Chapter 4

Victoria

I followthe GPS directions to the end of a dirt road, hoping that I'm actually going to the right place instead of one of those situations where the mapping program thinks that the middle of a lake is your friend's house. But then there's a break in the trees, and I catch sight of trailers, people milling around with horses, and a big camera setup off to one side.

May is off to a damp start, though the sun deigned to peek out of the clouds this afternoon, the light shining off the puddles lining the gravel driveway as I follow it around behind the trailers. I still can't quite believe this is really happening. I, Victoria Matthews, am about to work on costumes for an actual go-see-it-on-the-big-screen movie.

The man I emailed with is the Brady Green, teenage heartthrob. He's the director and one of the producers, and Brit couldn't stop squealing when I told her. I almost think she's more excited about this than I am. I mean, I am excited, but I'm also apprehensive. At least when I'm not convinced it's all a dream.

Now, though, with the reality laid out in front of me, I can't lean into the surreality of the situation and pretend it's a dream.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I slowly navigate closer, finding a spot in the muddy grass where a few other cars are parked, several with stickers from the rental car place in the city about an hour from Arcadian Falls. I must be in the right place.

Nervous butterflies flutter in my stomach as I open my emails and pull up the one with instructions on what to do and where to go on my first day. They made it sound simple—find the costume trailer and talk to Mia Taylor, the head costumer. Only … which one is the costume trailer? I guess I assumed they'd be labeled or there'd be a map or something. But instead it all just seems like a jumble, and there are people hustling this way and that, and how am I supposed to know where to go?

If I don't hurry up, I'm going to be late. And with Dr. Banks's attitude about, well, everything as my main guide lately, that's the last thing I want. When I told him I'd be doing this and might need some flexibility in my schedule, he reluctantly agreed, but it's clear he thinks this is as silly and ridiculous as everything Brit does.

When I climb out of my car, I pause to take in the scene. There's a wall of trailers in front of me, and I can't see anything past it, which is made worse by the glare of the sun off the large puddle between the parking area and the trailers. I'm hoping one of the people standing around at the end of the row of trailers can tell me where to go.

I guess I figured that they were having me come in on a Saturday because that works best with my schedule. I didn't expect them to be in full production mode here.

Picking my way across the mushy ground and doing my best to avoid mud puddles, I have to stop short a few times as other people rush across my path. "Excuse me!" I call after the second person I nearly collide with, but they don't stop, not even a glance over their shoulder.

With a deep breath, I look around, hoping I can find some indication of where I'm supposed to go, but no. Nothing.

There's a cluster of people over near one of the trailers, so I decide to head that direction. If it's not the right way, surely someone there can point me to where I'm supposed to be. I hope.

As I get closer, though, I slow, because is that …? I think it is. It's Brady Green, dressed in dark wash jeans and a black North Face jacket that fits him perfectly. He's kinda scruffy with probably a two-day beard going, but it suits him. A little starstruck, I have to blink a few times, then I straighten my shoulders, resettle the strap of my purse, and resume my path. He emailed me. He's the director. Surely he'll know where I'm supposed to go. And so what if he's a famous movie star? That's just his job, right? He's still just a guy.

And if anything, he's probably an ass, right? A lot of guys are anyway, in my experience, and wouldn't the fame thing just make it worse?

How would you know?a voice in my brain asks, sounding accusatory.

Okay, well, obviously I wouldn't. But that's what I need to tell myself to get my legs moving again, so that's what I'm going with.

No one appears to notice me as I approach, and I stand on the outskirts of their cluster for a moment before clearing my throat loudly.

Nothing.

Glancing at my phone, I see it's the time I was told to be at the costuming trailer, and I still don't know where I'm supposed to go. "Excuse me?" I ask, but still no response, so I repeat myself more loudly. "Excuse me!"

The conversation screeches to a halt and the entire group—three men and two women including Brady Green—turns to look at me, their eyes scanning me up and down, making me feel frumpy in my leggings, rain boots, and oversized rain jacket. It's not raining now, but it was earlier and it likely will again given that the clouds are still low and dark, scudding across the sky and occasionally blocking the sun completely. And after stomping across this field, I'm grateful for the boots. But these people look all sleek and together, and I look like … a mom from Arcadian Falls. No one would think anything of what I'm wearing in town, but movie people from Hollywood?

I don't know what else I could've worn that wouldn't make me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass, but surely I could've come up with something if I'd thought about it for a second. But when I got dressed, I was just thinking that I'd be in the costume trailer, and being dressed for comfort and movement was probably best.

"Can we help you?" a woman who looks to be in her late twenties asks from my left.

"Yeah, hi. I'm Victoria Mathews. I got an email asking me to be in the costume trailer, well, right now. But I'm not sure where that is?"

The woman sighs like I just told her I didn't know the answer to two plus two and points over my shoulder. "It's right there." And with that, she turns back to the group, all of them clearly dismissing me.

Well, I'm off to a fine start.

As I approach the trailer the woman indicated, I see there's a piece of printer paper taped to the door and flapping in the breeze. When I get close enough, I see the word Costumes scrawled in ballpoint pen. Apparently that should've been enough for me to find my way.

Rolling my eyes, I hustle the last few yards, doing my best not to splash in the puddles dotting the squelchy ground. It's clear people and vehicles have been going back and forth across here a lot. The grass is all churned up, and there's more mud and water than vegetation. I hope they're paying the owners well for how much of a mess they're making before they've even really gotten started.

What am I thinking? This is a Hollywood movie, isn't it? Of course they're paying the owners well. Otherwise, why would they agree to rent it out in the first place?

I knock on the door of the trailer, and it pops open a second later, a harried woman whose dark hair is pulled into a high messy bun, a pencil sticking out of it, pokes her head out and gives me the same kind of once over as the others. "Who are you?"

