Chapter 22 Jack
I lie on the bed in Cynthie’s spare room, trying to concentrate on the book in my hand.
Despite the fact that it’s late and I’ve had half a bottle of wine, my body is buzzing like I’ve done nothing but down energy drinks all night.
It probably has something to do with the fact that Cynthie sat next to me on the sofa while we watched a film and I could barely focus on a single frame because she looked so gorgeous, her chin propped on her hand as she drank in a movie that I know she’s seen a million times before, with a rapt expression.
I kept having to distract myself by focusing on the bizarrely phallic lamp sitting on the table beside her.
The evening has gone better than expected, and hopefully I’ve made some tentative inroads in helping Cynthie to see I’m not the same scared, unhappy kid she once knew.
All of that good work would definitely be undone if she knew how much I wanted to press her down on the sofa and ease her out of that soft, oversize sweater that she wore.
I shift on the bed. Whatever this feeling is, I need to get a handle on it.
Not only are Cynthie and I in precisely the same precarious situation we were in before—costarring in a film and being forced to pantomime a relationship for the press—but it’s increasingly obvious that she’s had a tough time lately.
There’s something fragile and sad about her that makes me want to plow my fist into Shawn Hardy’s face, even without knowing all the details.
The spitfire I knew is there, but she’s taken a battering, that much is obvious.
She practically burst into tears over a couple of tubs of ice cream, and in that moment I realized that for weeks she’s had nothing but vitriol and abuse directed at her.
I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.
Thousands of strangers on the internet baying for blood.
What she needs right now is a friend, not a man with a giant, thirteen-year-long crush on her.
I turn my attention back to my book with renewed determination. A couple of pages in, there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Jack?” Cynthie’s voice calls softly. “Are you still up?”
I scramble from the bed with a speed that is frankly embarrassing, and pull the door open.
“Hey,” I say as casually as I can manage. “What’s going on?”
Cynthie blinks. An adorable line appears between her brows, and she stares at me. “What?” she asks, finally.
I can’t help smiling. “I don’t know. You knocked on my door.”
“Oh!” she starts. “Yes, sorry, I was thrown by the…” She gestures in front of her face, and it takes me a moment to work out what she’s talking about.
“My glasses?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious. “I need them for reading.”
“Mmm,” she says, her eyes—still wide on mine—look a bit glazed. “They… They suit you.”
An inconvenient punch of desire jabs me in my gut. “Thanks,” I reply, clearing my throat.
Her gaze finally moves from my face to the room behind me. The bedsheets are rumpled, and my book is open face down on them.
I watch the movement of her throat as she swallows. “Are you reading Persuasion ?” she asks, and she sounds even more flustered.
“It seemed like a good idea,” I reply, still feeling edgy. “With the film. You know, thwarted lovers, second chances.” Our eyes meet for a beat too long, and I hurry on, “… er, Regency England setting. I figured it would put me in the mood. Have you read it?”
She nods. “It’s one of my favorites.” The line is back between her eyes, and we stand in silence for a moment while she seems to be having some sort of internal conversation.
Like me, she’s changed into her pajamas, and despite the fact that they cover as much of her as her regular clothes, it feels intimate. Her hair is pulled up in a knot on top of her head and her bare toes peep out from under her plaid pajama bottoms.
I’ve never previously understood people with foot fetishes, but the sight is enough to have me shifting uneasily, wanting to scoop her up, throw her on the bed, and kiss those pretty little toes before turning my attention elsewhere…
“So,” I say finally, my voice rough. “Was there something you needed?” ME PERHAPS??? my brain yells, while I try to ignore it.
Cynthie snaps back to focus. “Yes! Right, sorry. Gayle just sent me this, and I thought you’d want to see it…” She holds out her phone, swiping at the screen.
It shows a slightly grainy photo of the two of us hugging outside her house. Spotted! the caption below it reads, surrounded by red flashing light emojis. Jack Turner-Jones visits Cynthie Taylor at her home in LA. Looks like things are heating up for these former lovebirds .
“Jesus,” I murmur. “They really didn’t waste any time, did they?”
Cynthie turns the phone around and examines it for a moment. “Gayle said it might be a good idea for you to pop out for coffee or something in the morning… just to, you know, really sell it that you…”
“Spent the night?” I finish.
