Page 3 of Catch Me (Townsend Legacy #4)

A ndreas

“And as you can see, I spent a considerable amount of time dedicated to ensuring the clothing for this scene fit Andreas to perfection,” Rebecca Conway, one of the assistant designers at InTuition Studios, says.

She waves her arm up and down, gesturing to me in the button-down top and dark slacks. I stand in the center of the room, at least two dozen pairs of eyes on me, which is my comfortable place.

I’m used to being the center of attention.

But there’s something about the way she continues using the word I— as if she designed this and all of the other four outfits I’ve tried on—by herself.

While I know for a fact this one she had little if anything to do with since I saw my obsession downstairs fixing this current design before rushing up here to make it the fitting.

I also didn’t miss the way Rebecca said something none too nice to my obsession as she snatched the clothes from her hand when she first entered.

For that, she’s made it to my shit list.

A throat clearing from somewhere around the room captures my attention, and I realize I’ve been glaring at Rebecca. I circle the room with my gaze and my eyes land on the woman standing at the back.

She hasn’t said a word since she first came in. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s doing everything in her power to look invisible.

In Hollywood, where any and everyone would slit their grandmother’s wrist to standout, her stance only begs me to know more about her.

“I designed the collar particularly to bring attention to the moment the character is going through during this scene. I?—”

“You?” I cut her off, unable to take her voice for much longer

Her head juts back, sending a few blonde tendrils swaying.

“Because what I saw right before this fitting contradicts that. Isn’t that right …” I trail off and direct my attention at my obsession, who’s name I still don’t know.

All heads turn in her direction.

When her coffee brown eyes land on me, both of those perfectly sculpted eyebrows raise, alarm signaling in that expression. That beautifully heart-shaped mouth parts, but no words come out.

I take a step in her direction, then another until I’m standing directly in front of her. I hold out my arm and gesture to the shirt.

“Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me a little earlier, it was you who redesigned this shirt downstairs, isn’t that correct? After the wrong shirt was ordered.”

Her eyes billow as she looks at something over my shoulder. I take a sideways step, blocking her view so that I’m the only person she sees.

She clears her throat, then nods.

“What was that?” I’m being an asshole by pushing this, but I need to hear her voice.

“Yes. A mistake was made in the ordering of the shirt, but it’s not a big deal.”

“The shirt looks fine,” Michael Keith says, coming up to stand beside me.

I have to fight myself not to push him away since she’s now turned her attention to him.

“The collar would need some alterations. May I ask why you chose to redesign the shirt in this way?”

“Uh, well …” She hesitates and looks at an older woman who stands not too far from her. It’s Lillian Grey, one of the seamstresses on the team.

“The shirt was already in the closet and was the closest match to the design.”

“The color is different from the sketch,” Michael comments.

“Yes, I thought the warmer tone of this top would look better on Mr. Knight.” Her gaze flicks to mine before she quickly looks away.

“Also, I chose to switch out the buttons on the top to make them less the focal point and redo the collar. The top originally came with a wing tip collar, but given the scene this design is for, I don’t believe that’s the right look the character would go for.”

“And who asked you to do thi—” Rebecca’s scolding is silenced by Michael Keith’s hand in the air.

I know my glare in her direction is what makes her take a visible step backward, though.

“The scene? You know which scene this design is for? Did you have the sketches?” Michael asks.

“They were up here with you all,” my obsession says.

“Then how did you …”

“I memorized the script,” she answers in a hurry.

Michael looks over at me. “The shirt fits perfectly.”

“It's seventeen inches around to fit perfectly. Seventeen point two, to be exact,” she adds, then looks at me before averting her gaze. “I memorized that, too,” she says so low I might be the only one in the room who hears her.

“Brilliant,” Michael says, the British accent he usually keeps to a minimum coming out stronger. He claps and looks around the room. “Let’s make a movie.”

“You’re looking oddly content.” Michael Keith looks me up and down.

