The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(20)

For a person with small fingers, she had a grip like a barracuda’s teeth. Freddy turned his reluctant hand over and frowned down at his knuckles. “What have you done to yourself?”

Scraped off about seven layers of skin, thanks to the endless cast of this travelling circus.

“A chance encounter with Elizabeth Bennet and a pair of pliers in the library.”

“Sounds like Act Two of the play. Murder most foul under the card catalogue.” Freddy was rubbing the sides of his fingers with the tips of hers. Her thoughtful face suggested she had no idea she was doing it. He looked down at where their skin touched. “You don’t mean Maya Dutta went for you with a blunt instrument? She’s much too nice.”

“It wasn’t blunt.” He gestured with his scraped-up, imprisoned hand, and she released it quickly, with a murmured apology. “Apparently she lost her way trying to find the kitchen before dawn, and slammed the library door into my chair while I was cutting a wire.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t grump at her. She’s a very sensitive person.” From distracted smartarse to coolly threatening Mother Hen in one second flat. He hadn’t given her enough credit in those reviews for her chameleon-like abilities.

“With no sense of direction.”

“You’re a little too fond of that expression. I believe you applied it to me, as well.” Freddy nodded at his hand. “Did you put antiseptic on it? The pliers could have been rusty. And you should keep it covered.”

“If you drop the Florence Nightingale act, I won’t make any further comments about the roles you choose.”

“You won’t be able to if you succumb to sepsis.” Freddy jogged a few steps, testing the makeshift fix on her shoe, then smiled at him. “Thanks. You’re my white knight today. I do love when the day throws up an unexpected surprise before I’ve even had my toast.”

They’d travelled at least a hundred metres before he fully realised that he’d ended up on a joint run with her.

“God, I hate running,” she said as they turned at the far-most field and headed back towards the house.

“Why do it then?” He swiped the back of his arm across his forehead. “You don’t seem the type to bother with anything you don’t enjoy.”

Freddy cut him a glance. “Other than in my career choices, you mean?” Her breaths were coming fast and broken. “It’s quick, cheap exercise, and I have to maintain a base level of fitness for the job. If it eventually gives me a bubble butt, bonus.”

He managed to keep his eyes on the road ahead. Focusing on the rhythm of his own breath. Steady in, deep out.

“I tried tennis for a while, but my aim was awful. Balls flying everywhere. Besides, it was right after the director at the Southeastern Playhouse told me I wasn’t thin enough to make it to the top tier, and my flatmate thought I was trying to lose weight to pacify him, so I had to stop the lessons on principle.”

Griff looked at her sharply. “Who was that? Tom Michaelis? I hope you told him where to go.”

“I finished out my contract like the professional I am and haven’t signed one with him since.” Freddy plaited her insane hair without slowing her pace. “It’s all part and parcel of the industry. You don’t get the perks without the bullshit.”

“It’s a fucking joke.”

“If I decide to take one idiot’s opinion to heart, I’m in the wrong business entirely.”

“Was that a dig at Michaelis or at me?”

“It does work on multiple levels, doesn’t it?”

When they reached the front lawn, the yoga disciples had gone, but the TV studio had obviously sent its advance guard to start preparations for the live broadcast. There were so many people about the place it looked like a seaside resort, and vans had left deep ruts in the grass.

“Uh-oh.” Stopping at his side to catch her breath, Freddy planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the chaos and him. “You’ve got Too-Many-People Face, and this is only day two. Maybe you should respect your sanity and work from London for a week or two.”

“We’re in the last preliminary stages for the film before we finalise a deal. Which includes photographing locations and collating research material at Highbrook—”

“You could pay an assistant to do that.”

“I could, if I wanted it done incorrectly and too slowly.”

Freddy made a humming noise in her throat. “According to London Celebrity, control freaks are at much greater risk for arthritis, impotence, and pattern baldness. Just so you know.”

“As long as you have a reliable source.”

Another van pulled into the driveway, this one emblazoned with familiar branding, and his lips thinned. Leaving Freddy stretching out her hamstrings on the grass, Griff intercepted the man who emerged from the back compartment holding an enormous box. “The invoice. May I see it?”

“Morning.” The deliveryman’s cheerful expression survived Griff’s curt demand. Yet another of life’s optimists. It was far too early in the morning for them. The man leaned the box against the back door and juggled to get the form out. “Here you go. Fifty bottles of—”

“No.” Griff had scanned the form in one grim sweep. “Return the whole order, thanks.”