, those soft lips aching for contact, swollen with need.

  Somewhere, buried beneath layers of longing, Smart Jaxson cried out, trying to reason his way back into the race. We’re not doing this. Not again. Emma’s affectionate touches and gentle displays of intimacy played me like a tightly wound violin, ready to fray the bowstrings. The memory of the celebratory kiss she’d given me months ago still weighed on me. How she’d smiled and embraced me. How her lips fell onto mine instinctively, freely, naturally. How familiar and homey it had been. Hot, yes. But also, artless and perfect. Then she’d laughed it off, pretending it was just the kind of thing we did sometimes. The innocent kiss of a friend. But she didn’t feel anything like a friend to me right now. And I hated myself for that thought.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  The rap at the door barely registered. It took a moment for Emma to acknowledge the sound. She just looked at me for several moments, not moving.

  Another knock. Room service was fast in this hotel.

  “The food is here,” I said softly, tracing her jawline with my fingertips.

  She nodded and took in a quick breath. Then she padded across the room and cracked the door, keeping the chain in place. Good girl. But when she didn’t open up for our dinner, alarms set off in my head. She lazily leaned on the threshold and tucked her hair back, smiling politely. It was a friend, then. Not a friend like me, I hoped. Listening intently, I made out the voice of a man. Randall? No. Elton. Still, she didn’t move the chain.

  “I’m fine,” she said in soft tones. “Thanks for checking.”

  My chest constricted as I watched her nod and tell him good night. I had the sudden urge to challenge him to a duel. Emma was all dishevelled from burrowing into me, her hair a right mess. It made me feel possessive and macho.

  Closing the door, she let out a deep sigh and leaned flat against it. Her head tossed back, and her fingers flexed beside her body, palming the door. She was flush all over—chest rising and falling with each quivering breath. She caught my gaze on her. Now, where were we?

  “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr Knightly,” she said, eyes ablaze.

  Bloody hell. She was ruining me. This was the part of the movie where the hero would go to her in swift strides, pressing her firmly against the wall and claiming her forever and ever. In my movies, the scene would fade to black. I wasn’t interested in making gratuitous films.

  She bit her bottom lip, taunting me—willing me to follow through. And I was considering it because I was a rat bag. What was wrong with me? Who was I? If any other man looked at Emma the way I was looking at her right now, I’d break his face. What gave me the right to do so? I was asked to shelter her. Protect her. To keep her safe from creeps like me. What was her mum thinking entrusting me to the task? Even I didn’t trust me. That was why I’d suggested she hang out with females—I knew my limitations and couldn’t allow myself to hurt her.

  Reluctantly and painfully, I tore my gaze away from her, bending over to gather the blankets and pillows off the floor. Looking at the tangled mess of linen, I felt so dirty—as though I was guilty of something. Shame washed over me in sobering waves. Oh, my dear Emma. What had I done? I needed to jump in the ocean or go home and pour ice down my shirt. Then I’d have to climb some Tibetan mountain and make restitution. If I’d touched her, I’d have thrown myself into a volcano or something.

  “What are you doing?” she asked tenderly.

  “I… just remembered the valet.” I looked at my watch for effect, not really seeing it. “I better head out before I’m stuck here.”

  Poor choice of words. I didn’t feel stuck. If anything, the idea of leaving her alone made me physically ill. I busied myself with putting the bed back to rights to avoid the disappointment in her eyes. Adjusting the sheets and fluffing the pillows wasn’t helping with my self-reproach.

  “What about dinner?”

  I straightened my coat, purposefully buttoning it up, and met her at the door.

  “You can have my chips.” Then I smoothed do
wn her unruly hair and kissed the creases between her brows.

  “Turn that frown upside down, babe.”

  She didn’t speak or sigh or cry as I unlatched the chain, silently bidding her to lock it after me. When I was alone in the stuffy hallway, after the door clicked behind me, I heard Emma replace the chain. Good girl. Bad Jaxson.

  15

  Be More Chill

  Emma

  I cried. I cried so much it wasn’t even a little bit cute—not that crying was ever considered cute. To own the truth, I always cried at weddings. And awards ceremonies. And Pixar movies.

  But something decidedly more intense triggered in my internal sprinkler system when Annie started down the aisle. She was a rainbow-haired tattooed goddess in a lacy champagne dress. So gorgeous. I dutifully took my place in front of the congregation like an obliging bridesmaid and silently congratulated myself for making this match. I steeled my emotions, pep-talking myself to get through this day without streaking my mascara, but there it was— the familiar tickle in my nose.

  Not going to cry. Not going to cry.

  Even more pathetic was that Annie’s mum wasn’t crying. Only me. I scanned the wedding guests rising to their feet to honour the bride in procession to her waiting groom. All happy faces and admiring smiles. And there was Jaxson, sitting a few rows back on the groom’s side of the room. But he wasn’t looking at Annie. His gaze was fixedly planted on me and my ridiculous display of girlish sentimentality—disapproval etched on his face. Silly Emma. A proper actress could control her tears. I was a fraud.

  I hadn’t started the day in the best way. I had the smallest breakfast in the history of breakfasts, was still wallowing in my piñata misery, and the mortification of playing the awkward temptress with Jaxson ran through my memory like a midnight B-movie. I practically threw myself at him. I’m ready for my close-up Mr Knightly. Ugh! How could I have been so daft? It was as though all the little hits on my pride were fuelling my present residency of Waterworks Town.

  And if losing my cool in front of two hundred strangers wasn’t bad enough, Jaxson thought it would be fun to add to the ever-growing list of things Emma Woods does to scare children and the elderly by making me laugh. His elongated face and exaggerated expressions layered giggles on top of tears as he held my attention. He scratched his head and patted down his pockets like he was searching for something. This alone was a marvel to watch and entertainingly so. Eyebrows raised comedically high, he seemed to find what he was looking for in his left breast pocket and reached inside. His fingers tugged at the object, pulling and pulling endlessly—a never-ending string of… something invisible. His lips puckered in a whistling fashion like a mute Steamboat Willie while he mimed the gesture of retrieving the longest handkerchief on earth from his suit pocket. He milked it, too—periodically wiping his forehead of sweat from the manual labour of the task.