Page 45 of Let’s Make a Scene

The news doesn’t surprise me. As the music continues, it’s like someone is pumping waves of pheromones straight into the air. Arjun and Patty have shifted closer together, their gazes locked, and they’re not the only ones—one of the camera operators is enthusiastically making out with one of the runners in a dark corner. Someone actually howls like a wolf. I know I’ve heard this song before, but has it always been so… fucking hot?

Cynthie’s eyes meet mine, and I’m glad we’ve called a truce because I can’t summon the energy to sneer. I just look and look, as her voice wraps around me. I watch her red lips move and imagine them leaving their mark all over my body. Whatever she sees in my face makes her voice just that tiny bit huskier, and I have to put my beer glass down so that it doesn’t shatter between my fingers.

She finishes singing and the backing track ends. There’s a second of pure, crystal silence before the whole room is on its feet, stamping and whistling and calling for an encore.

Cynthie doesn’t break eye contact with me. For an endless, hungry beat we stare at each other, and it’s like everything else falls away. The sound of the crowd is a dull roar under the pulsing of my own blood in my ears.

Eventually, Cynthie seems to snap out of it, shaking her head and grinning at her audience. She murmurs her thanks into the microphone and steps down from the stage, chatting for a moment with the young guy who is visibly enthusing over her performance.

I turn back to the table and find five pairs of eyes trained on me.

“Well. That was… interesting,” Arjun says.

I want to take a swig of my drink, but I can’t be sure that my hand is steady, so I clench it in my lap instead.

“What?” I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m not pulling it off. I sound whatever the opposite of nonchalant is: really-fucking-chalant.

“How we all just watched you and Cynthie eye-bang each other across the room?” Patty says like it’s a question. “You don’t think that’s interesting?”

I can’t cope with this. I already feel like my brain has been put through a blender. I am painfully aroused in the middle of a room full of my coworkers. I’m not up to fielding questions about what just happened when I don’t know what just happened.

Fortunately, Cynthie arrives back at the table then, and the attention shifts to her.

“What?” she asks, looking puzzled. Her eyes flick to mine.

I clear my throat. “Arjun was just saying he’s getting the next round in.” I look at my friend, who takes pity on me, leaping to his feet.

“Yup,” he says quickly. “What are we all having?”

As everyone shouts out their drinks orders, I avoid looking at Cynthie and wait for the conversation to settle back into its normal rhythm.

I tell myself I’m fine.

I tell myself nothing happened.

I tell myself I’m in control.

I lie. I lie. I lie.

Chapter 16 CYNTHIE

We arrive back at Alveston Hall just after midnight. Last orders were called and consumed before we were kicked out: rowdy, cheerful and in excellent spirits. I am happily buzzed, relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Well, almost. There was that small incident with Jack earlier. But as we’ve both been carefully ignoring each other since the moment he stared at me like he wanted to rip all my clothes off and fuck me on a stage in front of all our friends and coworkers and I stared back like I’d be totally okay with that, I’m sure it’s all fine.

Totally fine.

Rather than call it a night, someone has lit the big fire pit in the back garden, and we cluster around it on a variety of blankets and cushions that we’ve gathered from the house. Thankfully, Rufus and the obnoxious group of crew members (all older men) he’d been knocking back pints with have peeled off elsewhere to drink themselves into a stupor.

The evening is mild, one of those perfect early-autumn nights where you can still feel the edge of summer in the air. Scott passes a joint around, and I inhale a few drags, appreciating the slow, warm feeling that gradually softens my limbs.

This is a bit like how I imagined going to university would feel—being part of a big, happy group, staying up late talking and drinking and laughing together. It was something that I worried I’d missed out on, and it’s just another part of this whole adventure that feels like a gift.

Someone has a guitar, and usually I’d roll my eyes over that kumbaya-summer-camp-round-the-bonfire nonsense, but the tequila and the weed have left me feeling generous. Maybe it’s actually kind of lovely hearing someone strum a guitar under a velvet night sky full of stars.

“I don’t think that joint was very strong,” Hannah murmurs from beside me where she is sprawled over the little nest of cushions we built together. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Just give it a minute,” I reply, watching the flames in the fire pit dance and twine together in a curiously erotic display. I frown. Am I getting turned on by… fire?