The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(27)

She stood looking at the theatre in the morning light, listening to the sound of larks in the trees, and breathing deep. A hint of crispness in the air reminded her of autumn and acted on her system like a hit of caffeine.

She was looking forward to autumn—or she would be, if it weren’t for the looming shadow of The Velvet Room. The first audition was only days away.

A bird shot out of a cluster of branches nearby with a rustle and flap of wings, seconds before Freddy heard footsteps crunching over the gravel path through the trees. She turned, and her stomach gave one of those delicious little flutters as Griff appeared.

He had a file tucked under his arm, and a very professional-looking camera bag in his hand. His clothing looked like Savile Row and he was incredibly suave and polished and put-together for an hour when most people were still snoozing. Or getting hot and bothered under the sheets in the probable case of Dylan and whoever he’d smarmed into sharing his bed for this run.

She wasn’t exactly bowled over by Griff’s expression when he saw her, but there was more resignation there than “Oh, Christ, not her again.” Baby steps. She might even get a smile out of him one of these days.

She finished the last bite of her croissant as he reached her. “You’re getting an early start.”

“I need to take some photos of source material in Henrietta’s office, and I’d prefer to do it while the theatre is quiet.” He was frowning at the building, but sliced his attention back to her. “You’re early as well. You didn’t wake up with pain, did you?”

“No, Dr. Adams’s paracetamol is doing the trick, and I’ve got ibuprofen tucked into my bra just in case.”

His brows went up at that, and his gaze went down.

She hesitated, shifting the weight of her script in her arms. She did need to get a jump on rehearsal, but...she’d been hoping to get a glimpse of the office where her grandmother had written The Velvet Room. Who knew, maybe she’d soak up some residual talent from the atmosphere. “Do you mind if I come in with you? I’ll stay out of shot and quiet as a mouse, I promise. You won’t even know I’m there.”

He made a sound that wasn’t quite a snort. “Somehow, I doubt that very much. Is this an attempt to install yourself as an unpaid production assistant so you can get that look at the material?”

“Just an interested observer.” Freddy smiled at him, suddenly feeling a little bubble of happiness well up out of nowhere. It was a beautiful day, birds were cheeping, and a man with a majestic nose and the sensitivity of a sledgehammer was frowning at her. For this one moment in time, she had a curious, rare sense of being exactly where she was meant to be. She clung on to the feeling as if it were a balloon that could lift her up and float her away from the approaching troubles below.

“Your father will kick up hell if you show any interest in this project,” Griff said, in the tone of a man who never gave a shit what other people thought of his decisions.

Mentally, Freddy wound the string of her metaphorical joy balloon around her wrist. It wasn’t going to be whisked away from her, even with a sharp gust of reality. If she acted on her conviction that what her father wanted for her career was not the right path for her, then getting a sneak peek at the film research would be the least of the contention between them. “It’ll be the tip of the iceberg if I make...certain other decisions soon.”

Griff unlocked the door and held it open for her, and she scooted inside, then followed him as he strode purposefully towards the rear rooms. They turned down a hallway she’d never taken before. There were few windows, and the light was dim, the air a bit musty with dust.

“What other decisions?” It had been several minutes since she’d spoken, and his question was almost reluctant, with a strange vibe of unfamiliarity, as if he was going against his natural inclinations by asking.

Freddy glanced at him. He was looking straight ahead, but his head was turned slightly in her direction. “Dad wants me to audition for the new production of The Velvet Room.” Stepping into the room he indicated and turning in an interested circle, she added, “As you predicted so unenthusiastically at The Prop & Cue last year.”

Griff laid his stuff on an untidy desk that was already piled high with old books and manuscripts. “And what do you want to do?”

So matter-of-fact, just a straight question, what did she want to do, as if it were as easy as that. It should be as easy as that.

Still cuddling the mammoth script, she walked around the perimeter of the small room, taking in the details—the peeling wallpaper and dusty shelves. Somehow, she expected there to be something spectacular—magical—about the places where great works of art were created.

This was just a room.

She looked closer at the images on the tiled feature wall and hid a smile. Albeit a room that had been decorated according to Sir George’s very particular tastes.

She didn’t need to absorb the ghosts of her grandmother’s ambition and conviction, anyway. She wasn’t Henrietta. She was Freddy, she did know what she wanted to do, and the only person who could turn wistfulness into action was her.

She put down the script and sat gingerly on the edge of a rickety stool, mindful of her oath to stay out of the way. “You know Fiona Gallagher is involved with The Austen Playbook?”

Griff paged through a file. “She’s a major financial backer.”