Page 39 of Hot Set

I love his certainty that I’ll still be part ofThe Chieftain’s Sonin season three.

“The feathery beasties wreak havoc when folks film on the islands. If you don’t want a Puffin on screen, skip the Skelligs.”

“Have you ever made it out there?”

“On a boat, weaving around the islands. There’s a strict limit on how many feet they let touch the place.” He takes a long, slow breath. “Shooting on a Skellig is one of the things I’m most looking forward to on this crazyChieftain’s Sonride.”

“Not screaming crowds of women?”

Wicked Jack shoots a sideways glance in my direction. “Naw. There’s just the one woman’s screams I’m interested in.”

I match him wicked to wicked by waving my hands in the air and wiggling my whole body. “Jack! Jack! Look over here, you hunky slice of man flesh!”

“Man flesh, is it? That’s a new one.” He squeezes my leg above the knee. “I like it.”

The setting moon reflects off the mist blanketing the land around us, giving the whole world a silver sheen. I’m on a carriage ride with an elven prince. If I ask, he’ll lift us into the sky to watch dawn break over the Ring of Kerry.

The main drag of Portmagee runs along an inlet. A bridge crosses the narrow water between boats bobbing at the dock and a strip of green that looks like an island. “Is that a Skellig?”

“Naw,” says Jack. He pulls into a parking place in front of a stone building wearing a red painted sign with letters in a kicky font that readThe Port Bar.“That’s Valentia Island. Best place for seeing the Skelligs if the boats aren’t running.” He kills the engine and taps his phone, on the hunt for something. The corners of his mouth dip into a frown. “Which they aren’t. It was a long shot anyway this time of year.” His hand strays to my thigh. “Any time of year, really. Sorry, love.”

“Guess I’ll have to wait for season three. Where to next?” I chirp, not entirely disappointed to avoid a boat in the sloshing waves of the Atlantic even with the reward of puffins.

“We’re here. Our first coffee stop.” He roars in character as Donal Cam. “And food.”

If there is anything I’m more enamored with than Jack O’Leary, it’s Irish butter and brown bread. The pile of potatoes and ham we polish off for breakfast come in a close second. With my belly full, I’m tempted to recline my seat and snooze while my tour guide winds through this gorgeous countryside. Awe beats nap as I take in endless fields of waving green grasses and their tiny yellow wildflowers vying for my attention.

Jack slows for a moment, which doesn’t matter since there aren’t any other cars behind us. “Look at that majestic fellow.”

Near the road, poised on a small patch of green amid white-spotted granite slabs, is a ram. He’s as still as the rocks surrounding him, chin slightly tilted up to give him a regal air. A single line of blue spray paint runs down his shaggy back. “Behold the king of sheep,” I say, sweeping a hand in his direction. I steal a picture before the fine fellow decides to take off. Mom and Dad will love this one.

Jack lets out a low grunt. “I’d say he’s more the emperor type.” He nods to my phone. “Haven’t filled your quota of sheep shots yet?”

I tuck the cell back in my pocket. “I promised my parents one sheep picture a day for as long as I’m here.”

Jack lead-foots the gas. “And how long do you see that being?”

I feel his eyes on me as I shrug. “There are plenty of sheep waiting for their close-up.”

We’re both quiet as we float through the landscape.

Jack screeches off the road into a miniscule stretch of gravel and jumps out of the car. “I want to show youCaiseal Leaca na Buaile, a ring fort.” We trudge up a path under the watchful eyes of many sheep. I’m going to have to get in better shape if I’m going to keep up with Jack and his insane fitness. He waxes historic over the ring of stones up ahead, homestead of wealthy landowners from days gone by. “Entrances face east to avoid prevailing winds.” Who needs a book on Irish history when I’ve got my own personal docent?

A cow peers at us over a wooden fence. “Hello cow.” My words must translate to threats of death or dismemberment in cow language because it turns and trots away at the sound of my voice.

“You spooked the poor lady,” says Jack.

The cow stops to look back at us over its shoulder. “Maidin mhaith, bó,” says Jack with an adorable Irish lilt. Not so cute to our bovine friend, who lows what is clearly a cow insult at him and disappears around a small hill.

“Now who scared her?” I thread an arm through his. “What did you say?”

“Good morning, cow.”

“Ah, that explains it. Terrifying.”

He jerks his chin at the animal. “The name of this ring fort means ‘summer cow pasture’ in honor of her kind. You’d think she’d be a more gracious hostess.”

We stroll up the hill, soaking in the day. “Will you teach me Irish?”

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