Page 66 of Let’s Make a Scene

I kept having to distract myself by focusing on the bizarrely phallic lamp sitting on the table beside her.

The evening has gone better than expected, and hopefully I’ve made some tentative inroads in helping Cynthie to see I’m not the same scared, unhappy kid she once knew. All of that good work would definitely be undone if she knew how much I wanted to press her down on the sofa and ease her out of that soft, oversize sweater that she wore.

I shift on the bed. Whatever this feeling is, I need to get a handle on it. Not only are Cynthie and I in precisely the same precarious situation we were in before—costarring in a film and being forced to pantomime a relationship for the press—but it’s increasingly obvious that she’s had a tough time lately. There’s something fragile and sad about her that makes me want to plow my fist into Shawn Hardy’s face, even without knowing all the details. The spitfire I knew is there, but she’s taken a battering, that much is obvious. She practically burst into tears over a couple of tubs of ice cream, and in that moment I realized that for weeks she’s had nothing but vitriol and abuse directed at her. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. Thousands of strangers on the internet baying for blood.

What she needs right now is a friend, not a man with a giant, thirteen-year-long crush on her.

I turn my attention back to my book with renewed determination. A couple of pages in, there’s a soft knock at the door.

“Jack?” Cynthie’s voice calls softly. “Are you still up?”

I scramble from the bed with a speed that is frankly embarrassing, and pull the door open.

“Hey,” I say as casually as I can manage. “What’s going on?”

Cynthie blinks. An adorable line appears between her brows, and she stares at me. “What?” she asks, finally.

I can’t help smiling. “I don’t know. You knocked on my door.”

“Oh!” she starts. “Yes, sorry, I was thrown by the…” She gestures in front of her face, and it takes me a moment to work out what she’s talking about.

“My glasses?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious. “I need them for reading.”

“Mmm,” she says, her eyes—still wide on mine—look a bit glazed. “They… They suit you.”

An inconvenient punch of desire jabs me in my gut. “Thanks,” I reply, clearing my throat.

Her gaze finally moves from my face to the room behind me. The bedsheets are rumpled, and my book is open face down on them.

I watch the movement of her throat as she swallows. “Are you reading Persuasion?” she asks, and she sounds even more flustered.

“It seemed like a good idea,” I reply, still feeling edgy. “With the film. You know, thwarted lovers, second chances.” Our eyes meet for a beat too long, and I hurry on, “… er, Regency England setting. I figured it would put me in the mood. Have you read it?”

She nods. “It’s one of my favorites.” The line is back between her eyes, and we stand in silence for a moment while she seems to be having some sort of internal conversation.

Like me, she’s changed into her pajamas, and despite the fact that they cover as much of her as her regular clothes, it feels intimate. Her hair is pulled up in a knot on top of her head and her bare toes peep out from under her plaid pajama bottoms.

I’ve never previously understood people with foot fetishes, but the sight is enough to have me shifting uneasily, wanting to scoop her up, throw her on the bed, and kiss those pretty little toes before turning my attention elsewhere…

“So,” I say finally, my voice rough. “Was there something you needed?” ME PERHAPS??? my brain yells, while I try to ignore it.

Cynthie snaps back to focus. “Yes! Right, sorry. Gayle just sent me this, and I thought you’d want to see it…” She holds out her phone, swiping at the screen.

It shows a slightly grainy photo of the two of us hugging outside her house. Spotted! the caption below it reads, surrounded by red flashing light emojis. Jack Turner-Jones visits Cynthie Taylor at her home in LA. Looks like things are heating up for these former lovebirds.

“Jesus,” I murmur. “They really didn’t waste any time, did they?”

Cynthie turns the phone around and examines it for a moment. “Gayle said it might be a good idea for you to pop out for coffee or something in the morning… just to, you know, really sell it that you…”

“Spent the night?” I finish.

A hint of color hits her cheeks and she nods. “Sorry, I know it’s awkward.”

I shrug, lean against the doorway. “Not really. As long as I can get doughnuts too.”

Her smile is a surprise to both of us, I think. It’s sweet and genuine, scrunching her nose. “I’m going to insist on it.”

“No problem.” I smile back, wanting to keep that look on her face forever.