After wrapping up the fitting, we stayed a little longer to go over some logistics for the start of filming next week. Once this is done, I have my intentions set on another goal before leaving the studio today.

I glance over to see Michael watching me. The man’s eye is ridiculously keen. Which is why he’s poised to become one of the biggest directors in Hollywood over the next few years.

Especially if this film does well.

Not if, when. When this film performs above expectations.

Because there’s not a chance in hell I’m about to let it flop.

We’ve both worked our asses off to perfect this role. Michael with the script and direction techniques. And I’ve put in countless hours with my acting coaches. Above the hours I ordinarily put in, even when not working on a project.

“I’m excited about the movie,” I lie.

“Bullshit,” he calls me out, pulling a chuckle out of me. “If I had to guess, I would say it has to do with that costume designer you were eye-fucking in there.” He juts his head in the direction of the fitting room.

My grin drops.

“Eye-fucking?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t quite that lewd, but you did signal her out to make sure she got the recognition she deserved.”

“You know it’s one of my pet peeves,” I tell him since this is far from the first time Michael and I have worked together. While I wouldn’t classify us as friends exactly, we do have a great working relationship.

“I don’t like seeing other people get screwed over,” I tell him. “Happens too fucking often in this industry.” While I’m young by societal standards at twenty-six, I’ve spent a little over a decade in this industry already.

Ten years in an industry run by some of the most egotistical people in the world means I’ve seen a lot.

“Don’t I know it,” Michael grunts. “At least you're not threatening another one of the writers.” He chuckles.

“I was eighteen,” I remind him.

“And he had two decades on you.”

He’s referring to an incident between a former writer of my old show and I after I found out two of the actresses on the set were uncomfortable being in the same room with said writer because he was known for being too fucking hands-on.

He no longer works in this industry.

I shrug. “He should’ve kept his disgusting hands to himself.”

“Anyway,” Michael says, “the fitting looked great, and everything’s lined up. I know you’re headed out to work for a few days, but I’ll see you bright and early on Monday, huh?”

I nod, and we pound hands before Michael heads off toward the elevator.

“Hey,” I call out to Michael. “She’s Rebecca’s assistant, right?”

He chuckles as if I just answered his question.

“Yeah, I think that’s right.” He holds up a hand at the same time the elevator doors open. “No, I don’t know her name.”

“Wasn’t going to ask,” I reply. “She’ll tell me herself.”

Grinning, Michael shakes his head before stepping onto the elevator. “Cocky bastard,” is the last thing he says just as the doors close on him.

I know exactly where Rebecca Conway’s office is.

I opt to take the stairs down to the second floor. As I walk, I recall the far too few interactions I’ve had with my latest obsession thus far. The concentration I saw on her face as she stood over that sewing machine, the trepidation that overcame her when she realized all eyes were on her.

But there was also a fiery passion that sparked in her coffee browns when she talked about the design choice for the shirt.

Recalling that moment makes me want to know more about her.

All of her secrets.

What makes her tick?

What else ignites that spark in her gaze?

Most important, what made her hide instead of taking ownership of the work she’d done?

“You’re fired.”

The two words stop me in my tracks. I stand just outside of Rebecca’s doorway, out of sight. Whoever she’s speaking to, she hadn’t even taken the time to close the door for this meeting.

Which, I suppose, meant she doesn’t give a damn who overhears.

“That stunt you pulled in there was beyond embarrassing.”

This conversation isn’t any of my concern, yet Rebecca is the one who left the door open. I don’t feel bad for entering her office directly after knocking a few times, startling her.

Satisfaction rolls through me at seeing the surprise on her face. But I turn my attention to the only other person in the room.

I found her.

“You,” I say without thinking. A smirk starts to curl my lips, but I stifle it as I remember what it is I just walked in on.

That’s when I turn my attention back to Rebecca.

“I must’ve heard you wrong. Because there’s no way in hell you’re firing the woman who just saved your ass.”