Page 55 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Thank you,” I manage. I’m glad that my eyes are hidden behind my own sunglasses, because I can only imagine how wildly horny they are. Suddenly ice cream and hand-holding don’t seem wholesome at all. Suddenly this seems like the most startlingly erotic date imaginable.

He presses me farther back into the doorway, crowding me in a way that leaves me breathless.

“Oh!” I murmur. “This is it, right? It’s happening? The lean, I mean.”

For a moment—somehow—I’d forgotten the photographers clustered a few feet away, but Jack obviously hadn’t. The ice cream–sharing thing probably looked very effective. It’s a good job that at least one of us is focused on the task in hand rather than just melting into a useless puddle of hormones.

“It’s happening,” Jack confirms, and his hand goes up to rest on the wall next to my head.

He leans.

I wonder if Gayle will be upset if I faint in front of the cameras. Jack hasn’t kissed me… He’s actually not touching me at all. His chest is separated from mine by a few precious millimeters, though even that distance is almost closed every time I inhale.

His sunglasses slip down his nose, just a touch, and I glimpse amusement in his eyes before they move to my mouth and his face grows serious.

We stand like that for a while—I don’t know how long—looking at each other, and I can’t seem to steady myself.

I need to catch my breath, need to be able to think straight. This whole thing is supposed to be a business arrangement, but it’s day one, and I already feel wildly out of control.

It’s this realization that helps me recover my grip on what remains of my sanity.

“I think that’s probably enough leaning, now,” I say, keeping my voice under rigid control.

He freezes. The hand near my head peels slowly away from the wall, and he pushes his glasses back up, shielding his expression.

“Yes, they should have what they need, don’t you think?” he asks mildly, like he’s commenting on the weather.

He pulls away, and the distance he puts between us isn’t just physical; it’s something else too, like the barriers have gone back up. It’s a firm reminder that what we’re doing is only acting. We’re playing pretend for an audience. Jack Turner-Jones isn’t my lover; he’s not even my friend.

“Yes. That’s plenty for today,” I agree. “I’m going to head home.”

When Jack sees me to my car, I get in and drive away.

And I don’t look back.

THEN THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 19 JACK

The day after karaoke brings a fresh supply of disasters.

I’m woken at 6:00 a.m. by the shrill ringing of my phone. I blink, my eyes gritty with lack of sleep, and the ceiling wavers above me, taking a moment to steady. I didn’t go to bed until two, and I spent another hour or so after that lying awake and viciously torturing myself with the memory of what had happened—or almost happened—with Cynthie.

That whole scene by the fire has completely messed with my head, and honestly, I was barely clinging to my sanity long before that. She’d been so open with me, had let her guard down for the first time, and—miraculously—I had too. I said things to her, this woman who an hour before I would have called my worst enemy, that I’ve never said to anyone else.

And then we nearly kissed. So nearly, that I can still taste the breathy little sigh she made against my mouth. I had to physically run away to keep myself from leaping on her—had practically left a trail of smoke behind me as I tore out of there.

Hours later I’m still vibrating with want, a need that threatens to choke me, but I know I did the right thing, that I pulled back just in time. She was drunk and stoned and vulnerable, and she’s my costar. There are rules, rules I have for a good reason. My brain knows that I can’t even entertain the idea of kissing her.

But try telling that to the rest of me.

Shit.

The phone is still ringing, and I grab for it.

“ ’Lo?” I manage, voice husky. As someone who doesn’t usually drink much, the mix of tequila and beer has left me feeling rough.

“Jack?” Marion’s voice is a direct contrast to mine, crisp and efficient—even though the last time I saw her she’d been playing beer pong on the pub’s pool table with the entire sound department. “We’ve got a bit of a problem with the property schedule, and we’ve had to shift things around. I need you on set as soon as possible. We’re going to film scene forty-five today instead of later in the week.”