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“Brandon? He’s living in a one-room studio. His other property is too far.” Especially without a car. “Never mind. I’ll figure something out.” He forced a smile over his books. “Don’t we all have a party to get to?”
Cameron read The Mysterious Affair at Styles after squeezing himself into his costume. Read during the car ride. Read all the way up the gravel driveway.
Lake and Knightly held hands, elegant silhouettes walking a dozen yards ahead. Further on, an old-time movie theater marquee with dark black letters: Ask Austen Studios.
Posters from Brandon’s earliest movies were framed in glassed boxes studded with lights. Misters & Misters, which won him his university film competition. Cheeky Choices at Henley Park and Searching at Secrets, two short films that Sundance Film Festival had featured. Bravery Favors Kisses, his first full length picture, had launched their business. Over the last few years they’d grown from a production group of six to over sixty.
His phone buzzed. He caught up to Lake and Knight and nervously adjusted his cravat.
“Brandon. He has a flat—he’s running late.”
Lake let go of Knightly and slung a comforting arm around Cameron’s shoulders. “Just as well you’re here then.”
While Cameron enjoyed working around a spotlight, he had no idea how to act in the center of one. He’d feel far more comfortable finding a quiet nook and finishing his book.
Lake shifted a strand of Cameron’s hair. “Glad the hairdressers could help us. You’re looking great. Those boots. That dimpled smile. Straight out of a regency romance. Don’t you agree, Knight?”
“Very dashing, Cameron.”
He’d been born in the wrong century—the costume was right up his alley: breeches, cravat, waistcoat, cut-away coat, tall leather boots polished to a shine. The flattering comments touched him, but Cameron wasn’t practiced at receiving them. He flushed, ducking behind Lake as they entered the repurposed distillery.
Tiled floors, a brightly lit foyer, and a stunningly costumed crowd sipping sparkling wine greeted them. Waiters trucked miniature bags of popcorn around, and a delicious salted caramel aroma wafted through the air.
He caught sight of a stack of programs and bit down on a curse. Brandon’s name wasn’t on it! Only his own.
His brother wouldn’t care—he had no ego in that respect—but it made Cameron seem far more important than he was. He clutched his book, praying Brandon would show up before anyone asked him to deliver the toast.
Ten minutes into brief hellos to the line producer, digital technician, and musical supervisor, he suffered a burst of anxiety when he realized he was on his own. Lake and Knight had disappeared into the crowd.
He dashed up the stairs onto a U-shaped balcony of offices overlooking the indoor set. Leaning against the banister, Cameron enjoyed his bird’s eye view of the party alone.
The polished wooden floor of the set had been denuded of its equipment and transformed into a dancing space. Bless his crew—to eighteenth-century piano music, they were attempting to dance la boulangère. God he wished he could shake his shyness and join them. He’d always fantasized dancing an old-timey country dance with a partner of his own. A tall, dark, and handsome mister smiling flirtatiously as they bowed and crossed and held hands.
He sighed and turned toward his glass-fronted office, a plaque with his name under Executive Producer on the door. He entered, foregoing the lights, dropped his book on the large oak desk, and perched uncomfortably—thanks to the fall-front breeches—on the leather couch.
Not five minutes alone and the door flew open. Lake had found him then. Cameron finished tapping out a text message to Brandon. “No matter what you say,” he murmured, “I’m not hiding away.”
“And I’m not here on nefarious business!” came an enthusiastic deep baritone—a British baritone—soaked with humor.
Cameron jerked his head up. A tall-ish man with dark, curly hair was entering his office on a breeze of laughter and tinkling piano keys. A punch of alarm doubled his heart-rate. “You’re not Lake.”
“Sorry for the fright—I’m Henry.”
Lights popped on, and Henry blinked and dialed down the intensity to a gentle glow. Mischief twinkled in his eyes and his mouth curved into a crooked smile. He tipped his chin to Cameron.
Dark jeans, green sneakers, and a gray hoodie. He certainly wasn’t a guest. Or staff. Besides which, Cameron had overseen the invitation list. There was no Henry on it.
Henry waltzed into the room like he owned it. He planted his hands on his hips, surveying the desk and the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. He looked about late twenties, had a strong jaw and straight nose, laughter-filled dark eyes, and he held himself with godlike self-assurance.
With a trembling hand, Cameron pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Classical music, the symphonious tink of champagne flutes, and the echoes of jolly conversations flooded the room. How brazen to sneak into Cameron’s office with a hundred witnesses in the studio.
