Chapter 34 Cynthie
A wave of applause crashes over me, and I get to my feet, my knees shaking.
Oh god, oh god, this is like a nightmare.
What’s happening right now is the stuff of a very serious anxiety dream, and I don’t know what to do except pinch myself because hopefully I am actually asleep.
All I can think is that I am going to kill Jack Turner-Jones when I see him. I’m going to straight up murder him.
An assistant is gesturing me toward the aisle so I can walk up to the stage. I climb the steps, my heart beating furiously as I scramble to think of something charming to say that isn’t going to make me look like a complete fool who got stood up by her boyfriend on international television.
I reach the podium and Steve is standing there, smiling at me, holding out a gold trophy shaped like a bucket of popcorn, and I take it, blinking at him in a way that I hope says, Please save me, Steve Carell!
Sadly, Steve doesn’t react to my mute pleas, and it looks like it’s all on me.
“Um, hi!” I say, hopelessly into the microphone, “Thank you so much for this. Unfortunately, Jack couldn’t—”
I’m interrupted by some sort of commotion at the back of the theater, and I squint into the lights, trying to see what’s going on. There’s a thud and a brief shout and several raised voices.
“Unfortunately…” I start again, uneasy. My eyes drift to Steve Carell who makes a keep going gesture with his hand. “Jack—” but I’m cut off by a wave of hysterical screaming and cheering, and finally, I see what the fuss is about and I stop dead.
Because striding down the aisle toward me is Jack.
He looks tired, angry, and gorgeous. And wet. He’s wet.
He climbs the stairs, two at a time.
It must have been raining outside, because there’s water in his hair. His T-shirt clings damply to the muscles in his arms, the planes of his chest, as he comes for me, approaching like a thunderstorm, lightning in his eyes.
I take a sharp step back away from the podium, and then he’s right there, reaching for me.
His hand goes to my waist, pulling me against him, hard, our chests pressed firmly together, and I exhale in shock, automatically tipping my head back as his other hand comes up to my cheek.
For a second our eyes meet, and the crowd, the cameras, Steve-freaking-Carell… they all melt away.
When his mouth comes down on mine, it’s like a bomb goes off inside me.
There’s a moment, suspended in bright, white light, before sensation rushes in.
It’s all heat and fire and the taste of him, his tongue against mine, the faintest scrape of his canines over my bottom lip.
I shiver as his arm goes underneath me, scooping me off my feet while my own arms twine around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
Demanding him closer. I can feel his heart beating under his damp T-shirt.
I run my fingers through his wet hair, kissing him like I mean it, kissing him because I can.
Then something happens. The angle changes.
His mouth gentles over mine and he presses a final, soft kiss against my lips.
The feel of it is different; the taste of it is different.
It’s sweet and slow, a warm-honey kiss that spreads through my whole body.
And, slowly, slowly, the world creeps back in.
Our mouths break apart, and Jack looks at me. We’re both struggling to catch our breath. The audience is feral; they sound like they’re about to tear the theater apart. The floor is shaking.
He continues to stare at me, his fingers lingering against my cheek, then his hand falls away and he’s still carrying me with one arm when he turns and faces the crowd.
He leans towards the microphone, getting in really close.
The side of his mouth pulls up in an irresistible smirk. “Sorry I’m late.”
Then, as laughter fills the room, he lowers me to the floor and I slide against his body, pretending to laugh too while he slings a casual arm around my shoulders and picks up the award in his other hand. With a wave to the audience, we make our way offstage.
I can’t believe that just happened.
I can’t believe he just did that. Of course it was nothing like the brief, low-key kiss we had planned.
Of course it couldn’t be. No, it had to be that —it had to be a kiss that tore me apart and put me back together again, that left me shaking and wanting more, needing him in front of a live TV audience.
I am incandescent . A tornado made of lust and fury. I want to rip all Jack’s clothes off here and now, but I also want to punch him right in the nose.
We’re ushered away from the side of the stage and into a small holding area surrounded by black drapes.
“Someone will come and take you along to the green room in a moment,” the production assistant says, already on the move.
“Wow,” Steve Carell says brightly. “You guys really put on a show there.”
“Not now, Steve Carell!” I snap before I swing around to face Jack. “What the actual fuck?”
And then Jack laughs. He laughs.
Nose punching it is. My sweaty little paw is already clenching itself into a fist.
But Jack clearly has no sense of self-preservation, because he only shrugs and runs a hand through his damp hair, and I am forced to watch his bicep flex and… just… how dare he?
“My flight was delayed,” he says. “I hate to break it to you, Taylor, but I don’t have control of weather patterns over the Atlantic. I made it, didn’t I?”
“That is not what I meant,” I reply through clenched teeth. “Although it would have been nice if you’d made a bit more time in your busy schedule to allow for this sort of problem. Nice to know how little you give a shit.”
