Chapter 7 Cynthie
“Rules?” he asks, and he leans forward again, resting those perfect forearms of his on his knees while I try not to stare at him, to keep my body as still as possible.
Baby pronghorn antelopes do that to avoid being eaten by coyotes.
I know because I watched a documentary about it from my depression nest last week.
I’m going full baby antelope on this situation.
There’s no way lust is sinking its coyote teeth into me.
“Yes, rules.” I clear my throat, scrambling to stay on track.
“Let’s assume that I believe at least some of what you’re saying and you have your own reasons for doing this.
How do you picture it working? There will be a documentary crew following us around so it’s going to have to be convincing.
” I can hear the anxiety bleeding into my own words at this.
He only nods calmly, like he’s been giving it some thought. “The way I see it, we have a couple of months before filming starts, when we can schedule some public events so that we enter the documentary as an established couple.”
“Public events?”
“Dates,” he clarifies. “Where we get our picture taken. Just a couple, nothing too out there. Dinner, drinks, whatever. The sooner the press pick up on the story, the better for both of us, I guess.”
I nod. That, at least, is true. I still don’t know how much I can trust him, but his explanation about Blood/Lust made sense.
I actually feel better knowing that he, too, has ulterior motives for agreeing to this charade.
If he’s driven by self-interest, it must mean he’s not going to mess with me just for the fun of it… right?
“So by the time we come to film, we’ll be more comfortable together, have a better sense of backstory,” Jack continues. “We’ll know how we want to play it. We pulled this off once before and in worse circumstances.”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “The circumstances seem pretty dire to me.”
“At least we don’t want to actively destroy each other this time.”
“The jury is still out on that,” I mutter.
Instead of looking annoyed, his mouth pulls up. “Fair enough.”
Which isn’t really a reassuring answer. I take a moment to look at him again, to try and cut through the thick cloud of pheromones that must be wrapped around him if my tap-dancing heartbeat is anything to go by.
He seems genuine enough, those silver-blue eyes focused steadily on mine, but he’s always been a very good actor.
Jesus, this whole thing would be a lot easier if he didn’t look like he was about to pose for the cover of GQ .
When I walked through the door into this hotel room, his handsomeness was like an attack, a swift one-two punch to any defenses I thought I had built up.
For a moment my mind went blank, like the world turning white after a devastating explosion.
After that cleared, my first impulse was to imagine peeling the crisp white shirt he’s wearing from his big, muscular body.
Which is… not ideal.
Last time I saw him I was twenty and basically just a walking bag of hormones, so being a horny little demon around the man, despite my low, low opinion of him, was somewhat understandable, but now I’m a mature, independent, adult woman.
At least I am when I’m not drinking ice cream and living in my pajamas.
I’m certainly old enough, and wise enough, to know that Jack Turner-Jones is a terrible idea dressed up in a nicely fitted pair of trousers.
Still, my entire body is having some sort of episode.
I watched him drink water like it was happening in slow motion and being soundtracked by Barry White.
His collar is unbuttoned and there’s a small triangle of golden skin on display.
If I pressed my thumb there, to that divot, I’d feel his pulse beating.
I remind myself that I hate this man, that we are mortal enemies.
“I’d want some sort of paperwork,” I say, trying to sound firm. “An NDA. Something to make sure that this arrangement stays… private.”
“We didn’t do anything like that last time.”
“Things are different now,” I reply. “It’s not like the last time.”
The air thickens again. Our history hangs between us, a swirling, Technicolor mess of emotions that I can’t even begin to pick through.
I hadn’t anticipated how overwhelming it would be, past and present colliding like this.
It’s been thirteen years since the last time we were in a room together, but in some ways it feels as though no time has passed at all.
“I’m not disagreeing with you.” Jack holds up his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “But it wouldn’t do either of us any good if the details of this plan were made public.”
“Mutually assured destruction?” I lift my brows. “Hardly a promising basis for a relationship, even a fake one.”
“And an NDA is?” Jack counters.
I only shrug. How could I explain to him—even if I wanted to—just how royally screwed I’ve been by someone I trusted?
Gayle and Hannah might have come up with a plan to salvage my career, but it involves me putting my faith in someone who has never made a secret of how little he thinks of me.
I reach for my bottle of water, willing my expression to remain neutral, not wanting to show a flicker of the fear and anxiety that are a constant presence in my life right now.
Jack’s eyes narrow. “Look,” he says, and his voice is gruff, “all I meant was that I’m not going to do anything to fuck you over.
You might not believe that”—his fingers run impatiently through his hair, pushing it into an artful disarray that only makes him look more appealing—“but it’s the truth.
If an NDA will make you feel safer, then I have no problem with it.
