CHAPTER 3
Andreas
“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 atInTuition 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 wordI—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.