A hint of color hits her cheeks and she nods. “Sorry, I know it’s awkward.”
I shrug, lean against the doorway. “Not really. As long as I can get doughnuts too.”
Her smile is a surprise to both of us, I think. It’s sweet and genuine, scrunching her nose. “I’m going to insist on it.”
“No problem.” I smile back, wanting to keep that look on her face forever.
And then it’s just the two of us smiling at each other, and I don’t know how to break us out of this moment, don’t think I even want to.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your book,” she says eventually, taking a step back. “Sleep well.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“With doughnuts?”
“With doughnuts,” I promise. “?’Night, Cynthie.”
“Good night, Jack,” she replies softly, and as she turns away, I close the door before I do something reckless like drag her over the threshold.
It takes me a long, long time to get to sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING I’M UP early, and I head straight out on my promised coffee run. Despite the hour there are still a handful of photographers camped outside who are beyond delighted to see me and to catch me in the act of obtaining some postcoital sustenance.
If only, I think.
When I get back there are more paparazzi waiting—clearly the bat signal has gone out—and I make sure they get photos of the tray with the two to-go cups and the box full of doughnuts, making it as clear as possible that I’m bringing back breakfast for my girlfriend.
There’s no sign of Cynthie yet, so I set myself up in the kitchen, enjoying the light, cheerful space.
I wasn’t just being polite about Cynthie’s house the night before: it really is spectacular, but not in a showy way.
It’s warm and it feels like a real home.
The shiny designer fridge is covered in children’s drawings (presumably Priya’s handiwork); the long kitchen table is scattered with books, pens, a script with Cynthie’s name on it, and a large vase of sunny daisies sits in the middle.
I pull up a seat at the table with my coffee and my book, eating a Boston cream doughnut and enjoying the morning sunlight, the dappled green of the garden through the wide French windows.
In the end it’s only ten minutes before Cynthie appears, still in her pajamas and looking half-asleep. She rubs her eyes.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Hey,” she croaks. “I thought I’d be up before you. I was going to make coffee.” She runs a hand over the slightly wild mess of her hair and grimaces.
“I think I’m still on New York time at the moment,” I say, mesmerized as she smooths her fingers through her hair and twists it up on top of her head, securing it with a hair tie. “I brought you a coffee instead. Should still be hot.” I gesture to the kitchen counter.
“You’ve already been out?” She takes the coffee cup, looks at the writing on the side, and her eyes widen.
“And this is my coffee order. What are you, magic?” She flips the lid on the doughnut box and selects a glazed ring, sinking her teeth into it with a murmur of appreciation, which I try manfully to ignore.
“I texted Hannah. Predictably, she’s an early riser.” I shrug, secretly delighted by how pleased she looks, even gladder that I had taken the time to get Hannah’s number at brunch.
Cynthie groans. “I know. She’s always been a chipper morning person. I cannot count the number of times I’ve wanted to smother her with a pillow when it’s six a.m. and she’s acting like a Disney princess who gets dressed by tiny birds.”
“The worst,” I agree, watching her mouth as she polishes off her doughnut in a few neat bites. “Usually I’m all about a late rise, and don’t even try to talk to me before I’ve had my coffee.”
“I remember.” Cynthie laughs, and then she cuts herself off, her face a picture of dismay.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I say softly.
“Do what?”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “Pretend like we don’t have history. Mentioning the past isn’t going to be the end of the world for either of us.”
“Isn’t it?” Cynthie asks cautiously.
I hesitate, unsure whether we should just have it all out right now, but I don’t want to spook her. “No,” I say instead, making my tone easy. “It was a long time ago. I think both of us could use a fresh start.”
Cynthie brings her coffee over to the table and sits across from me. She narrows her eyes, observing me with careful consideration. “Possibly.”
I lean forward. “How about this?” I say. “A truce. A real one this time, with no time limit.”
“An indefinite truce with my mortal enemy?” She lifts her brows.
“I don’t think I’ve been your mortal enemy for a long time, Cynthie.”
She lifts her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “Maybe not. I guess we’ll see.”
“We could try something new,” I suggest softly. “We could try being friends.”
She treats me to another long look, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “Fine, a truce,” she says in the end.
“And friends?”
“Let’s take it one step at a time.”
“I think I’ll win you over. I can be very charming, you know.”
“So you’re always telling me.”