Tell Gayle to have the lawyers draw up whatever she likes and I’ll sign it. ”
I press my lips together and nod. I don’t know why his words make me feel tearful, I mean, apart from the fact that absolutely everything makes me feel tearful at the moment.
When the news about me and Shawn first broke, I was numb; I barely felt anything for weeks.
Now, it’s as if all those feelings are catching up with me.
I’m stuck inside a snow globe that someone has shaken up and there are sparkly little emotions flying everywhere.
Jack clears his throat. “You’re right that this isn’t like last time,” he says. “We can do it differently. You can be in charge here, Cynthie. No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” he finishes softly.
Oh, no. I absolutely cannot cope with Jack Turner-Jones being kind to me. If he’s behaving like a half-decent person, I must be a truly pitiful creature.
I straighten my spine, flip my hair back over my shoulder. “Which is exactly why I suggested the rules.” I make my voice crisp, all-business.
“Right.” He nods. “So apart from the paperwork, what did you have in mind?”
I blink. I hadn’t really got past the paperwork part. Honestly, the whole idea seems so demented that I’m not sure where to start.
“We keep the circle tight,” I say finally. “Only the people close to us know that this isn’t real. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we’re together.”
“Sure.” Jack nods. “That makes sense.”
“So no…”—I hesitate, and he frowns—“no seeing other people,” I finish on a rush. It would be beyond disastrous if the next big news story became about Jack cheating on me.
“That’s fine with me,” he says, then it’s his turn to pause. “Is there anyone else you’re…” He trails off.
“No!” I exclaim, vehemently. “It would just be you. Only you.”
Something flares in his eyes at that, but he looks down at his hands, hiding whatever emotion he feels.
“No seeing other people.” He clears his throat. “Any other rules?”
“None that I can think of right now.”
“I think we should have one about touching,” Jack says matter-of-factly, and my mouth dries.
“Touching?”
Again, he nods, his expression serious. “If the point is to have our picture taken then I guess we’re going to have to be fairly tactile with each other.”
“Sure,” I agree.
He’s sitting across from me. There’s a coffee table and several feet of clear air between us; he hasn’t laid one finger on me since I entered this room, and I already feel like my body is coming apart. The thought of being tactile with him is… Well, dangerous is the word my brain supplies.
But we’re actors. We’re going to be in a film together. I can hold hands with him without having a total meltdown, right? I just need to be professional.
Some of my discomfort must show because that earnest furrow appears between Jack’s eyes again. “The biggest difference this time around is that we’ll handle it like adults,” he says. “Loads of communication, very clear boundaries.”
Why does Jack Turner-Jones talking about boundaries make me want to squirm in my seat? I am such a mess. Is a man talking about behaving with basic respect really doing it for me? Apparently so. God, the bar is on the fucking floor these days.
“Everything can be agreed in advance,” he continues evenly. “I won’t touch you without asking. No surprises.”
At those words, my eyes fly to Jack’s, and he’s gone very still. Perhaps he’s doing the baby antelope thing too, but I can see what’s happening in his head as clearly as if it were being projected on a screen in front of the two of us. It’s the same thing that’s happening in mine.
My fingers tighten around the arm of my chair as a hundred remembered moments flash through my mind. The memories clash together, hot and vivid and angry, and I feel my heartbeat accelerate. There’s a bead of sweat making its way down my back. Jack’s jaw clenches and I watch the muscles tic.
“No surprises,” I repeat.
Jack looks away, breaking eye contact, and the air rushes back into the room.
He rubs his fingers absently across the left side of his chest. I draw in a long, cool breath.
Is it possible to drown in sexual tension?
Is that even what this is? It feels more like a medical catastrophe.
Maybe I’m not hopelessly attracted to my worst enemy.
Maybe I just have the plague. Fingers crossed.
“If there’s anything else you need to make this work, you can just tell me.
” His voice has dipped, a rougher timbre to it that vibrates through my bones.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or worried that I’m obviously not the only one affected by whatever is going on.
“It’s important that you feel —comfortable. ”
“Fine,” I say at last, because deep down I knew I was going to agree to this before I even walked through his door.
My reputation is in shreds, but my career is too important to me.
This is how I’m going to get my life back on track, and the fact that Jack hasn’t been utterly awful about it is a surprising bonus.
“I’ll probably regret this, but what the hell.” I exhale slowly, lift my water bottle in a toast. “Things can hardly get worse. Why not throw a fake relationship with my nemesis into the mix? Let’s do it.”
“Not a rousing display of enthusiasm, but I’ll take it.” Jack lifts his bottle and clinks it against mine. “To a new chapter,” he says, but as the words leave his mouth, I find myself wondering if a new chapter is even possible, or if the story of the two of us was written thirteen years ago.