Backstage Romance: An Austen-Inspired Romantic Comedy Box Set

instincts, the applause drew them there like moths to a flame. Everyone was dazzled by their presence as the two men shook hands with the directors but I was decidedly not dazzled at all. I was way past dazzled. One could say I was unimpressed. Annoyed, even. Because one of those men was the rude (and admittedly gorgeous) guy from the green room.
Even though he was casually dressed, there was something about him, something in the atmosphere surrounding him that declared, “Is it great to see me or what? I’m rich and important. Be impressed.”
It must have been an effective device for him. Nobody seemed to mind that he walked in late. I noted with some amusement that if you’re going to be late, you might as well make a memorable entrance, and the way that man sauntered into the room, I’m sure it wasn’t easily forgotten for anybody present that day. My heart sped up just a little as he passed by me on the way to his seat. The molecules in my personal space were disrupted in the ripple he caused. I had to blink a few times to shake it off. Was that how it would be, working with this man for the next few months? My temporary lack of composure made me angry with myself.
Cole introduced the two men as having come straight from the U.S. tour of Something Rotten. This was met with some oohs and aahs by all of us nobodies in the cast. I admit, it piqued my attention. I had the Broadway cast album on my playlist, and I knew all the songs verbatim.
“You might recognize Will Darcy from the popular Fast and Dangerous franchise,” Cole announced. “He’ll be our Pirate King.”
Will Darcy. I should have known. Action-hero arms. I’d never seen any of those lame movies but I knew his name. I’d have to be living in an Amish commune not to. He was the son of Martin Darcy, Hollywood old-timer and recipient of countless zealous fangirls before fangirling was even a thing. My mother was the president of the Martin Darcy club back in the day.
Cole likewise introduced the other man although with a little less fanfare. His name was Bing, and he had the part of Frederic. His features were exactly what a male romantic lead should be. He was lean with the muscles of a dancer, an almost-boyish, handsome face, and the most charming smile I’d ever seen.
He was fresh faced and eager looking, and if my accurate judge of character gave me any clue (and my judge of character was always impeccable), this guy was just as thrilled and surprised to be there as the lowliest of the lowly chorus boys. He’d just come from a national tour, yet he was humble and unassuming. Also, he didn’t have a lanyard.
It was a comfort, and I reassured myself with the idea of holding my own amongst these seasoned professionals. My imposter syndrome was on a need-to-know basis. I decided I wasn’t one of those who needed to know.
You’re good enough. You can do this.
I repeated the affirmations in my mind all throughout the morning, pushing aside self-doubt and the nagging nostalgia of old habits. Things I could hold on to. Kansas was easy. Kansas was comfortable. Oz was scary and massive and overwhelming. But it was also magical. It was home. I glanced at my surrounding friends. Lydia the scarecrow and Jane as Glinda the Good Witch. Was I Dorothy or the cowardly lion? Neither, I decided at last. I was the freaking tornado, fools! And I was ready to blow everyone away.
But first I had to pee. I knew I shouldn't have had that cold water.
I had to go so bad after holding it all morning I ran as fast as I could down the hall—only for my face to slam right into Will Darcy. His pecks might as well have been a cement wall. I was surprised I didn’t hear my bone crack. My hands flew to my nose at the hot, burning sensation creeping through my blood vessels.
“You don’t seem to know the meaning of personal space, do you?” he snapped.
“You’re a bottomless bucket of charm,” I said all muffled through my hands.
Probably a poor choice of words because now all I could do was imagine the man in front of me bottomless, and my cheeks flushed monstrously.
Picture him with bird legs. Big arms… itty bitty legs.
Bird legs, pecks of steel. My eyes began to water from the pain. “Is my nose bleeding?”
He huffed with a look of utter annoyance and lifted my hand from my face. His touch was a firework—as though he held the very flames of hell in the palm of his hand. And if I wasn’t convinced before, there was no doubt that Will Darcy was the Devil in blue jeans.
He recoiled from me like I was the one burning him and not the other way around. Probably a side effect of coming into contact with good, wholesome folk. What would happen if I squirted him with holy water?
“You’re not bleeding,” he sneered, taking one swift assessment of my choice of clothing. And with a grunt, he hurried away.
After break (and a good pee) I immediately searched for Jane before rehearsal could resume. I wanted to tell her all about my encounters with Will Darcy. But she was floating in some weird cloud of euphoria. As it seems, while I was being scrutinized by a cocky movie star, she was quite happily getting acquainted with his friend.
She flipped through her script, not really looking at it, the side of her lip curling slightly. Bending her head closer to her binder, her buttermilk locks covered her face, but I could still see the flush of pink overcome her cheeks.
“Spill it,” I said. “I want details.”
“Nothing to spill.”
“Liar. I can see your face.”
Jane’s face flushed deeper, but she tried to stifle a smile as she tilted her head, turning to face me. I rarely saw