The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(65)

Of what, he had no idea, but enough things had been going wrong lately that his protective instincts where she was concerned were firing off with a vengeance.

He looked down at the top of her curly head. She was still bedraggled from the rainfall, there were dark smudges under her eyes, and she looked exhausted. He could hear her muttering breathlessly to herself, and God knew what bombshell she was about to drop on his life next—and he felt so fucking blessed. She’d said it perfectly. He’d never expected to experience this. If he’d tried to imagine what it would be like he’d have been so far off, and whatever happened next, he felt he’d been astonishingly, probably undeservedly blessed.

He realised she was almost jogging to keep up with his stride, and slowed down a bit to match her normal pace.

When they emerged from the cover of the trees, The Henry came into sight, looking dour and stately under the grey, overcast sky, but otherwise normal. However, from the racket coming from the far side of the building, it wasn’t difficult to locate where Waitely had decided to regress to his undoubtedly unruly childhood and joyride a forklift like it was a bloody bumper car.

Freddy’s hand came up to rub at his arm as they stood surveying the damage. An entire section of the back wall had collapsed, spilling bricks and tiles out across the grass, exactly like a toddler had been playing and thrown building blocks everywhere during a tantrum. Griff could see glimpses of the interior of the back rooms, which he sincerely hoped had been empty at the moment of collision.

Charlie came out of the side door, talking to the construction foreman, who now had a few things to add to his to-do list, and immediately came over when he saw them. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Hi, Freddy.” He kissed her cheek and grinned unrepentantly at Griff’s cocked eyebrow. “Glad to see we’ve moved past the hiccup in the epic love story.”

“I think this could be described as another hiccup.” Freddy gestured at the battered building.

“Rubbish. Barely a hitch. Don’t start evolving into your boyfriend, for God’s sake. If anyone’s personality is going to rub off, it’s meant to be the other way around.” Charlie turned to address Griff in a more normal voice. “Apart from the obvious bit, the structure is still completely stable, and since the West End menagerie—” it was Freddy’s turn to raise her eyebrows “—aren’t using this section of the theatre, it won’t disrupt the rest of the rehearsals or mean a last-minute relocation for the performance. They’ll just have to do some creative skipping-over when they pan the exterior for their establishing shots. And if you’re concerned about the financial side of the repairs—”

“I am.”

“It was one of their conveniently insured cast members who acted like a reckless dick, so all costs to fix the damage are the responsibility of the TV network.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“I think this is my fault.” That was Freddy, and he could tell just by her voice that she was about to mess with him.

“Unless you gave Waitely the keys to the forklift and threatened him with a deadly weapon into making a break for it, I’m fairly sure it wasn’t.”

“I had thoughts.” Every syllable was enunciated with great significance, and Charlie leaned forward, obviously prepared to be impressed. Griff managed to suppress his sigh. She was lucky she was bloody cute. “When I was hedging about going into the Metronome today, I kind of briefly hoped it might fall down again and save me the bother. And look what happened to The Henry. The universe responded.”

Charlie and several eavesdropping crew members made appropriately spooked noises.

“Right,” Griff said, after he’d given her the appropriate pause for her dramatic timing. “Well, when your mind has returned from its trip to never-never land, perhaps we could finish the conversation Charlie interrupted, before you have to go to rehearsal.”

Charlie took a hasty step forward as Freddy moved to look closer at the worst of the damage. “Careful, Freddy, I wouldn’t get too close.”

Griff moved after her and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her back against him. “You’re going to turn me grey by the end of the summer.”

“You’re a platinum blond, Norma Jeane. You’ll go white.” Freddy sounded distracted. She was scanning the rise of the theatre above them. Brow creased, she bent forward again, from the curve of his arm. “Griff—I’ve done a lot of nosing about in this part of the theatre the past few days, and I’m officially confused. What is that?”

“What’s what?” He lowered his head to look under the broken beam where she pointed. “It’s—” He cut off, frowning as well, and found himself mimicking her movements exactly, looking up and around to orientate himself. It was a pointless move; he knew this building like the back of his hand and he could draw a map of the interior from memory.

Or he’d thought he could.

There were no windows on this side of the structure, so with the smashed-in wall, it was getting a lot more light and fresh air from the west than usual. He’d been silently grateful he’d moved most of the Wythburn Group research over to the library this weekend, even though it wasn’t likely to be needed any time soon, because what they should be looking at was a brand-new, unexpectedly open view of Henrietta’s old office.