His smile fades, and I feel an inconvenient jab of guilt, because there are dark circles smudged under his eyes. He actually looks pretty exhausted.
“I am literally in the middle of filming,” he says, “and I flew halfway across the world to be here. I haven’t slept since…
” He squints. “Actually, I haven’t got a fucking clue because I think today might be my yesterday or something.
But anyway, it’s been a long time, Cynthie.
I am tired; I’m hungry; I’m at an awards ceremony in a wet T-shirt that I’ve been wearing since…
tomorrow , and now you’re giving me shit about my commitment? ”
“You know that’s not why I’m upset,” I hiss, refusing to be talked down. “That kiss was not what we agreed on.”
He groans, a clear sound of frustration. “That’s it? You’re pissed about the kiss?”
Jack looks at me, and I cross my arms, my expression mutinous.
“Of course you are,” he rumbles, and his blue eyes sharpen dangerously. “And shall I tell you why? You’re pissed because that kiss was the most honest thing to come from your mouth in months. You’re pissed because you want me, and you have no idea what to do about it.”
“Ha!” I stride toward him, drilling my finger into his chest. “You’d love to think so, wouldn’t you? You really are the most egotistical, narcissistic—”
“So… this really seems like a private conversation,” Steve Carell pipes up, edging away. “I think I should just—” He starts clutching hopelessly at the long black fabric that surrounds us, desperately searching for a way out.
“And I can’t believe you’re making me fight with you in front of Steve Carell!” I yell.
Jack ignores this completely, stepping into my touch, crowding my space, wrapping me up in the feel and sight and scent of him so that I can’t think. It’s a low-down, dirty tactic, and I want to claw at him like a cat.
“Just admit it,” he says, like it’s a dare. “Just admit that you have feelings for me.”
“Oh, I have feelings for you,” I snap. “Loads of them. Animosity, anger, frustration… the list goes on and on.”
“Cynthie,” his voice softens. He doesn’t say anything else, just my name, and my stomach does a vicious loop-the-loop.
The moment stretches out between us, time slowing.
“I’m so sick of this, Jack. You want me to tell you that I have feelings for you? What if I did? What then? You and I are so different. Sometimes I feel like you’re from another planet.”
“Just because our backgrounds are different—” Jack starts.
“It’s not just that!” I exclaim. “And the fact you don’t get it only proves my point.
You have everything you’ve ever wanted. You were literally born with it all.
I moved to LA three days ago . My first film just won an MTV Movie Award!
And I couldn’t even be excited about it.
Everything I’ve worked my whole life for…
the impossible dream, the one that no one—and I mean no one— believed could come true, the one I’ve had to fight and claw for…
is happening. It’s happening to me right now.
You’re the one who’s always banging on about professionalism, and taking the work seriously, and that’s what I’m trying to do. ”
“I don’t see what that has to do with this situation.”
“Don’t you? I’m saying we don’t need the distraction, either of us. Especially when I know perfectly well that you’re just using me to avoid dealing with the things you’re unhappy about.”
“Don’t say that,” he grits out.
“It’s true,” I insist, feeling reckless, feeling like I’m holding a stick of dynamite in one hand and a match in the other.
“You couldn’t even bear the thought of introducing me to your parents when Lorna asked you to.
You don’t want me in your world. You know I don’t belong there…
You just want to get out of it for a while. ”
“That’s not what happened.” Jack finally looks troubled. “You misunderstood.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I mutter, trying to shrug off the hurt. I’m used to people thinking I’m not good enough. I thrive on it, on proving them wrong. Why should it sting that Jack feels like that too?
“Is that really what you think of me?” Jack demands. “That I’m some entitled prick who has everything he wants? And you’re just, what? A convenient distraction?”
“You haven’t given me a single reason to think anything else.”
“I see,” he says hollowly, after a moment. “Maybe you’re right about one thing. God knows I’m not happy ,” he says the word on a derisive laugh. “But at least I’m not so scared of letting my guard down that I push people away.”
My temper leaps. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you better than you want me to. I see you and you hate that.”
“Yeah?” I glare at him, my heart beating so hard that my whole body is shaking with it, tiny tremors like something seismic is happening inside me.
“Well, I see you too. And what I see is an arrogant, overprivileged boy who’s not used to hearing the word no.
” The pain that flashes in his face then strikes me like a blow, but I don’t flinch.
“Fairy tales and happily-ever-afters are for fools, Jack. That’s not real.
Trust me,” I say as coldly as I can manage, “this isn’t that kind of movie. ”
We’re interrupted then by a young woman who ducks through one of the curtains.
“Hi!” she says, cheerfully.
“Oh, thank god,” Steve Carell whispers.
“Sorry to keep you so long, I’m here to take you to the green room.”
“No need,” Jack replies, not even looking at me. “Could you just point me toward the exit? I have a flight to catch.”
And that’s the last I see of Jack for a long, long time.