Page 25 of Hot Set

Add yet another out-of-body moment to this whole experience. Not only am I going to meet Deidre LaRochelle, but we’re going to jabber over shared insecurities. I waffle betweenOut of My LeagueandIn Over My Headas the title for my upcoming day.

When we head for his car, from force of habit, I walk to the passenger side, which in Ireland is the driver’s side.

He raises an eyebrow. “Ready to give left-side driving a go?”

“That road out to the studio didn’t appear to have sides.”

Bobby laughs. “You’ll find that a lot. Best advice for a beginner: if someone’s coming at you, slow down, move to the left, and let them blow by you.”

To my dismay, he settles into the passenger seat and waits for me to get behind the wheel.

He grins. “On my first day here, driving on a country road that makes the one to the studio look like a super highway”—he shakes his head—“I came face to face with a Guinness delivery truck. The guy waved at me to back up.”

I slip into the driver’s seat. “Did you?”

“If you could call it that. Backing up while I looked over the wrong shoulder and driving a stick shift made me weave like a drunk on a tightrope.”

I try to escape the car, but he puts a hand on my arm.

“I angled my way into a shallow ditch smack up against the hedge.” He raises a finger. “Not on purpose, mind you.” Bobby glides his arm forward. “The truck squeezed by so close, if my window had been down, I could have tapped every silver drum as it passed.”

“And this story encourages me how?”

He hands me the keys. “Take your shot, Bettencourt. If we face off with a Guinness truck, we’ll switch seats.”

Thankfully, Bobby’s black Hyundai is an automatic. Given the road to The Clan is private, I pull off a successful maiden voyage as an Irish driver.

As soon as I crunch onto the gravel parking lot—a.k.a. car park—and stop the car, Bobby springs out to examine the paint job on his side. Maybe I did get a little close to the hedges.

“Did I scratch it?”

Bobby licks his finger and rubs a hair-width streak on the shiny ebony door. “All good.”

My knees nearly buckle in relief when evidence of my driving “oops” buffs out. I suppose I should consider buying a cheap used car. I can’t expect Bobby or Patrick—and certainly not Jack—to drive me everywhere. “Got any leads on a used VW Golf I can blow my life savings on?”

He slings an arm around my shoulder in what seems like a brotherly gesture. “I’ll see if Patrick has any connections.”

Out of habit, my brain screams for him not to touch me this close to where people might see. For the last two years, I’ve been on guard with Treat at work or anywhere else we might run into to someone who knows us. An arm around the shoulder probably means nothing to Bobby. I’ve got to calm down.

I nudge my purse so it slides to my elbow, giving me an excuse to break free and readjust. “May I sit in on your meeting with Benj and Benny? Get the feel of the rewriting process?”

“Absolutely.” He holds the glass doors into the foyer open. “You will be the one typing up the changes.”

We make it all the way to the writer’s room without running into Jack. Benj and Benny hover by a counter in the corner, doctoring their coffees. Bobby shouts across the room to them. “Okay, you’ve got fifteen minutes. Sell me.”

A tempting spread of super fancy donuts flanks the coffeemaker. There’s a particularly delicious looking peanut butter chocolate one. I hope it stays unclaimed until we finish.

We huddle in the corner of the long table while B and B pitch changes. I’m impressed with the efficiency of the quick negotiations between the three. With minimal cross outs and notes in the margins, a new version is born.

Benj plunks the script into my hands. I’m about to make a clean getaway to my niche of an office when Jack strides into the writer’s room. The moment we share space, little quivers erupt all over my body.

Bobby glances at his watch. “Cutting it close, J. The van heads out to location in five minutes.”

It’s then I notice Jack’s getup. He’s wearing a black parka over a long tunic. His hair is especially blond. It must have been dyed, or at least touched up, this morning for the shoot.

Jack smiles. “The donuts are better in here.” He goes straight for my peanut butter and chocolate prize.

Bobby turns to me. “We need ten copies of the new pages, and email the changes to everyone. Get Patrick to bring you up to the location when you’ve got them. See you in a few.”

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