Page 70 of Let’s Make a Scene

Epilogue CYNTHIE

“And Jack,” the moderator says from behind his podium, “how are you feeling about season seven?”

I watch from the side of the stage as Jack leans forward in his seat, grinning wide. “I’m feeling great about it. We’ve got a lot of fun stuff coming up.”

The enormous Comic-Con crowd cheers. They’re so loud that the floor shakes, and Jack’s expression is gleeful. He looks unbearably handsome, so I’m not surprised it sounds like he’s about to cause some sort of riot.

“And is there any truth to the rumor that there might be a musical episode?” the moderator presses. “I know a lot of fans would be excited to see that.”

The screaming crowd reaches a higher pitch at this, and Jack laughs.

“I’m pretty sure my wife started this rumor,” he says, and it’s my turn to smile as I twist the gold band on my ring finger.

Jack’s turned into an even bigger my-wife guy than Theo.

Clemmie and I have had to call off our drinking game for the time being now that she’s pregnant, but the last few times we played the pair of us got totally smashed because, the two of them together are utterly out of control.

“She just likes to see me tap-dance,” Jack continues.

“And not all of us have been off over the summer starring in West End musicals,” Emily, one of Jack’s costars teases him. “Trust me, no one wants to hear Phil belting out show tunes.”

Phil, who plays Jack’s uncle in the show, grimaces. “That is… accurate.”

I linger in the shadows for another couple of minutes, enjoying myself. Jack is happy and relaxed as the questions continue. He laughs with his friends, charms the audience, and I know he’s fired up about starting shooting on the series in a few weeks.

When it looks like things are wrapping up, I slip away, following the directions of the helpful assistant toward Jack’s dressing room.

After I close the door behind me, I take a second to check my reflection in the mirror and spot the photos he’s tucked around the edge.

They’re the same ones that graced his dressing room every night that he performed in Singin’ in the Rain at the theater on Drury Lane: there’s one of the two of us windswept and beaming into the camera, my hand—adorned with a giant diamond ring— cradling his cheek; there’s one of Priya dressed as Gru surrounded by six inflatable minions; there’s a battered Polaroid of me and Jack from all those years ago.

I’m wearing a wig, a ballgown, and a pair of sunglasses, and I’m looking down at my phone.

Jack is dressed in full Regency getup, clutching a cup of coffee.

He’s looking at me.

I touch my finger to the photograph and feel a familiar rush of affection for those two dummies who didn’t know what was right in front of them. Fortunately, we got there in the end. Turns out Jack was right: we were the real love story all along.

Voices reach me from outside the door, and I turn, leaning back against the dressing table as it swings open and my husband steps in. His eyes fall on me, and happiness knocks all the air out of my lungs when I catch the look of delight on his face.

“What—” he starts, but he doesn’t get very far, because I’m already running for him, leaping up into his open arms.

My legs go round his waist and my mouth crashes into his. He stumbles back, kicks out blindly with his foot to slam the door behind him, and with a growl that I feel deep in my core, he returns my kiss. Enthusiastically.

JACK

I pull back from Cynthie, looking down into her beautiful, flushed face. “I thought you and Hannah were still in New York for your meeting?” I manage, and then—before she can answer—I drop my mouth to hers again, pulling her tighter against me.

I don’t care when she got here, or how, all I care about is this: her hands, her mouth, the delicate skin on her neck. I bury my face there, drinking in the scent of her perfume, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her throat.

“We finished up early and I flew straight out,” she replies, breathless. “I caught the end of your panel. You were great.”

I press another soft kiss to her lips and reluctantly release her so that she’s standing on her own feet. She stays close, her fingers toying with the buttons on my waistcoat.

“How did it go?” I ask.

Her face lights up, and seeing her happy is my drug of choice. My bloodstream buzzes with the hit. “It was great. She loved our pitch, and we’re going to option the book. It’s going to make an amazing movie.”

“It will with you directing it.” I kiss her again. “I knew you guys had it in the bag.”

“Hannah did all the hard work,” Cynthie insists, but I know my wife. No one can resist her. Cynthie’s been looking for her first solo directing gig for a while, and this second-chance rom-com is the perfect fit. Even Jasmine agreed.

Plus, with Hannah in charge, their production company has been going from strength to strength.

It doesn’t hurt that their first film—Brooke’s documentary about women in the film industry—won a raft of awards, including an Independent Spirit Award back in February.

Personally, I think the biggest prize was the immaculate takedown of Shawn Hardy.

His clever ex-wife even managed to get in a good slap to his face that went viral.

Sometimes I watch it when I need to unwind.

“We have to celebrate,” I say now. “Let me take you out for dinner.”

Cynthie steps back, boosting herself up onto my dressing table. She runs her gaze over me, slowly.

“I have a better idea,” she says.

I step between her thighs, already dizzy with how much I want her. I’ll never get enough of this, never get enough of the two of us together.

“Oh, really?” I murmur, leaning forward, my hands coming down either side of her hips, caging her in.

“Mmm.” Her head tips back as she looks at me, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. “I’ve just had to spend the last hour watching you onstage dressed in your sexy librarian costume.”

I huff a laugh and glance down at the tweed waistcoat over the white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. My wife and her hot-librarian kink.

I reach out and run my hand up her bare calf, pushing the hem of her skirt over her knees. Her breath catches, and I want to bottle the sound. My mouth comes down over hers and I deepen the kiss, as my fingers drift higher.

“Jack,” she whispers against my mouth, her lips curved into my favorite smile.

“Yes, Cynthie?”

“Leave the glasses on.”