Page 43 of Let’s Make a Scene

The bartender finishes delivering the drinks I’ve ordered.

“Could you add four more tequila shots to his tab?” Cynthie asks, shooting her the sort of charming smile I’m never treated to. “And a bottle of pinot grigio?” She places her hand on my arm, and I look down at her fingers. “Drinks are on you, right?”

“Right,” I mutter, too discombobulated to come back with a response as I hand over my card. I can’t even concentrate on chatting up the pretty bartender, because Cynthie Taylor is a walking threat to my sanity, and my traitorous heart leaps about like an Olympic gymnast doing a full floor routine whenever she’s near.

How is it possible to be so consistently annoyed by a person, and yet also painfully turned on by their presence? I swear, even in my dreams she won’t leave me alone, and I’ve been waking up every morning hot, hard, and increasingly frustrated. This level of obsession is troubling: I’m about five minutes away from turning into one of those stalkerish Twilight vampires my sister is obsessed with. I’m already alarmingly aware of Cynthie’s scent; next it’ll be drinking her blood under a full moon with my wolf friends (full disclosure, I may have drifted off during the film Lee dragged me to). It has to stop.

Most importantly of all there is this: all my focus needs to be on work. If there’s one thing my dad has drummed into me, it’s that you don’t fuck around on set. The film comes first. Always. Is this totally rich coming from him, considering he met my mother on a film set and they had a raging affair when they were both married to other people? Absolutely. But it doesn’t mean he’s wrong… In fact, if anything, it’s further proof that he’s right. This is my chance to prove myself, and getting distracted by Cynthie Taylor and her sexy mouth is not an option.

Balancing her drinks and glasses on a tray, Cynthie only grins and cuts away through the crowd, while I stop myself from turning to watch her go.

“Three of your finest ales, please, barkeep!” Rufus suddenly booms from beside me, and I’d say he’s already more than half cut as he tries to get a good look down the barmaid’s top. She gives him a thin smile and starts pouring his drinks. “Good place, this,” Rufus says to me with a wink. “Always nice to get a look at some of the local talent.”

When Arjun and I gather ourselves and finally make our way toward Scott, we find him grinning happily in the company of Cynthie and her little coven, all crowded around a small table in front of the stage. Arjun is, naturally, delighted. I place Scott’s pint down in front of him with a little more force than necessary.

“Thanks for the drinks.” Patty smirks, as Arjun pulls out the seat beside her.

“We brought lemons and salt if anyone wants them,” Arjun says. “Cynthie left before the bartender gave them to us.”

“She was probably distracted by Jack’s shit attempts at flirting.” Cynthie snorts into her wineglass.

“No lemons for Cynthie,” I say, twitching the plate away from her. “She’s bitter enough.”

“As fun as this is,” Hannah pipes up, “I think you two should declare a ceasefire for tonight.”

“I agree,” Liam nods. “It is our night off.”

“Can’t we all just be friends?” Scott asks, spreading his hands expansively, and looking at his enormous pupils, I’d say he’s higher than usual tonight. “Love… right?” he finishes, profoundly.

Cynthie shrugs. “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

I give a short bark of laughter. “I can be perfectly civil. It’s you—”

I’m interrupted by Hannah’s gusty sigh. “Off to a great start, guys.”

“How about this?” I lift my shot glass, my eyes meeting Cynthie’s in a challenge. “Temporary truce. One night only.”

Her gaze narrows. “Sure. I can pretend I don’t despise you for a few hours. Probably.”

“I mean, I guess it’s something,” Liam says doubtfully.

“To peace in our time!” Patty lifts her tequila shot.

“Peace in our time.” We all echo her toast, tipping back the shots, and biting into lemon slices with grimaces and groans.

The alcohol slips pleasantly into my bloodstream, just as the microphone lets out a screech of feedback, and Jan, the second AD, launches into an enthusiastic rendition of “Bat Out of Hell.” Just like that, the energy in the room spikes, and the air fills with whoops and cheers.

“Oh, hell yes.” Liam beams. “I’ll get us more shots. This is going to be a great night.”

“I need to sign up.” Arjun leaps to his feet. “You haven’t lived until you’ve heard me sing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.’ ” He grins at Patty, who does her best not to smile back.

“You’re such a dork,” she mutters, but Arjun looks far from discouraged.

In the end, everyone signs up for something, and the next hour is spent getting increasingly tipsy, and egging on whoever is onstage performing.

When it’s my turn, I can’t help the swagger in my step. I had singing lessons with one of the best vocal coaches in the country from the age of nine until I was sixteen, so I approach the microphone with confidence. My go-to karaoke track is “I’m on Fire” by Bruce Springsteen, and I’d love to say that I manage to avoid looking at Cynthie while I sing, but that would be a lie, especially because all the lyrics about burning up for someone feel uncomfortably relevant.

For a split second, I catch a look on her face, an answering flash of heat. Then, deliberately, she looks away and buries her face in her wineglass.