Page 61 of Let’s Make a Scene

When I wake up the next morning it is to the exceptional sight of Cynthie asleep in my bed.

The light is filtering in from the curtains I never bothered to close, and sunlight slants over her face, limning her profile in gold.

She’s lying on her stomach, the sheets thrown back to expose the graceful line of her back.

Her face is turned toward me, long lashes forming a crescent-shaped smudge against her skin thanks to the mascara she was wearing yesterday.

Her hair is tangled, her expression deeply peaceful.

My heart actually, physically, aches while I look at her, and I rub my fingers absently across my chest, as if to ease the pain.

I suppose it’s time to admit what I’ve known all along—I’m so painfully in love with Cynthie Taylor; I don’t know what to do with myself.

And I have no idea how she’s going to feel about it.

After we got home from lunch yesterday, I jumped on her like an animal, but I don’t have it in me to feel sorry about it, and Cynthie certainly didn’t seem to mind.

Watching her take on my parents, defending me, so bright and fierce in the face of their disdain, having to restrain myself all damn day while that silk tease of a dress slipped up and down over her bare legs, sitting next to her at the table, wrapped in her perfume, her knee pressed against mine, her long hair brushing across my arm whenever she turned her head…

I was out of my mind by the time we finally got out of there, barely capable of thought, let alone words.

The second the door closed behind us there was only one thing I wanted, and I took it, took everything Cynthie offered, without restraint or concern about the consequences.

Last night was thirteen years in the making, but never in my wildest fantasies have I come close to imagining how it would be between us.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and then the whole of the night tangled up in bed together, losing ourselves in one another.

Some of what happened was tender and full of soft words, and some of it was a pure, animal need that I didn’t know I held inside me.

Now, in the cold light of day I have no regrets.

I only hope that she won’t either. We still haven’t talked about the state of our relationship.

It’s all very well for my head to be full of fantasies—roses around the door and us, a hundred years old and still together—but she’s just come out of a relationship that could be charitably described as traumatic.

Her life is in a state of upheaval. She might not be ready for this. My blood runs cold at that thought.

She stirs beside me, her lashes flickering. “Are you staring at me like a creep?” she murmurs, her voice still rough with sleep.

I smile. “I might be.” I lean down to kiss her, a sweet, soft “good morning” that spirals swiftly out of control. Soon enough she’s pinned underneath me, panting as I slide inside her once more, the way her body tightens around mine, a gift.

“Feels so good,” she moans.

“That’s because you take me so well,” I murmur, kissing my way down the valley between her breasts, pulling one rosy nipple into my mouth, sucking gently while my hips rock and I feel her muscles clench deliciously around my cock.

I concentrate on making her feel even better, understanding her body well enough now to know what she needs, what she likes, what exactly will have her fisting the bedsheets and screaming my name.

Afterward she lies with her head on my chest, and I smooth her hair back from her face.

“That’s a hell of a way to wake up.” There’s laughter in her voice.

“Beats the alarm clock,” I agree, instead of saying “I could get used to it,” which are the words on the tip of my tongue.

“What time is it?” she asks, lifting her head to squint at the clock on the bedside table.

“Almost eleven.” I hear her stomach growl. “I need to feed you.”

“Yes, you do,” she says, pressing a brief kiss to my mouth as she sits up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “And you need to find me something to wear—we didn’t even get as far as bringing our bags in yesterday. All my stuff is still in the car.”

“I had other priorities.” I run a hand down her arm, and she grins, that sunshine-happy smile that scrunches her nose, and tenderness kicks me right in the chest again. I am in so much trouble here.

“I wasn’t complaining. But I think now it’s time for that tour you promised me.”

“Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll grab your bag out of the car,” I say, slipping out of bed, ready to hunt out some clothes.

Cynthie gives me a long look from under her lashes. “Why don’t we just start the tour with the bathroom?”

I am powerless to resist, and why would I want to? “The shower can be tricky.”

Her mouth curves. “Maybe you can show me how it works.”

So I do.

IT’S ANOTHER HOUR BEFORE WE’RE sitting downstairs in the kitchen. Cynthie’s hair is damp, and because I haven’t yet got as far as going out to the car, she’s wearing one of my T-shirts while she sits at the table watching me fix her scrambled eggs.

