Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

by Gigi Blume

  I’d known Jorge Wickham for years and still couldn’t read between his devilish lines. He took advantage of my trust. How could I possibly think I knew anything about Dog Man?

  “Georgia.” Wyatt’s voice was shaky. Tentative. I still didn’t look up. “I...um.” He faltered and I saw him scratch his day-old stubble in my peripheral vision. I’d noticed his scruff earlier and his little habit of running his hand over it. It kinda made my body react in a delightfully weird way.

  “It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I looked up then, fixing my gaze on the sheen of his whiskers.

  “Feels like we’ve known each other for a lot longer, though. Right?”

  “Lots has happened,” I agreed, ripping off a piece of his pancake. That really was delicious jam.

  “So true.” The slightest hint of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But despite the circumstances, I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

  “Me too.”

  His whole face brightened and his grin widened, those dazzlingly white teeth almost blinding. ”When we get to LA, do you think...maybe...”

  He was cut off by the loud ping of his phone. He had it on the table next to his plate and it lit up with a text message.

  “Is that my brother?”

  He swept up the phone and typed a quick reply under the table before tossing it on the seat.

  “Uh, no. Just my contact in LA.”

  “Oh. Is it about your ‘top secret’ news story?” I teased him with air quotes.

  “Yeah.” His expression darkened with just a flash, then he cleared his throat and took a sip of water.

  “What were you saying before? About when we get to LA?”

  He bit his bottom lip; chewing on whatever words he was about to say. For the first time, he looked right into my soul and reached across the table, wrapping his fingers around my hand. Shivers bolted up my arm and sped to my chest. I felt all glowy.

  Then, two deafening blows cracked in my ears, shaking right through me. Wyatt felt it too because he cringed at the sound and scrunched his shoulders.

  “What the—“

  This was followed by some screams and movement at the other side of the restaurant. A strung-up looking guy climbed on top of a table with a gun in his hand. Another guy had a gun on the restaurant manager.

  “This is a robbery.” Table robber guy waved his gun around. People gasped and ducked. “Hands up where I can see them.”

  Some of the diner patrons were too shocked to respond, so he repeated himself, screaming at the top of his lungs. “I SAID, HANDS UP.”

  I immediately shot my arms in the air. Wyatt tossed his head around. Both robbers were out of earshot so he whispered. “Psst. Your ring.”

  “What?” I whispered back.

  “Take your ring off.”

  “Why? It’s fake.”

  “They don’t know that. You want your finger cut off?”

  Somehow I doubted the robbers would produce a machete out of their back pockets, but I took the ring off anyway, just in case. I slipped it in the seat cushions. Shostakovich’s piano concerto no 2 would be a little tricky to play with a missing ring finger.

  Most of the victims were silent. One lady was sobbing. The robbers barked some orders for the kitchen staff to come out and lie on the floor. They wanted anyone not in a booth to lie on the floor. Classic robbery protocol.

  “Wallets and purses out, people. Put them on the table and no one gets hurt.” The guy on the table jumped down, swiping up everything in sight.

  The other guy had the manager empty the cash register. “Hurry up, old man.”

  Wyatt shifted in his seat, like he was winding up to do something heroic. I flashed him a warning look.

  Don’t even think about it.

  He leaned over to tuck Reeses’ carrier under the table, and in the process, his cell phone slipped off the seat onto the floor with a clank.

  “What’s going on over there?” The table guy came over. “You hidin’ somethin’”?

  He pointed the gun at Wyatt. Wyatt didn’t flinch. Was he used to guns in his face or was he just stupid? I thought I might hyperventilate.

  “Where’s your wallet, tough guy?” The veins in the robber’s neck bulged out.

  “In my back pocket.” Wyatt was cool. Samuel L. Jackson cool. But really not cool at all, if that makes sense.

  “Well, hand it over.”

  Oh my gosh. Today was not a good day to die. My brother would kill me all over again.

  Wyatt half-laughed. “Seriously? A scene out of Pulp Fiction? Not very creative of you.”

