Page 52 of Let’s Make a Scene

He pulls up a video of him and Priya singing and dancing to Moana while Patty cackles in the background. Arjun is shirtless and wearing a Maui wig and a grass skirt made of green streamers. It’s a video that I’ve watched approximately one million times, and Jack chuckles, delighted.

“That’s nothing,” Hannah huffs. “You need to see me and Cyn teaching her the Macarena. Passing on our rich cultural history to the youth.”

“The children are our future,” Liam intones solemnly. “Priya and I are having a Britney debrief next week. She has a lot of questions about the eye shadow in the ‘Oops!… I Did It Again’ video.”

“That is definitely going to end with me in a red PVC catsuit,” Arjun groans.

“Excellent.” Patty smirks.

“Hey.” Jack leans in close to me, his voice a warm touch against my ear. “There are a couple of people with a pretty good view of us, who are taking photos. Is it okay if I put my arm around the back of your chair?”

I’m surprised but pleased that he asked first, mostly because I think I would have jumped out of my skin the second he touched me if I hadn’t had any warning. Now, at least, there’s time to prepare myself.

“Sure,” I whisper, and when I turn to look at him, his face is still close enough for me to see every silver fleck in those blue, wolf eyes of his.

His arm slips around my back, and when his fingers toy casually with the end of my ponytail, I realize how laughable it is that I thought I could prepare myself. I am instantly enveloped in the scent of him, clean linen, and the sort of aftershave they make mad TV adverts about—men who smell like the desert and also pine trees and the moon, then suddenly they’re walking through the stars and for some reason there’s a panther… I’m getting distracted. I can’t concentrate on anything when his big body is right next to me, and his white T-shirt strains around his biceps.

We sit like this for a while, and I keep half my mind on the conversation, and half on the exact position of Jack’s fingers at all times. Okay… maybe it’s more like 40 percent on the conversation 60 percent on him. Thirty/seventy at the worst. At one point he leans forward to pass Patty a dish: the hand behind me slides up, brushing the bare skin of my arm, and I drop my fork with a clatter.

I definitely need to get a grip. On more than my cutlery.

Eventually, Jack leans into me again and asks, “Do you like ice cream?”

I lift my brows. “Is that some sort of trick question?”

“Not at all.” His mouth pulls up. “There’s a really good ice cream shop down the block. I wondered if you wanted to go get one… It’ll give us a chance to see if the photographers have taken the bait.”

“Right,” I say, butterflies suddenly alive in my stomach. “Good idea.”

I must not look very happy because he removes his arm from around me and says, carefully, “But we don’t have to do that. I know what we planned, but you can change your mind about any of it at any time. We’re in charge here, so we can absolutely call it a day.”

I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, because the vague plan that we made for today involved us getting “caught” kissing by the photographers, though we hadn’t yet gone into the details of how we were going to make that happen. It would depend on if the paparazzi turned up.

When I first suggested this plan, I told myself that it was absolutely no different from kissing someone on camera; it was only acting a part. Unfortunately, what I had conveniently put out of my mind was that kissing Jack on camera had been a disaster of epic proportions. Now that he’s actually here in front of me, that particular memory comes sharply back into focus, and I would rather it didn’t.

“No,” I say after a moment. “It’s fine. It would be good to know what we’re dealing with either way. Ice cream is a good idea.”

“Well, ice cream is always a good idea,” Jack says. “But as for the rest of it, let’s go out there and then play it by ear.”

“Improv.” I smile weakly. “I like it.” I turn to face my friends. “Okay, guys, we’re going to love you and leave you.”

Everyone gets to their feet, and there’s a round of hugging and kissing before Jack and I slip away.

“I wonder—” I begin as we make our way outside, but I don’t have time to finish that thought because there are about twenty photographers camped outside, and they all start going wild as soon as we walk out the door.

“Okay,” Jack says, curving his body protectively to shield me from the barrage of flashes. “I guess they really did take the bait.” For the first time he sounds nervous.

“Are you all right?” I ask, glancing up at him.

I have a terrific view of the way his jaw tightens. “Yeah, it’s just a bit more than I was expecting.”

I shrug. “Maybe you didn’t hear, but I’m a pretty big scandal right now. Everyone wants a picture of me looking sad and repentant. Or—even better—out of control and on a bender.”

He looks down at me, and his eyes narrow. “Well, fuck that. How about a photo of you looking happy and eating ice cream instead?”

I manage a smile. “That sounds good.”

We head down the block, and the photographers follow or try to run in front of us, taking pictures and shouting our names.