Page 97 of Let’s Make a Scene

Rehearsals went well, and despite her nerves, Cynthie handled everything perfectly—if I didn’t know for a fact that she was having a hard time, then I certainly wouldn’t have guessed it. From the second we returned to the table read after her panic attack, she was a total professional.

Despite the countless hours I’ve spent fantasizing about grinding Shawn Hardy’s bones into dust, Cynthie and I haven’t broached the topic of him again. One thing is very clear: Cynthie Taylor has had a rough go of it lately.

And it’s this thought that has had me trying to keep a certain amount of distance between us over the last week. Not too much—I don’t want her to think I’m avoiding her—but I know I need to be careful, because the more time we spend together, the more time I want to spend with her. I’m ready to admit that Cynthie is firmly under my skin. I’m even ready to admit that she’s been there for thirteen years, but it doesn’t change our absolutely shocking timing.

Between the work we have to do, maintaining a fake relationship, the documentary, and her recent trauma, there are more than enough reasons for me to keep those feelings in check. Or at least to make a decent attempt.

So why am I here on set, outside her trailer when I’m not on the call sheet this morning? Let’s call it professional courtesy, because I’m trying very hard to pretend that’s what it is.

I knock on the door, smiling at the sight of her trailer next door to mine once more. We’re back at Darlcot Manor, and aside from the fact that the equipment looks a bit brighter and shinier, it could almost be thirteen years ago. Jasmine and Logan managed to get about 80 percent of the original cast and crew back, which is no small feat, and that means that I recognize almost everyone—from camera operators to caterers.

“Come in!” Cynthie’s voice calls, and I climb the steps, pulling the door open.

“Hey, I—” I start before I realize we’re not alone. Cynthie is curled up in the corner of the sofa and Brooke and Declan are perched across from her. Declan’s camera swings in my direction.

“Oh,” I murmur. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in the middle of something.”

“No, no, don’t mind us.” Brooke is already leaping to her feet. “We were just doing some preliminary interviews, but it’s great that you’re here. Do you mind if I get Kara to come and mic you?”

I glance at Cynthie, who only looks mildly entertained. Her hair is pulled back, ready for her wig, and her makeup is done, but she’s wearing leggings and an oversize Shania Twain T-shirt.

“Sure,” I say. I guess this documentary business all has to start sometime.

“We’ll just step out for a second,” Brooke says, pulling her phone from her pocket, fingers flying over the screen. “Let you get settled.”

I wait for them to do just that, before I turn back to Cyn, raising my eyebrows. “Is the trailer full of hidden cameras?”

She laughs but carefully switches off the microphone she’s wearing. “Not as far as I know, but I wouldn’t put it past Declan to be peeking through the skylight.”

I huff out a breath. “I haven’t really thought this whole thing through. It’s going to be more complicated than I imagined.”

“We’ll have to be careful,” she agrees, glancing at the mic again as if wanting to double check it’s off. “With us.”

With pretending we’re a couple, she means. Not for the first time I feel my heart sink at the thought. Faking a relationship with her when we hated each other—or at least convinced ourselves we did—was torturous enough, but doing it when I can acknowledge I have very real feelings for her is a whole different kind of nightmare.

“What are you doing here anyway?” She tilts her head at me. “I thought you weren’t on the call sheet until this afternoon. I imagined you’d be enjoying a late rise.”

“I brought you coffee,” I say, holding up a pair of travel cups.

“That’s very sweet of you,” she says, accepting the cup with a smile, “but you do know that there are lots of people here who are happy to get me coffee? Or that I could walk over and get one myself.”

“But this is my very own stash,” I confide. “Scott has my trailer set up like a Starbucks.”

She takes a sip, and chokes. “Oh god, Jack, this is like rocket fuel. How many of these have you had this morning?” She gives me a stern look, and in return I try to appear innocent.

“This is my first one.”

“Lie.” She points at me. “You wouldn’t be this upright at six thirty if you hadn’t already had coffee.”

“Fine, it’s my third,” I admit, leaning back against the counter of the thin galley kitchen that faces her seating area, and draining the cup.

Cynthie closes her eyes. “Your heart is going to explode.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to start making you drink chamomile tea.”

“You and what army, Taylor?”

She huffs in amusement. “So aside from bringing me this very strong but very delicious coffee, what are you doing here, really?”

I shrug. “I didn’t want to miss your first scene. And I guess I wanted to check in, make sure you were feeling good.”