The Director's Cut by Js Taylor (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt) 📕

slowly, trying to spot clues for what’s happening in James’s face, and finding none. “I’ll go with you then.”

James nods.

“You’ll come with me.”

Chapter 6

As the others head to the hotel, James leads me to a private car, which looks practical, rather than romantic.

It seems as though he was telling the truth then, about a costume requirement.

I can’t help but feel a tiny bit disappointed that he doesn’t have some wild date planned. But I console myself. At least we’re spending time together.

“Where are we going?” I ask the moment we’re away from the group.

“I told you,” says James, his face impassive. “We’re heading for costuming. You need to be fitted for a dress.”

“What kind of dress?”

The wishful thinking part of my brain is remembering the tango dancing. Is he dressing me for some exciting occasion?

“Do you remember this part of the movie?” asks James. “Grace attends a ball, as a reporter. So you’ll need a ball gown.”

Oh.

He must have sensed my disappointment, because James leans close and gives my arm a squeeze.

“Once this boring part of the day is over, I’ll take you somewhere special, I promise,” he adds.

I nod and squeeze back, feeling a flash of annoyance at myself. Here I am, heading to be fitted out for a dress for a huge movie part. And I’m feeling disappointed that I’m not being wined and dined in some fancy restaurant. Talk about ungrateful!

Remember how lucky you are, Isabella, I tell myself.

“It’s not boring for me,” I say with a smile. “I’ve never been fitted for a dress before. It’s exciting.”

And I mean it too. Now I’ve made my peace with where we’re going, it really is an exciting occasion. A real life dress fitting!

The car speeds into central Barcelona, and the beautiful buildings take my breath away.

“Have you been here before?” asks James as I gaze up at the incredible stone carvings and ornate facades.

“Yes,” I reply, “when I was much younger. But I think this city will always amaze me.”

“Really?” James sounds pleased.

“Oh yes,” I reply. The car is heading through a backstreet now, zipping past an array of colourful tapas bars and chic little restaurants. “Barcelona has an amazing energy to it, don’t you think? France is sophisticated and luxurious. But this part of Spain is so full of life. It’s as though everyone is on vacation.”

James smiles.

“I guess so,” he says, staring past me out onto the streets. “I like that it’s such a warren too,” he adds. “There’s so much history here, piled up. You could turn a corner and see a carving which took someone a lifetime to make, just stuck on the side of a building. With no fanfare or tour guides pointing it out.”

His voice is softer. “I find that amazing,” he adds.

“I never knew you were such a lover of history,” I say, regarding the sincerity in his green eyes.

He shrugs and grins at me. “Maybe I’m just trying to impress you with my culture.”

I laugh. “You almost succeeded.”

“Good.” He lets his hand drop onto my leg.

“Remember what I said last night? About what I was going to do to you later?”

I feel my heart quicken.

“Yes.”

“It’s a struggle for me to keep my hands off you right now,” he says, eyeing the driver. “But once we’ve got this fitting out of the way, I’ve got plans for you in my hotel suite.”

“Of course, it would have to be a suite,” I say, smiling and rolling my eyes. “What else?”

“What else indeed.” He turns his attention to the road, and the car slows. “We’re here,” he says.

I look out of the window to see we’ve pulled up at a tiny boutique. In the window is an elegant green ball gown, and a few other cocktail dresses.

“It looks nice,” I murmur as James opens the car door for me.

“I thought you’d like it,” he replies. “It’s one of the best dress shops in Barcelona.”

“Only one of the best?” I tease.

“In my opinion, the best,” he corrects himself. “But everyone has their own taste. Personally, I prefer gowns which are elegant and understated.”

“Me too,” I say as he guides me through the small door. “At least,” I add, “that’s what I know from reading magazines.”

James gives a little chuckle at my honesty as he leads me inside.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he mutters. “If you carry on acting as you have been, you’ll need a fitting for the Oscars.”

I turn to study his face, assessing if he’s joking.

“First things first, Mr Berkeley,” I say sternly. “Let’s see if we can get the movie completed.”

I’m not sure I’m ready for compliments on my acting just yet.

James raises an eyebrow at my comment, but says nothing.

Inside, the shop is empty, but the door triggers an old-fashioned bell. And within moments, a small dark-haired woman in her late thirties appears in the shop. She is artfully dressed in a perfectly fitted suit and wears bright red lipstick and designer half-moon glasses, over which she peers at us.

“Hola,” she says, her red lips breaking into a wide smile.

“Hola,” returns James.

I’d forgotten he spoke Spanish.

“Hola,” I say shyly.

James breaks into a rapid explanation in Spanish. He explains that we have a dress waiting, and I’m here for a fitting.

The woman’s eyes are ranging over me as he speaks, and I assume she’s mentally matching me to the dress I’m being fitted for. Her mouth twitches, as though she’s in on some private joke involving me.

Disconcerted, I catch myself edging a little behind James, and force myself to stand still.

When James finishes speaking, the woman nods and disappears out back. But something in her expression suggests there is something more than just a dress going on here.

“What’s happening?” I whisper to James.

“What do you mean?” he murmurs, his eyes following the woman’s departure.

“She gave me a look,” I hiss. “Is there something about this dress you’re not telling me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” James sounds amused. I purse my lips together, wondering what he has