Chapter 21 Cynthie
People care just as much about a blurry picture of Jack arriving at my house as they do about one of us perfectly groomed and holding hands at a film premiere—maybe even more—and since our outing, the photographers have been back, haunting the gates to my property.
“This is… a lot,” Hannah says, looking up from her tablet where she’s watching the slideshow of images that Gayle’s assistant sent through.
I’m not totally sure if she misunderstood the assignment or it’s an error, or maybe just Gayle’s idea of a joke (I’m leaning toward the latter), but the slideshow contains dozens of images of Jack and me eating ice cream, and then him leaning over me, all dissolving into each other to a soundtrack of Céline Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” which feels like… a choice.
“I knew there’d be interest, but I had no idea it was going to be this big a deal,” I confess, leaning against the kitchen counter.
The response since the photos hit the gossip sites has been intense to say the least. They’ve been picked up by all the tabloids, and they spawned such a huge quantity of memes that you cannot engage with social media without running into them.
(Me looking at the new Emily Henry novel, one Instagram account I follow had written over a picture of Jack gazing down adoringly at my face.)
“Are people honestly that invested in the idea of Jack and me as a couple?”
“Are you kidding?” Hannah puts the tablet aside and looks at me. “A real-life second-chance romance? It’s like catnip for millennials. Actually, scratch that, because all the youths are into it too… even if they do consider it a vintage throwback.”
“ Youths ,” I huff. “All right, thanks, Grandma.”
“Anyway,” Hannah continues, with a wave of her hand, “the point is that the entire internet is rabid over the pair of you, and even though you might not love it, you have to admit it’s done the trick.
No one is talking about you and the shithead anymore.
All anyone sees is you living your best life. You two made quite the scene.”
“Gayle is practically turning cartwheels,” I murmur, my eyes drifting to the tablet, which is still playing the pictures on a loop.
There’s Jack feeding me ice cream as I gaze up, lovestruck, into his face; there’s Jack leaning over me in a doorway, and it actually looks even hotter than I imagined it would—insanely intimate, like I’m about to drag him off and do wicked things to him.
“I think he out-leaned Bill,” Hannah says, her eyes following mine.
“You wash your mouth out,” I reply, but there’s less heat in the words than I’d like, because yeah… maybe he did.
“It was a good idea,” Hannah muses. “The pictures look so convincing, but he made sure you didn’t actually have to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.” She’s watching me carefully now. “That was thoughtful of him.”
I make a vague noise of agreement but offer up nothing else.
“So he’s really going to stay over tonight…” Hannah says, and though she sounds innocent, the look she gives me is sly.
“In the spare room,” I reply, defensively.
“We’ll probably barely even see each other.
It’s just so they can get a picture of him arriving and then leaving again in the morning.
Gayle said it would be a good idea to fan the flames.
” I don’t want to admit that I only put up the most token resistance against the idea, that after our last meeting I’ve been thinking about Jack more than I’m comfortable with.
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” Hannah asks.
“Don’t be silly,” I scoff, busying myself with getting a glass of water from the fridge so that I don’t have to look at her. “You have things to do, an actual date, not a pretend one for the benefit of strangers on the internet. I think I can handle one evening alone with Jack Turner-Jones.”
Hannah barely manages to keep a straight face. “Sure,” she says. “You just let me know if you need any help cleaning up the crime scene. We can use a code word on the phone so that law enforcement is kept in the dark.”
“Interesting. What will our code word be?”
Hannah purses her lips. “Coffee beans. You call and ask me for coffee beans and I’ll know that you’ve murdered Jack and you need me to roll up with a body bag.”
“But what if I actually want coffee?”
“You make a good point. Perhaps we’re not cut out for a life of crime.”
“Don’t say that, we’re extremely capable. We could be in our Thelma and Louise era.”
“Thelma and Louise both die at the end.”
“Right, I always forget that part.” I sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to refrain from murdering Jack tonight.”
“You know, he doesn’t seem so bad,” Hannah says, grabbing her handbag off the table. “A lot more evolved than he was thirteen years ago. Maybe if you gave him a chance the two of you could… bury the hatchet.”
I look at her suspiciously. “Why did that sound dirty?”
