Page 13 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Cynthie,” I shout, and several heads turn. Not hers, though. I hurry after her and call her name again. I’m a lot taller than she is, so it’s not hard to catch up, and when I’m right behind her I realize she’s not ignoring me, not on purpose anyway—she has headphones in.

I say her name again, and when I get no response, I reach out, gently touching her elbow.

She turns sharply, the tote bag on her shoulder swinging with her and socking me in the stomach with plenty of momentum. Her hands are raised in what looks like a comedy karate chop pose, and if all the air hadn’t just been knocked out of me, I might have laughed. As it is I let out a rusty wheeze.

“Oh,” she says coolly, “it’s you.” She pulls her headphones out of her ears, and I’m hit with a blast of Kelly Clarkson, before she stuffs the headphones in her bag.

“I didn’t hear you over my righteously-angry-women playlist.” She gives me a pointed look.

“Fair enough.” I nod, and I lift my hand to the back of my neck. Now that I’ve found her, I’m not sure what to say. “Er, can we… talk?”

She crosses her arms. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please?” I gesture to a nearby coffee shop. “Let me buy you a coffee?”

She stares at me, and my gaze drops to her mouth when her lips purse. My body temperature kicks up, presumably because it’s hot as hell out here. Finally, she gives a stiff nod. “You can buy me a cup of tea. Milk no sugar. But only because London prices are criminal and I’m thirsty.”

“Tea, sure.” I agree quickly, ushering her through the door and off the hot, noisy street.

The coffee shop is fairly empty, and—thankfully—hums with the sound of air-conditioning. “You go find a seat,” I say. “I’ll grab us some drinks.”

Again, she hesitates, but then to my relief, she stomps off to sit in one of the booths. I grin weakly at the girl behind the counter and order a tea and a large coffee with an extra shot of espresso. Hopefully the caffeine will inspire me—I currently have no idea what I’m going to say.

Regardless of what I flung at Logan in the heat of the moment, I know that they’re not going to push to recast Cynthie… not after one table read, no matter how disastrous it was. I have to work with her, and that’s going to be hard enough without any added animosity. Given that she’s currently glaring at me across a coffee shop, with enough ice in her gaze to lower the temperature in the already chilled place by several degrees, I’m about to have my work cut out for me.

But, hey, I can be charming.

“One tea,” I say, placing the cup down in front of her with a smile.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, not looking at me.

I slide into the seat across from her. “So—” I start.

“Believe me, I know exactly what you’re going to say,” she interrupts.

“You do?” I ask, relieved, because broaching the subject of what she’d overheard me say to Logan is a bit of a minefield. I’m happy to let her take the lead, then I can add in a bit of groveling and we can leave here on good, professional terms.

“You think I’m a disaster, that I’m going to mess this all up.” She looks into her cup of tea.

“Errr,” I flounder, because actually yes, I do think that, but I’m supposed to be smoothing things over between us. “That’s not—”

“That is what you said, isn’t it?” She looks up then, her eyes boring into mine.

“Well, yes, but—”

“I know it’s tough, having someone so inexperienced brought in,” she continues, as if I haven’t spoken, and her tone is agitated. “But instead of behaving like an arrogant jerk, you could have offered to help; you could have been supportive. We could work together…”

Even though she is basically saying the things I was going to say to her, I find myself bristling at her tone.

“You don’t seem to realize or care that this is actually a huge deal for me,” Cynthie carries on, and there’s a flash of hurt in her eyes. “This part, this opportunity is a dream come true. Do you think I want to mess it up?”

Guilt nips at me with sharp little teeth. “I’ll admit that it was unfortunate…” I begin again, trying to be careful with my words.

“Unfortunate,” she scoffs.

“… that you overheard what you did,” I push on, “but we need to be professional about this. Listen, I’m not trying to be cruel, but if you want to be in this business you have to toughen up. Learn to take a bit of criticism.”

I’m vaguely horrified to hear myself parroting my father, but god, if anyone ever needed this advice, it’s Cynthie Taylor. She has to have a thicker skin than this, because what I said was nothing compared to the shit she’s going to hear. I could tell her some horror stories about the type of soul-crushing feedback I’ve had—and that’s just from the people I share DNA with. She’s trying to break into a world of critics and backstabbers, one full of people who would absolutely love to see her fail. It’s not for the faint of heart. Better she learns that lesson now.