Page 105 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Unfortunately…” I start again, uneasy. My eyes drift to Steve Carell who makes a keep going gesture with his hand. “Jack—” but I’m cut off by a wave of hysterical screaming and cheering, and finally, I see what the fuss is about and I stop dead.

Because striding down the aisle toward me is Jack.

He looks tired, angry, and gorgeous. And wet. He’s wet.

He climbs the stairs, two at a time.

It must have been raining outside, because there’s water in his hair. His T-shirt clings damply to the muscles in his arms, the planes of his chest, as he comes for me, approaching like a thunderstorm, lightning in his eyes.

I take a sharp step back away from the podium, and then he’s right there, reaching for me. His hand goes to my waist, pulling me against him, hard, our chests pressed firmly together, and I exhale in shock, automatically tipping my head back as his other hand comes up to my cheek. For a second our eyes meet, and the crowd, the cameras, Steve-freaking-Carell… they all melt away.

When his mouth comes down on mine, it’s like a bomb goes off inside me. There’s a moment, suspended in bright, white light, before sensation rushes in. It’s all heat and fire and the taste of him, his tongue against mine, the faintest scrape of his canines over my bottom lip. I shiver as his arm goes underneath me, scooping me off my feet while my own arms twine around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Demanding him closer. I can feel his heart beating under his damp T-shirt. I run my fingers through his wet hair, kissing him like I mean it, kissing him because I can.

Then something happens. The angle changes. His mouth gentles over mine and he presses a final, soft kiss against my lips. The feel of it is different; the taste of it is different. It’s sweet and slow, a warm-honey kiss that spreads through my whole body. And, slowly, slowly, the world creeps back in.

Our mouths break apart, and Jack looks at me. We’re both struggling to catch our breath. The audience is feral; they sound like they’re about to tear the theater apart. The floor is shaking.

He continues to stare at me, his fingers lingering against my cheek, then his hand falls away and he’s still carrying me with one arm when he turns and faces the crowd. He leans towards the microphone, getting in really close. The side of his mouth pulls up in an irresistible smirk. “Sorry I’m late.”

Then, as laughter fills the room, he lowers me to the floor and I slide against his body, pretending to laugh too while he slings a casual arm around my shoulders and picks up the award in his other hand. With a wave to the audience, we make our way offstage.

I can’t believe that just happened.

I can’t believe he just did that. Of course it was nothing like the brief, low-key kiss we had planned. Of course it couldn’t be. No, it had to be that—it had to be a kiss that tore me apart and put me back together again, that left me shaking and wanting more, needing him in front of a live TV audience.

I am incandescent. A tornado made of lust and fury. I want to rip all Jack’s clothes off here and now, but I also want to punch him right in the nose.

We’re ushered away from the side of the stage and into a small holding area surrounded by black drapes.

“Someone will come and take you along to the green room in a moment,” the production assistant says, already on the move.

“Wow,” Steve Carell says brightly. “You guys really put on a show there.”

“Not now, Steve Carell!” I snap before I swing around to face Jack. “What the actual fuck?”

And then Jack laughs. He laughs.

Nose punching it is. My sweaty little paw is already clenching itself into a fist.

But Jack clearly has no sense of self-preservation, because he only shrugs and runs a hand through his damp hair, and I am forced to watch his bicep flex and… just… how dare he?

“My flight was delayed,” he says. “I hate to break it to you, Taylor, but I don’t have control of weather patterns over the Atlantic. I made it, didn’t I?”

“That is not what I meant,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Although it would have been nice if you’d made a bit more time in your busy schedule to allow for this sort of problem. Nice to know how little you give a shit.”

His smile fades, and I feel an inconvenient jab of guilt, because there are dark circles smudged under his eyes. He actually looks pretty exhausted.

“I am literally in the middle of filming,” he says, “and I flew halfway across the world to be here. I haven’t slept since…” He squints. “Actually, I haven’t got a fucking clue because I think today might be my yesterday or something. But anyway, it’s been a long time, Cynthie. I am tired; I’m hungry; I’m at an awards ceremony in a wet T-shirt that I’ve been wearing since… tomorrow, and now you’re giving me shit about my commitment?”

“You know that’s not why I’m upset,” I hiss, refusing to be talked down. “That kiss was not what we agreed on.”

He groans, a clear sound of frustration. “That’s it? You’re pissed about the kiss?”

Jack looks at me, and I cross my arms, my expression mutinous.

“Of course you are,” he rumbles, and his blue eyes sharpen dangerously. “And shall I tell you why? You’re pissed because that kiss was the most honest thing to come from your mouth in months. You’re pissed because you want me, and you have no idea what to do about it.”

“Ha!” I stride toward him, drilling my finger into his chest. “You’d love to think so, wouldn’t you? You really are the most egotistical, narcissistic—”