The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(57)
She was driving herself mad, turning in mental circles of “what if.”
She needed to catch her breath. And this wasn’t the time for this. She was due back at rehearsal shortly and needed to turn in a better performance than the shite she’d managed earlier.
After all, as Sadie would no doubt point out, with everything she’d sacrificed so far for her career—a lot of time, sleep, and sometimes self-respect—it would be a waste of effort to blow it now.
“I have to get back to rehearsal,” she said. “And I have to get dressed.”
Griff’s mouth twisted. “Are you chucking me out?”
“Be a bit of a cheek, wouldn’t it, in your own house?” Everything about this was so wrong. Freddy felt like she was having an out-of-unusually-serious-body experience, watching from afar this solemn person with her face. She wanted to be smiling, flirting, becoming exasperated because it was like trying to get a reciprocal flirtation out of a member of the Queen’s Guard. Exercising her snogging licence. How had things escalated this quickly, and then fallen apart so fast? She hugged herself. “I really do need to get ready.”
She saw a flicker of something she couldn’t define in his expression, then he nodded once. For a few seconds, he didn’t move, though, just stood looking at her, his hands shoved into his pockets. She watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt. He hadn’t changed since they’d left Mallowren.
His clothing, at least. His demeanour had changed dramatically.
To be fair, so had hers.
With her arms still folded tightly, her gaze slipped down his body and lowered, and briefly, she squeezed her lashes shut. She heard him exhale, and then his footsteps as he turned. The door closed behind him.
Opening her eyes, Freddy released a shaky breath of her own, long and slow. And finished getting ready.
Her mixed-up emotions could stay in here for the rest of the day; Maf had requested Lydia, and she would get Lydia.
Who, fortunately, didn’t give a shit about family expectations.
And would never worry that she’d lose a man before she’d even really had him.
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday—Three days until showtime
Biting back a stream of four-letter words that wouldn’t advance his cause, Griff said a curt goodbye to the pompous prick at the broadcasting corporation and hung up. Tossing the phone aside, he rested his hip against the desk, his attention snagging on the scene outside the library window. It was Tuesday morning, the second day of tech week in the short rehearsal schedule for The Austen Playbook, and the core cast were emerging from breakfast and heading in the direction of The Henry. He didn’t see Freddy. He’d hardly seen her at all since Friday, and the current distance between them seemed to have settled over him like a layer of ice.
It was unbelievable that of the multiple things that had hit the fan over the past few days, it was having Freddy push him away after they’d grown close so quickly that was causing the most disruption. Or he’d pushed her away. He didn’t even know anymore. The scene in her bedroom seemed to have faded into a blur, from the adrenaline spike of coming in to find her dangling off that rickety balcony to the moment he’d been given his marching orders while she stood there looking utterly miserable. He’d had no intention of losing his cool when he’d gone looking for her, but he’d been pushed to the edge by the red light from the studio coming right after the confrontation with his parents. Who were still happily carrying on with their plans, with the impulse control of a couple of middle-aged toddlers, and just as much awareness of consequences. Walking in on yet another reckless action by someone he cared about, and was coming to feel incredibly protective of, had tipped the balance.
He picked up a handful of the invoices stacked on the desk. One bill after another was coming in for the miniature world that had sprung up on the lawn, the artistically beautiful, gold-plated road to bankruptcy out there. He’d worked out the budget to keep the estate running for the next couple of years: mortgage payments, staff wages, utilities, rates, repairs, the never-ending list that didn’t include whatever scheme his parents would come up with next. It added up to a total so beyond their means right now it was almost laughable.
If Rupert Carlton got his way and Griff’s film was shelved indefinitely, it would mean the waste of months of work, and it would put the situation with Highbrook at crisis point.
Selling up was the sensible thing to do. It was bloody ridiculous to attach so much sentimentality to crumbling brick and mortar that they drove themselves into financial ruin. But evidently, there were two subjects in life that he was incapable of approaching with a cool head. Highbrook. And the woman who’d teased, flirted, annoyed the fuck out of him, and could stop his breath in his chest when he saw her.
Some force in the universe was smirking down at him, because he’d reviewed dozens of plays during the past few years with plots grounded in characters who fell fast and hard, and he’d always scorned the idea of it happening that quickly. Past the teenage years, it was na?ve to think that intense attachment after a few looks, a few touches, a single sexual encounter, was anything but infatuation that would burn out equally fast. Ironically, many of those infatuated characters he’d dissected in print had been played by Freddy.
And here they were. And the cheerful, frivolous flirt of an actor he’d criticised professionally and dismissed personally was breezily shredding every conviction he had on the subject.