“This house is gorgeous,” she says, looking around the sleek, modern kitchen with interest. She had me show her around every room, picking up objects as she went, turning them over in her hands like they were precious: a framed picture of me and Nico from when we were about fifteen, a packet of playing cards, an old theater program from my drama school days, a worn copy of Middlemarch .

She was quiet and thoughtful as she absorbed all the small details.

This is where I live the majority of the time, the place I really consider home, and it feels right to have her here.

Every time she goes into a room it’s as if she was the single thing that had been missing all along.

“I like it,” I agree now, adding the eggs to the pan where they sizzle.

“I love being in New York, but London definitely feels like home.” Fortunately, Scott has arranged with the cleaning company I use to leave some essentials in the kitchen so we don’t have to go anywhere.

Most importantly, there’s an entire cupboard full of coffee beans, and my expensive machine—the other love of my life—hums contentedly in the corner.

“So this is where you’re based when you’re not filming?” she asks. “Do you see much of your parents when you’re here?”

“Not really,” I say, gently moving the eggs in the pan. “I know that it’s close to their place, but we don’t exactly move in the same circles. To tell you the truth, I avoid seeing them as much as possible.”

Cynthie sighs. “They really are always like that, then?”

“Now you know why I didn’t want you anywhere near them thirteen years ago,” I say. “They’re toxic.”

I watch her absorb this, her eyes widening as she rearranges the memory.

“Honestly?” I continue. “That was pretty good behavior for them. That’s why Nico turned up…

to play peacekeeper. He’s been doing it since we were kids, and he must have known I’d be on edge bringing you there.

I only mentioned it to him in passing, but I think he drove straight over from the airport.

I noticed he still had his bags in the backseat of the car. ”

Cynthie’s expression softens at that. “That’s kind of him. I liked him a lot.”

“He’s my Hannah, I guess,” I say, turning the heat off on the stove.

“We’ve been through a lot together. We don’t get to see much of each other now—my schedule is bad enough, but his is absolutely wild.

If he’s not climbing mountains in Nepal or rappelling into glaciers in the Arctic, he’s photographing lions in Botswana.

” I shrug. “We stay in touch as much as possible, but it’s hard to imagine him being in one place for too long. ”

“You miss him,” Cynthie says.

“I do. We used to live in each other’s pockets as kids, but things change. He’s doing what he loves and I’m proud of him.”

“I figured those were his photographs on the wall in the living room,” she says. “He’s really talented.”

“He is,” I agree as the toast pops up and I serve our breakfast. I put the plate in front of Cynthie, along with her coffee, and lean down to place a quick kiss on her temple.

“My own personal barista.” She hums with pleasure.

“Scott says at least I’ve always got a backup career.”

We dig into the food, making easy conversation. Under the table, our feet twine together. It’s the sort of Sunday morning I can imagine us having all the time.

We’re interrupted by my phone ringing, and I look down at the screen. “It’s my agent,” I say. “Do you mind if I take it?”

She makes a go-ahead gesture with her fork.

“Hi, Mike,” I pick up the call.

“Jack!” Mike booms. “I’ve got great news!”

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows at Cynthie, who can hear every word Mike is saying, because the only volume he has is eleven.

“Our plan’s worked wonders, and the producers have come back with a very healthy offer for season six, a full order of twenty-two episodes. Looks like Caleb lives to fight another day!”

“Yes!” I bring my hand down hard on the table. “That is fucking great.”

“I know.” Mike is just as delighted. “Apparently all the press you’ve been getting the last few weeks has viewing figures way up.

They’re thrilled and they’ve got big plans for you, more screen time.

I don’t suppose you’d be up for a conversation about continuing this little arrangement you have going with Cynthie Taylor for a while longer? ”

My eyes shift to Cynthie who is no longer looking at me, but down at her plate. “That wasn’t the agreement,” I say carefully.

“I know,” Mike replies, oblivious “but worth a punt, isn’t it? Do you think she’d be up for it? If you ask me, it’s got her out of a pretty deep hole, so she should be grateful—”

“I’ll talk to Cynthie,” I cut him off.

“Sure, sure.” Mike’s tone is airy. “We’ll discuss later. I’ll ping all the initial stuff through to Scott now for you to look over.”