Page 2 of Hot Set

Before I step on the gas, he raises a hand. “Hold up. I don’t intend to waste the serendipity of sharing this golf cart with the author ofTraipse of Moonlightbecause her boss wants to use my property.”

The serious look and tone of his voice set off a warning klaxon in my brain.No, not now. Don’t do it, Bobby. Throw the elephant in the cart some peanuts and call it a day. Please kill off any mention of our awkward history when we’re so close to the finish line.

“Why in the hell is Gillian Bettencourt wasting her talent writing banal clothing descriptors for a Ralph Lauren wannabe company?”

I’m not sure how many times per minute one is supposed to breathe, but I don’t make the quota.

Bobby continues. “In the spirit of full disclosure…”

I remember to breathe but forget to blink.

“My offer still stands for the author ofTraipse of Moonlightto join my writing staff forThe Chieftain’s Son.”

I swallow a very unladylike gulp. This is not a conversation I ever wanted to have, but he’s got me cornered.

“Traipsenever made it.”

He stares me down. “Awards and landing the literary agent that we share say otherwise.”

I attempt to match his intensity. “It’s a decent novella that became a novel she couldn’t sell.”

Bobby holds up a hand to stop me. “It sold me. From the day Jen passed it to me last year when I was reading everything in sight about Irish history and folklore,Traipse of Moonlighthas been a major tonal inspiration in my development ofThe Chieftain’s Son.”

He gestures so wildly I have to lean away to keep from getting whacked.

“The way you juxtapose the despair of the villagers with the unrelenting possibility of hope is gorgeous. Your story shares DNA with Deidre LaRochelle and herChieftain’s Sonseries.”

“Traipseisn’t a romance.”

I must present like a shock victim because Bobby speaks with slow and succinct phrasing. “It is a love story. The passion those parents feel for their sick child and the bargain they make with the Otherworld…grand stuff.”

His energetic dance calms. “And my dear Miss Bettencourt,The Chieftain’s Sonseries is so much more than a romance. It’s got historical gravitas and a timeless message.” He runs a finger across his chin. “As doesTraipse of Moonlight.”

I rub my hands together, shoring up courage to reject Bobby a second time. His offer is nuts. I barely survived convertingTraipsefrom a novella to a novel.

Bobby knocks on the roof of the golf cart. “I don’t invite people lightly to be on my creative team, Gillian. Your story has stuck with me. I see raw talent in you. Talent to be cultivated.”

“My novella version ofTraipseis likely a one hit wonder.”

He points at me. “How will you ever know if you don’t take a shot?”

My damp hands slip off the steering wheel. “I’m not good enough for something this huge.”

“‘Not good enough,’ says the woman whose prose about trekking in flagstone jackets raises Lawson Graham stock prices.”

“I’m good at the short game.” Treat’s words feel sour on my lips. “I’m not a fool, Bobby. I know writing for your show is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. It’s just one that would be a better fit for someone else.”

Bobby dismisses my embarrassment with a flick of his wrist. “I disagree.”

I can’t deny the rush I get from this guy addressing me as a writer. My pilot light to become a novelist sputtered out shortly afterTraipsefell flat and I landed the blurb writing gig at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear. Bobby’s offer makes my light spark for a moment but then die. Except for witty descriptors, my writing muscles have atrophied, and I know zilch about screenwriting.

My mind flashes on the trio of manuscripts I wrote in grad school hiding on my hard drive. The stories I never raised enough courage to even show my agent.

“What can I say to make you reconsider, Gillian?”

I fidget instead of answering.

Bobby leans in closer. “I dare you.”

---