Just as Sullivan prepared to take her measurements, the assistant reentered, pushing racks of gowns into the room. Each rack was color-coordinated: vivid reds, rich blacks, bold blues, elegant whites.
"Pick your favorite," the assistant said brightly.
"Pam, honey," Sullivan interjected. "We're measuring first. Take those back."
"Of course." The assistant smiled and rolled the racks away without complaint.
Heather felt a twinge of overwhelm as her gaze lingered on the sheer number of clothes. It was suffocating. She was reminded of the chaos on set, where ten different opinions would bombard her at once about what outfit suited a role best.
"Mr. Thorne," Sullivan said with a dramatic wave of his hand, "be a gentleman and hold this fabric over her. I wouldn't want the poor woman standing here in her undies."
Heather's eyes flicked toward him, her expression unimpressed. "I'll just go behind the curtain," she said in a sharp tone.
