Page 30 of Hot Set

Jack twists to face me. “That look is not the one I was hoping for.” Lights catch his red beard stubble and the cinnamon of his eyelashes.

The ginger children comment Deidre made comes back to me. “Hey, are you actually blond?”

“You mean saffron, sunlight, and buttercup,” he says, naming off a few of the dozens of color references Deidre makes to Donal Cam’s hair in the novel.

I can’t help giggling. “Or noonday sand, straw, limoncello—”

“In the name of Saint Brigid, stop,” he says, laughing with me. “I’m a ginger.” Jack scratches the beginning of his beard. “As you see.”

Our children would be doomed to red hair.Our children.Cart and horse in the wrong order once again. I pick up my golf bag. “Come sit with me.”

Jack relinquishes our tee mat and grabs his bag. I lead him down the row to the very last bench. It’s in shadow hidden from the clubhouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows where Meg and Bobby warm up with whiskey.

I glance at the other golfers, but nobody pays any attention to us. Jack O’Leary doesn’t make a stir out here. He’s just one more golfer fine tuning his swing.

Jack scoots next to me on the bench and throws an arm over my shoulders. “We’ve got a knack for finding the dark corners, eh?” Before I can get out the first word of myslow downspeech, his lips are on mine.

I should push him away. Get him to listen to reason, but I kiss him back. We break away slowly, and I drop the top of my head to his chest. “What are you doing to me, Jack O’Leary?”

He slides his hand around the back of my neck. “If it’s anything like what you’re doing to me, Gilly Bettencourt, you haven’t got a clear thought left in your head.”

“We can’t do this here.” I raise my chin to the clubhouse. “We can’t do this at all. Bobby and Meg—”

He pulls the brim of his hat down over my forehead and ducks under it for another kiss, cutting off my words. His mouth is warm and eager, but not demanding. Jack’s kisses reflect the person he is. They ask, and when I answer yes, it’s as if his light surrounds me, erasing any restraint. His tongue tastes of sugar, spreading sweetness everywhere it discovers a new part of me. Our kiss deepens. I steal a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer. If he laid me down on this bench right now, I’d be powerless to resist. This man turns common sense into confetti.

We finally break, and Jack lets out a quiet groan. “You’re going to say it now, aren’t you?”

“Hmm?”

My lips tingle. I don’t want to speak and dilute the thrill of it.

“Your fully prepared speech of why you shouldn’t come to my private, little house after dinner?” He raises one eyebrow, waiting.

I shake my head.

“No, you’re not coming, or no, you’re not going to argue with me about it?” His hand clamps over my knee. He mimics my voice. “No, Jack. We can’t bite the hand that feeds us, poke the beast, put our heads in the lion’s mouth.”

I lay my head on his shoulder. “That’s a whole lot of clichés.”

“I’ve got more. I’ll spout them until dawn if that’ll bring you to my bed.”

“Am I mistaken, or did we skip a few steps of getting to know each other?”

Wicked Jack grins at me. “A few. Do you mind?”

Every one of his clichés has merit, and we both know it. They all pale next to the wanting that may set this bench on fire. Why shouldn’t my fresh start have benefits? Jack and I are both adults. We can handle fun without obligation or commitment.Damn it.I’m overthinking this. How hard can it be to keep a few great nights with Jack off Meg’s radar? I won’t be lying because she’ll never ask.

“Okay, Jack. Take me to your little house.”

Suddenly, I almost fly off the end of the bench when Jack pushes me away. A second later, I spot Bobby on the hunt.

“Shoes.” I hiss at Jack and untie my golf shoes. He takes the hint and does the same, giving us an excuse to share the seat.

“There you are.” Bobby lifts his chin. “So? Who won the bet?”

Jack stuffs his shoes into his bag and pulls out sneakers, pretending to be miffed. This acting thing can be a real perk. “Who do you think?”

“Ha. Well done, Gillian.” Bobby gestures to the path leading up to the clubhouse. “Guess who’s coming to dinner?”

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