She laughs. “Because I meant it to. He’s also got even hotter in the last thirteen years. I’m just saying!” She waggles her fingers at me. “Anyway, I’m off, have fun.”
“Thanks.”
I manage to keep a smile on my face until I hear her close the front door behind her and then I lean my head against the cool marble countertop. Please, please, please let this not be a disaster .
I POTTER AIMLESSLY AROUND THE house for another hour, one eye on the clock, until I’m alerted by a buzz from the gate that Jack has arrived.
Taking a deep, calming breath I go to meet him outside the front door.
The paparazzi are forced to remain on the other side of the gate, but I know that’s not going to stop them from getting pictures up the driveway.
Sure enough, as Jack’s car pulls up, several long lenses appear over the top of the closed gate, flashes still popping like mad.
Jack parks and gets out the car. He grins and I try not to dwell on the little jolt of pleasure I feel at the sight of him.
“Hey,” he says. “I think half the photographers in LA are camped outside.”
“Better give them something to talk about then.” I sigh like it is a hardship.
With a laugh, he pulls me into a hug. His body is hard and warm under his T-shirt.
“There, that’s not so bad, is it?” Jack’s voice rumbles under my ear.
I pull back from him, look up into his face. He’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses that hide his eyes, but I can still feel the amusement coming off him. Hannah was right when she said he’s changed, I realize. He seems so much easier in himself than I remember.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly nervous. “Um, why don’t you come in?” I say. “That should have given them enough to keep them happy.”
“Sure,” he replies, and he reaches into the backseat of his car to grab a holdall and a grocery bag. “Lead the way.”
When we get inside, he looks around with appreciation. “Your place is lovely.”
“Thanks,” I say, leading him through to the kitchen. “I’ll give you the tour later if you like. Just dump your bag in here for now. Can I get you a drink?”
“I’m good at the moment,” he replies, although he eyes my fancy coffee machine with obvious interest. “But you should put this in the freezer.” He places the grocery bag he brought with him on the kitchen counter, and I peep inside.
It’s full of tubs of ice cream from the place we visited last weekend, all with neatly handwritten labels attached, including one that says lavender and honey in swirling cursive.
“Oh!” I exclaim. “That’s so nice. Thank you.” Inexplicably, I feel my eyes fill with tears, which I try desperately to blink back. Has it really come to this? A small act of kindness and I’m coming apart.
Jack only shrugs. “I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed, and I already know you like ice cream.”
“Still,” I say, shifting on my feet and clearing my throat. “It was thoughtful.” I start to put the ice cream away into my giant freezer and find there’s a nice bottle of white wine in the bag as well, so I grab a couple of glasses.
There’s an awkward silence.
“I thought I could cook dinner,” I say finally. “If that’s okay with you? If not, we can get takeout.”
“I’m not going to complain about a home-cooked meal,” Jack replies gently. “Mind if I stay in here and keep you company?”
He’s looking at me the way you might look at a nervy animal, and I realize I’m not doing a great job of covering up my anxiety.
“No,” I reply more firmly. “Of course not. You can stay if you want. Is vegetable curry okay?”
“Sounds great.” Jack slips onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar and takes off his sunglasses and hat, running a hand through his hair. “Can I do anything to help?”
“No, no.” I move to the fridge and start gathering ingredients. “I like to cook when I get the chance.” I don’t say that I also thought it would give me something to do with my hands, something to concentrate on other than the fact Jack Turner-Jones is in my house.
“Do you have a corkscrew?” Jack asks. “I could open this wine? The ice cream kept it cold.”
“Good idea.” I pull one from the drawer and hand it to him.
While he pours the wine and I chop vegetables, I can’t help but notice this scene feels incredibly domestic. And weirdly not-weird. Especially because Jack keeps up a stream of idle conversation as I work, almost like he’s deliberately trying to put me at ease.
“It was good to see everyone last weekend,” he says, pushing my glass toward me. “I didn’t realize you guys were all still so close.”
I nod. “It took a couple of years, but I was able to hire Patty and Liam as my hair and makeup team, and they moved out here full-time. Obviously Arjun came too, which ended up being great for his career. Then he and Patty had Priya, and Liam married David. We all live within a couple of miles of each other.”
“So Patty and Liam work for you?” he asks.