Chapter 8 Cynthie #2
My arms windmill comically at my sides, but with the weight of my bag, I’m top-heavy and I can’t steady myself.
I go down like a felled tree, landing hard on my back, and feeling various pairs of shoes digging into my spine.
With a wince, I wriggle my legs, trying to roll over or pull myself up, but the heavy backpack keeps me firmly pinned to the ground.
Curse my absolute lack of core strength!
This is why people do a thousand sit-ups a day instead of watching 1990s exercise videos while eating scones and commenting on people’s leotards, like Hannah and I do.
Speaking of Hannah, she is crumpled helplessly against the doorframe, looking down at me as her shoulders shudder and she gasps for air.
“Cyn,” she chokes out between wheezing bursts of laughter. “Cyn… you look… you look like a stranded turtle.”
I only flail more vigorously at that.
“Will you stop thrashing about before you kick me in the face?” Jack appears above me, grumpy and disheveled.
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter.
He holds out his hand, and with a show of reluctance I take it. Warm fingers wrap around mine and he tugs me up as if it’s nothing, the muscles in his forearms flexing outrageously.
I’m back on my feet, but for a moment the floor tips below me. I’m shockingly aware of his big hand cradling mine, little electric sparks skittering across my skin where he touches me.
Jack stares down at our clasped hands, a look of bemusement on his face. Then I tug my fingers away, wiping my palm against my jeans, like I can wipe away the feeling.
I am, thankfully, distracted from his terrible, beautiful face by the room we are standing in—it must once have been an entrance hall, but it’s large enough to accommodate a couple of sofas in front of the stone fireplace.
The walls are paneled with polished wood the warm color of maple syrup, a large rug—faded in an expensive way—stretching over the flagstone floor.
“You could say thank you,” Jack breaks in, voice cool.
I turn back and glare at him. “If you hadn’t yanked the door open without looking, I wouldn’t have fallen.
” I try to bend over and gather the items strewn across the floor back into the tote bag that had been slung over my shoulder, but once more I’ve forgotten my own compromised center of gravity and I teeter, but manage to right myself.
“ You should be apologizing to me,” I carry on, breathlessly.
“Oh, yes,” Jack mutters, bending down and scooping up the tangled mess of my headphones, a battered Jilly Cooper paperback ( Harriet , the best one) and a now slightly bruised apple, stuffing them back into the cotton tote bag that I got from our local library.
“ I should apologize,” he says. “I should apologize for the fact that you’re barging around with your whole bloody life strapped to your back, bulldozing people… ”
He reaches out, and before I can compute what he is doing, he tugs one strap of the backpack off my shoulder, spinning me away from him as he does, so that he can lift it off my back entirely.
As the second strap slides down my arm, I make a grab for it, but it’s too late: he’s hefting the whole thing up on his shoulder, as though it were full of nothing but feathers and Bubble Wrap.
Once again, I am treated to a spectacular view of all his muscles at work and I am furious about it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss. “And why must you have your… your naked arms out on display all the time?”
Jack lifts his brows, looking down at the perfectly normal T-shirt he is wearing. “My naked arms?” he repeats with a smirk. “Honestly, Taylor, I had no idea you were so Victorian. Is the sight of all this manly flesh overwhelming you?”
“Cynthie has been getting into character,” Hannah says primly, cutting in over whatever extremely rude words were about to start pouring out of me.
I lift my chin and smile, like everything is totally normal and I am not distracted by his very ordinary arms. What are arms, anyway?
Just a pair of meat sticks. Nothing to get worked up over.
Jack only gives a derisive huff of laughter, but he heads over to a small desk in the corner—on the wall behind it are lots of gold hooks with old-fashioned keys hanging from them.
“Claudia, the housekeeper, is settling Hattie in now,” he says. “But I know where your rooms are, so I can show you up.” He reaches for a couple of the keys.
“Stalking me?” I ask sweetly.
“Just wanted to make sure that we were staying as far apart as possible,” Jack retorts. “Here.” He holds out his hand toward Hannah, his voice gentling. “Let me help you with your bag.”
“Thanks,” Hannah replies, and I can’t even blame her for the flush that creeps over her cheeks.
“Who knew you actually had any manners,” I grumble as he slings her backpack over his other shoulder and takes Hannah’s little carry-on bag in hand.
“Let’s just say I’m getting into character too.
” His smile is a baring of teeth that doesn’t reach his eyes.
He looks like he wants to take a bite out of me, and something dark leaps in my blood, telling me I wouldn’t mind if he did.
I swallow, pushing the thought somewhere deep, deep down, and Jack watches the movement of my throat through hooded eyes.
Without any further conversation he stomps toward a wide staircase, guiding us up two flights and along a corridor.
“There are so many rooms.” Hannah looks around her with interest.
“The rector had fourteen children,” Jack and I say at the same time, and I scowl. It seems I’m not the only one who read the building history on the website, although it’s hard to believe Jack has been as excited about this trip as I have.
“And then the rectory was extended,” I add as if he hadn’t spoken.
“Twice,” Jack puts in quickly, another flash of his teeth as he delights in getting the last word.
Something mean simmers between us again. I battle the urge to stamp on his foot.
We come to a stop.
“It’s these two,” he says, pointing to two doors next to one another. Dropping the bags unceremoniously to the floor, he hands us both a key, and I notice he’s careful not to touch me at all.
“Don’t forget you have hair and makeup tests this afternoon,” he says over his shoulder, already striding away.
This time, I don’t have to be outraged, because Hannah, furious that anyone might be questioning her organizational skills, yells after him. “We know ! It’s in the binder !”
She’s still grumbling in exasperation as I turn the key and push open the door to my room.
“Oh!” I exclaim.
We’re up in the eaves of the house and the ceiling slopes gently.
A small, square window frames a view of pure, leafy green.
The walls are papered with a wildflower print, and a pretty patchwork quilt stretches over a bed with an old-fashioned metal frame.
The whole effect is one of clean, peaceful coziness.
“This bed has bedknobs!” I yelp. “It’s an actual Bedknobs and Broomsticks bed!”
“It’s like we’re in a Jane Austen novel,” Hannah calls from her own room, and I step back out into the hall to find it is a mirror image of my own.
“I love it,” I say. Suddenly it all feels more real—not only that we’re about to begin four weeks of filming, but also that I’m stepping into the role of Emilia.
“Okay, five minutes to dump our bags and then we’re heading out,” my personal drill sergeant says, clapping her hands.
I’m happy to fall in line. For the first time since the table read, I feel excited at the thought of performing, and I sail back out of Alveston Hall on a wave of optimism.