Baby I'm Yours (Angel Sands 5)

1

Harper Hayes was running late again.

Okay, so it was only five minutes, and she was making it up to them by carrying in a whole cardboard tray full of barista-made coffees – the reason for her tardiness. But it was only her ninth week on the job, and her attempts to make the best impression were definitely falling short.

The door to the workshop was closed. Harper frowned, trying to decide whether to risk sloshing the drinks as she pushed on the handle with her elbow, or to take the extra time to put the tray on the floor, open the door, pick it up again, and…

The door flew open, the edge slamming into the tray she was still holding. She stumbled back as the cups flew everywhere, coffee spraying across the walls, the floor, and most particularly on Harper’s white embroidered dress.

Almost immediately, she dropped to her knees, attempting to pick up the fallen cups and stop the coffee from pouring out of them. The floor was a puddle of brown liquid, and the whitewashed walls resembled some kind of collaboration between the artist Jackson Pollock and Starbucks.

She didn’t want to look at herself, at the dress she’d made from a vintage fabric she’d discovered in a flea market in upstate New York, or at whoever had opened the door and was silently surveying the caffeine massacre she’d created.

Whoever it was cleared their throat. Harper slowly lifted her head, her pink-tipped blonde hair falling wetly on her shoulders. She didn’t recognize the woman at all. In her stark black suit and pulled back hair she looked strangely out of place in the costume department.

“Miss Hayes?”

“Yes?” Harper half-frowned as she nodded at the woman.

“You’re late. The meeting started twenty minutes ago.”

Harper blinked. “What meeting?”

“Didn’t you get the text? All members of the costume department to attend a meeting in the boardroom. Eight-thirty sharp,” the woman clucked. “You’re the only one who isn’t there.”

Harper managed to pick up the last of the cups, and put it back on the tray. “I didn’t get a text.” Unless it came in the last twenty minutes, when she was in line at the coffee shop, smiling at a little kid who was drinking a baby chino in his stroller. She grimaced, pulling her phone from the tiny grey purse slung across her body. Sure enough there was a text from her head of department.

“You should probably head over there now.”

Harper nodded. “I will. Just as soon as I clean myself up.” She smiled at the woman who didn’t smile back. “And call the janitor.”

The woman let out a sigh. “I’ll call the janitorial staff. Go straight to the boardroom before it’s too late.”

“Too late?” Harper tipped her head to the side, trying to work the woman out. “For what?”

But the woman had already turned and walked back into the department, slamming the door behind her and turning the lock. For a second Harper stared at it, as though by some miracle she’d developed x-ray vision and could see through to the design tables and shelves with reams of fabric of every description. Behind the workshop was the wardrobe itself, though it was a paltry description for something so huge. Rack upon rack of covered costumes, some dating back to the heydays of the 1920s and 1930s when Hollywood was all about glamor and glitz, with clothing to reflect it.

Two months into working here and Harper was still star struck. Even walking through the security gate gave her a buzz, making her grin at the thought of how many famous actors had stepped on the same ground as her. On her first day she’d been taken on a tour and seen the sound stages, the outdoor sets, along with the huge office building housing the massive administrative staff who were the engine behind all the movie magic.

Her co-worker had explained they were often called out while the cameras were rolling to deal with wardrobe malfunctions and repairs. It was their job to get to the set as quickly as possible to assist the team already there, with the right tools, colored threads, and accessories needed. And though the movie she was assigned to was still in pre-production, she couldn’t wait to see the designs they’d been working on brought to life.

The excitement and adrenaline were everything she’d been looking for when she had made the move from New York, where she’d been working in the costume department on Broadway. Along with her side hustle of selling one-off, handmade clothes on Etsy, this job ticked off every requirement in her creative box.

“What the heck happened to the floor?”

Harper turned to her left to see three of her co-workers walking up the hall. Damon, Marcia, and Bree had been working here for years, but had welcomed her into the department with open arms.

But right now they looked anything but welcoming. Damon’s expression was the kind of dark clouds you never saw in the California sky, and Marcia looked as though she was about to cry.

“Is the meeting over?” Harper asked, biting her lip. She was going to have to kiss some major ass over this. “I was about to join you but…” she trailed off, inclining her head at the pool of coffee at her feet.

“Yeah it’s over.” Damon’s voice sounded as dark as his expression. “And we’re over too. Kaput. Fired.”

Marcia gave a little sob.

Harper blinked. “You are? Why?” She’d only been here for a short time, but that was enough to see how skillful they all were.

“No, you don’t understand,” Bree said. She was the oldest of them, having worked in different studios across Hollywood for the past thirty years. “We’re fired. All of us. They’re closing the department.”

&nbs

p; Harper froze like a statue. The sound of her pulse rushed through her ears. Two months and two days. That’s how long she’d been here. Two months, two days, and a whole load of debt from moving to L.A. just to work here.

“We have ten minutes to pack our things and leave.” Bree checked her watch. “Make that nine.” She pushed at the door to their department, grimacing when it didn’t budge. “They’ve locked us out, those rat bastards.”

“Bree!” Marcia said, tears still pouring down her face. “You don’t swear.”

“I don’t get fired either,” she muttered, rapping on the door. “And somebody had better let me in. My sewing box is in there. I’m not leaving without it.”

It was as though Harper was in a see-through plastic box, the sound of their conversation muffled by the thoughts whirling around her head. She was fired. The thought of it made her feel sick. Along with the thought of her cramped Melrose apartment that took up more than half her wages, and the small red Toyota she’d just taken a loan out for.

And as she looked down at the coffee on the grey tiled floors, which was also covering the front of her pretty dress, she found her eyes stinging with tears.