  “Who cares about creativity at a time like this?” I cried. “Give him your wallet.”

  “Listen to your lady, dimwit.”

  “Don’t call me a dimwit,” Wyatt said through clenched teeth.

  “For goodness sakes, Wyatt. Give it to him. It’s just money.”

  He flashed me a hard stare. “Says you.”

  Whoa.

  Table robber didn’t know what to do. The other guy was screaming at him to just shoot already. A dining patron cried out to Wyatt not to be an idiot. Actually, idiot wasn’t the word he used. The sobbing lady was wailing for mercy. Reeses barked from under the table.

  “Is that a dog? You got a dog under there?” The guy ducked to look, still pointing his gun at Wyatt. Reeses growled.

  Wyatt glared coldly. “Yeah. Don’t make me put him in kill mode.”

  Oh my heavens. We were dead for sure.

  The robber laughed. His friend laughed. I wanted to disappear. Plus, my arms were getting tired.

  In a flash, the robber fisted Wyatt’s shirt, pulled him from the booth, punching him right on the jaw. The other guy cursed and shouted they should hurry up and get out. The sobbing lady screamed. Everyone else gasped. Chaos ensued.

  And Wyatt blacked out.

  11

  Wyatt

  They took everything. Our luggage, my phone, my wallet. Everything except Reeses, and Georgia’s fake diamond ring. I came to with a bag of ice on my face. The first thing I saw was Georgia’s pointed scowl. A few other people stood over me to make sure I wasn’t dead. Perhaps dissatisfied I wasn’t, they walked off, shaking their heads.

  Georgia frowned and crossed her arms. “Oh good. Now I can tell you off.”

  I rubbed my tender jaw. This should be fun.

  “Reeses. Where’s Reeses?”

  “He’s in the kitchen getting spoiled.”

  I peeled myself off the floor and sat on the edge of the booth. “Did the thieves get away?”

  She waved her arms at the carnage of overturned tables and chairs. The gumball machine was a pile of broken glass and scattered gumballs on the floor. The pastry display was a sad, squishy mess.

  “If you mean did the robbers get so angry because of you they wrecked the place and took all our stuff? Then yeah.”

  “Because of me? You’re not blaming this on me.”

  She moved her hands to her hips. The Wonder Woman pose. My sisters used it on me. Worked every time. “What is wrong with you? Do you have a death wish?”

  “No.”

  “Then why? Whyyyy did you insult the guy who was aiming a gun at your face?”

  “Because he was ridiculous.”

  Her jaw hung open as she attempted to form words. Instead, grunts came out of her throat that sounded something like Kuh. It was still adorable coming from her. Dangit.

  “It wasn’t a real gun.”

  “Oh? And how do you know that?” she stuttered. “Are you a gun expert?”

  “I know a paintball gun when I see one.”

  It took a moment for understanding to dawn on her face. She blinked a few times then came back with, “You still could have gotten hurt. It was pointed at your head.”

  “I was willing to take my chances.”

  “For a few bucks?” she cried. “Those guys were dangerous. They could have bludgeoned you.”

  “But t
hey didn’t.”

  “Says the guy who got knocked out in one punch.”

  “It was a fierce uppercut.” I moved my jaw around. No missing teeth as far as I could tell.

  “You are impossible. Seriously, I can barely tolerate you right now. In fact, I wish I’d never laid eyes on you. I envy people who haven’t met you.”

  Her words punched a hole in my gut. It was more painful than the fist to my jaw.

  “I couldn’t let those simpletons take our luggage. Our traveling money.”

  “Who’s the simpleton? You are. You’re worse than a simpleton. You’re a moron. I don’t care about the stuff. It’s nothing. It’s not worth what you did.”

  “That’s easy for a poor little rich girl to say. Why don’t you call your daddy and ask for more money?”

  That stopped her right there. But the shadow that fell over her face and the sleazy feeling on my skin made me wish I could take it back immediately. Dimples formed on her chin. Her nostrils flared. Her fists formed into tight balls, knuckles white with fury.