"I'm Victoria Mathews. I got an email?—"

"You're late. Come on."

"Sorry." I hustle up the steps, scraping my boots off as best I can on the top step and the tiny rectangle of a mat just inside the door. "I was just told to go to the costumes trailer in the email, but no one said where it would be, so I had to find someone to tell me."

"Yeah, probably no one knew where it would be when they emailed." She gestures me all the way into an interior stuffed full of clothes, mostly natural colors and dark neutrals—brown, tan, gray, black, some navy, with the occasional pop of brighter colors like red or purple. After rustling through the racks, she shoves an armload of clothes at me, a mix of dresses, pants, shirts, and long coats. "Go have the actors try these on, see what needs adjusting. The names are on the tags pinned to the collar."

And with that, I'm dismissed. My mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but when she shoots me a look that says she's not interested in putting up with my nonsense right now, I stammer out a, "Right, sure, okay," and head back out into the mud, being careful to keep the clothes up so they don't drag in it.

I look at the tag attached to the collar of the top costume and tromp around until I find a trailer that matches it. There's clearly no map and trying to ask one of the people hurrying here and there or worse, in a tight knot discussing something, has already proved an unworkable solution. So it's apparently up to me to slog about and find everyone on my own. At least I'm getting paid by the hour, so if I take longer, I just get paid more.

The first costume is a long 1800s style dress made of layers of cotton labeled with the name Aurora Cole. I blink at the name, once again starstruck. I just watched one of her movies last weekend.

Even if I get paid by the hour, wasting time feeling goofy about working with movie stars isn't what they're paying me for. Slogging along the row of trailers, I look at the names on the doors until I find hers way down at the end. Sucking in a breath, I knock on the door and wait. It's answered a moment later by Aurora Cole herself, dressed in dark gray leggings and a white hoodie, her blond hair whipping around her shoulders.

Trying hard not to act like a weirdo fangirl, I offer her what I hope is a professional smile. "Hi! I'm Victoria. I'm here to help you fit your costume."

"Come on in," she says, returning my smile with a tight one of her own. "I've been waiting."

"Yeah, sorry. I just got shoved an armload of clothes and told to find everyone without any directions or a map, so I have to look at all the trailers to find out where everyone is." Oh my god oh my god oh my god. I can't believe I'm having a conversation with Aurora Cole! My mind whirls. I can't believe this is actually happening! I mean, I know I signed on for a movie. And I was emailing with Brady Green—the Brady Green. But somehow it didn't occur to me I'd end up fitting costumes for someone like Aurora Cole! She looks so normal! I mean, sure, she's gorgeous, but without makeup, she looks like someone you'd see at the store or walking around downtown, especially in her casual sportswear. Around here that's practically the uniform. She's not as tall as I expected either, only an inch or two taller than me. For some reason, I thought she'd be taller.

With a deep breath, I force myself to focus on the reason I'm here and drape my load of costumes over the bench seat next to the door. Lifting up her dress, I present it to her. "If you'll just change, I'll see where it needs adjusting, pin it, and make notes."

Before I can do anything, she pulls off her hoodie, revealing a sports bra that matches her leggings. I let out a squeak and quickly turn away. "I take it you're new," she says with a chuckle.

"Um, yeah. I live in town." I hitch a thumb over my shoulder like I'm pointing toward Arcadian Falls, but for all I know, I'm pointing in the opposite direction. "I got hired part time to help Mia with costumes."

"I see." She's quiet a moment, and I hear fabric rustling. "Get the back for me?"

Turning around, I see she has her back to me, and she's holding her hair out of the way. There's a zipper, and then there's a placket that covers it with buttons to make it look more authentic, which seems clever.

"Let me give you a tip, Vicky."

"Victoria," I correct automatically.

That makes her smile, a hint of respect in her face as she turns, holding her arms out so I can get to work. "Sorry. Victoria. Be aware that others will likely call you whatever they choose regardless of your stated preferences. This is a cutthroat world, and no matter how nice someone is to your face, be aware that there's a solid chance they'll stab you in the back at the first opportunity."

"Even you?" I ask, glancing up from where I'm straightening the hem, trying to decide if it's okay as is or if it needs to come up an inch. But if she's wearing 1800s style boots, it'll probably be fine.

"Especially me."

That has me raising my eyebrows as I stand, pinching the fabric at her sides, pinning out the excess with safety pins, taking a couple of quick measurements, and jotting down notes in the little notebook I keep in my pocket when I'm doing fittings. I'm assuming I'll be the one to make the alterations to these costumes, but if not, I take detailed notes so Mia or whoever else might be helping can handle it. "Noted," I murmur as I finish my notes, not quite sure what to make of her. "Turn around and I'll unzip you."

She gives me a smile that's all smug superiority before turning and moving her hair once again. Is this supposed to be friendly advice? Or is she warning me? And about what? I'm just the costume assistant, after all. It's not like I could do anything to her. With a mental shake of my head, I dismiss the issue and refocus on the costumes. Once she's out of the dress, I put it back on the hanger, place the pile of other clothes on top of it, and let myself out with a murmured, "See you later." Clearly we won't be friends. Not that I thought we would be, but if nothing else, that exchange made it clear she's not the friendly sort.

Rifling through the pile of costumes, I look at the names on the tags so I can plot out a better plan of attack than just wandering up and down the row of trailers, taking far longer than I should to get between fittings. Knowing that Brady Green is in charge of this project and Aurora freaking Cole is here, I have my eyes peeled for other names I recognize. I don't find any, though, until I'm down to the last costume in the stack—Hayden Maddox.

My eyebrows jump up my forehead. The Hayden Maddox?

Brit is gonna freak when she hears about this.