  An apology was on the tip of my tongue but something stopped me from speaking. Perhaps it was the sting of her insults.

  She took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, looking down on me with such disdain, I was certain I’d turned into slime on toast. With a swift sweep of her hand, she plucked up the gooseberry jam and stormed off.

  I slunk in the booth, burying my face in my hands. That’s when I noticed my empty plate.

  “Those blockheads ate my pancakes.”

  I shrugged on my coat and went to check on Reeses. He was where Georgia said he was—in the kitchen. The cooks had given him a plate of ribs. He was so happy he didn’t even acknowledge me when I walked in. The cooks served me up some dirty stares, though. At least they didn’t kick me out.

  One of them nodded towards the rear exit with a pointed look. I followed his gaze and pushed through the flimsy door. There was Georgia outside in the freezing air, sitting on a milk crate. Fuming. She was so hot with rage; the atmosphere around her was its own weather system. But her eyes, when they landed on me were cold as ice.

  “Do you want to cash in on that face slap?” I said with a sorry attempt at humor.

  “Go away.”

  “You’re right. I am a moron.”

  She half-laughed, not in a good way.

  I went on. “Some people just need a high five. In the face. With a chair.”

  That at least earned me an eye roll.

  “I’m a simpleton. I’m the mayor of Simpleton. And I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t ready to speak. There was still a lot of anger in the air. But she breathed a heavy sigh, staring at the ground thoughtfully. Most likely agreeing with me.

  I found another milk crate and set myself down next to her. It was confession time. Ever since I’d moved to New York I painted myself up as a clown. It was a facade mostly to fool myself. A way to bury the ever-present stress of a starving artist. A way to avoid the disheartening fear of failure. That maybe if I ignored the rejections, I might be able to make it one day. And make my parents proud.

  My thoughts turned to the gig in LA. I knew it was a risk—packing all my worldly possessions in a suitcase to chase a Hollywood gossip story. That’s not what I was about. I had dreams of selling a spec script. Not selling my soul to a click farm. But my friend assured me the whole thing was super low profile. No press. And I was desperate for the cash.

  I laced my fingers together and rested my elbows on my knees. Contrite as could be. “It was stupid of me to stand up to the robbers like that.”

  “Ya think?”

  Sharp. Sarcastic. Biting. I’d take that over the silent treatment.

  “That was everything I owned. The stuff they took. It’s funny how feral you can get when you’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  She turned her head to me a tiny bit. “What do you mean, everything you owned?”

  I flipped up my palms. “It’s just how it sounds. My roommate got a cat. Hated dogs. His apartment. His rules. My loss. So I packed up, emptied my bank account, and got on a plane.” I made an airplane gesture with my hand to illustrate.

  Georgia considered my words for a moment before saying, “You mean those bags...that was all your stuff in the world?”

  I nodded. “I mean, I left some things behind at my parent’s house. A beat-up guitar I play poorly. My old baseball cards. A bowling ball.”

  She was silent for some time, I supposed trying to wrap her brain around my plight. My circumstances must have sounded extreme. So far removed from her world. But I wasn’t trying to be dramatic. I just wanted her to understand.

  “So that’s why I put up a fight. I didn’t think about you or anyone else in that diner. So I’m sorry. Also the robbers ate my pancakes, so...”

  A smile cracked on her features. “And you go crazy when you’re hungry?”

  “Something like that.”

  She cast her eyes down, passing the jar of gooseberry jam back and forth between her hands.

  “I’m sorry I called you a moron.”

  “Nope. I deserved that. I’m sorry I insulted your...richness.” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “See, I liked a girl in college who came from money. A daddy’s girl. But she was pure evil. I guess those old feelings came flooding back. It’s no excuse but I’m sorry just the same.”

  “What makes you think I’m rich?”

  I ticked my fingers. “College student. First class seat. American Express black card. Loads of cash. It’s a wild guess.”

  “Graduate student. And I’m not a daddy’s girl.” She ran her thumb across the label on the jam jar with a hint of lonesome recollection. “I’m an orphan.”

  Then she quickly added, “Orphan, someone who has lost their parents. Not often frequently.”

  I blinked at her. “You know that joke only works with an English accent.”

  And just like that, she cracked up. My heart felt a thousand pounds lighter and for that tiny suspended moment in time, the world felt right. Everything was going to work out just fine.

  Until the manager poked his head outside to announce the police had arrived. Then everything shifted.

  We went inside and waited our turn to make a statement. I heard one of the officers flippantly declare, “This sort of thing happens in these parts every year at Christmas time.”

  Every. Year.

  One would think somebody would get wise after all this time and hire a security guard. But the officers took statement after statement with bored expressions.

  Then they got to me. Wrote down my full name. Wyatt Boyd Silva. The cops chuckled when the restaurant manager told them of my stupidity. So I informed them the robbers had paintball guns and grinned with a healthy dose of satisfaction.

  Boo-yah.

  Then they moved on to Georgia. Wrote down her full name. And my heart sank.

  Georgia Marie Darcy.

  Darcy. It wasn’t a common surname. It was akin to the likes of Presley or Disney or Barrymore. It was an elite name. A famous name.

  I tried to reason with my clouded brain that maybe her name was more common than I’d thought. But the clues were there all along. And when the officers grilled her about it, my suspicions were confirmed.

  “Yes,” she said with trepidation. “He’s my brother. Please don’t leak this to the press.”

  She uttered the word ‘press’ with definitive ire, like it was poison on her lips. She hated the press.

  But I was the press. A slime ball in her eyes. The guy with the inside scoop on the biggest secret in Hollywood. Will Darcy’s hush-hush wedding.

  My exclusive story.

  My throat swelled. My palms clammed up. I was feverish all over with dread.

  Just my luck.

  The girl I started to have feelings for was Will Darcy’s little sister.

  12

  Georgia

  Wyatt was uncharacteristically quiet as we finally left the restaurant. Sure, he’d jus
t been robbed of virtually everything he owned, but a tiny bit of luck did shine down upon him, so I figured he’d be a little more chipper. Turned out, in all the hullabaloo, and in an effort to get outta there before the cops showed up, the robbers overlooked Wyatt’s camera, which was tucked under a counter, plugged into the power socket. Hooray for small miracles.

  We made our way back to the highway much later than we’d originally planned. Reeses trotted along at our feet wagging his tail, happy as a clam. Completely oblivious. To him it was just another day in the life of the most adorable Jack Russell terrier in the world.

  “I guess we missed the bus,” I said.

  Wyatt continued in silence.

  “Do you suppose another one will come along?”

  He only responded with a grunt. I hadn’t bothered to ask anyone about busses back in the diner—seeing as how they all wished they could slip arsenic in our to-go cups. The only reason we got free sodas to go was because they were handing them out to everybody. We weren’t special. In fact, everyone just wanted us to leave already.

  We reached the spot where the bus had dropped us off earlier. I didn’t have a watch, but I was pretty sure two hours had passed quite a while ago. The sun was low in the sky and the afternoon winter chill descended upon us with a blanket of gloom. That bus was long gone.

  Neither one of us spoke for some time, standing there on the side of the road feeling stupid. I said a silent prayer hoping things would turn around for us. At this point, I’d happily go back to spend another night in that vintage Mustang. Anywhere but here.

  Wyatt’s silent treatment wasn’t directed at me. He didn’t seem angry. Just...retrospective. We’d had a moment in the back alley of the restaurant. A heart to heart if you will. It took a lot of courage for him to admit to a stranger those things he said to me. Then again, we didn’t feel like strangers anymore. I thought we’d crossed some proverbial bridge. There was a connection there. He was as jolly as a North Pole elf. But when the police officers were taking our statements, I caught the moment when a shadow crossed Wyatt’s features. It was when the officer discovered who my famous brother was. I turned to find Wyatt’s eyes locked on me, glum and crestfallen by my lie of omission.