Page 55 of Hot Set

His avalanche of praise and expectation leaves me speechless. I manage a drunken nod, which earns me a grin and click of the tongue before he hails Danna. I’m left to process the pile ofwhat just happenedsitting in my lap.

Warring factions of thrill and panic buzz through my head. Bobby Provost, wunderkind showrunner, has just invited me to write my version of the season finale forThe Chieftain’s Sonas my first ever script. I squeeze my fists until my fingers are numb. This is my crossroads, my shot to prove myself and dig into the creative future I’ve hungered for. One so much more appealing than writing about waterproof hiking shoes.

A blur of color smears across the writer’s room. Meg. She grips Bobby’s arm.

“Raise a shield, my friend. A PR shitestorm is heading straight for us.”

Bobby looks a hundred years old. The rest of the writing staff tactfully fades into their offices.

Meg retrieves the remote off the table and turns on the flatscreen, clicking until she lands on a mob scene outside a Belfast studio. Jack and Niks, surrounded by security, thread their way through the crowd. The screen switches to a shot of the pair in headphones, sharing a mic in the radio studio. “This just went live,” she says. “Damn it, I never authorized cameras in the interview.”

The host reminds me of one of the smug, middle-management jerks at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear. The type that are so spoiled and entitled their mommies probably wiped their asses until they graduated high school. He leans forward, targeting Jack. “So, are you ready to fill us in on the mystery girl you’re hiding in Sneem?”

Holy freaking hell.

“Look at Jack’s face,” snaps Meg. “He’s as red as a sunburned ass.”

Bobby squints at the screen. “Is it true?” He looks genuinely bewildered. “Jack hasn’t said anything to me about being involved with someone.”

“Have you ever seen a more blatant admission of guilt?” Meg flicks a hand at the screen. “True or not, all those women who want their hand under his tunic are going to take it as a betrayal. It might start folks sniffing around too close to his house as well.”

My phone buzzes.

Cheese and Onion Pie

I slink down the hall away from Meg and Bobby. The call goes to message before I’m far enough out of earshot to answer it safely. It’s probably for the best. I, unlike Jack, am not an actor, nor do I have any semblance of a poker face.

The mastodon sitting on my chest gains another ton while I wait for the voicemail to come in. The second the alert pings I hit the blue play arrow.

“Gilly, it’s me. Something’s happened. I just got off the phone with Imelda. She’s a mess, blaming herself. It seems her delivery guy saw us in Sneem and recognized me. He’s running off at the mouth about it. The fool on the radio brought it up as well. Listen to me, love, I don’t want you falling to pieces over this. There aren’t any pictures. It’s just the idiot’s word against mine. We are fine, and we’re going to be fine. Trust me, love. Talk later.”

My sweet, optimistic Jack. I want so badly to believe we can blink our eyes and make this go away. Every step back to the writer’s room feels like I’m lugging a fifty-pound weight strapped to my ankle. I play dumb and ignore Bobby and Meg. I pour a cup of coffee and vanish into my office.

Meg’s volume has doubled. “If this screws up any leverage at San Diego Cali Con one iota, True Time will have my head on a platter. They want women camping out for his panels and swooning once they’re inside.”

Bobby paces. “Just have him say it’s not true.”

She replays the clip and pauses on Jack’s flashing billboard of guilt face. “Deny that reaction? He’ll look like a liar.” She presses fingers into her temples. “Women hate liars.”

Bobby captures her hands in his. “We say his reaction isn’t about guilt. He’s flustered, still not used to probes into his personal life.” He nods furiously. “That’ll work. Jack does genuine better than anyone because he’s the real thing.”

Meg slaps her palms on the table. The smack ricochets around the room. “If it’s true, hiding it is the only way to keep to the network’s PR game plan. We need his single-guy romantic traction to keep building the buzz for season one.”

I pretend to be engrossed in work while taking in everything they say so I can tell Jack later.

She lays a fist against Bobby’s chest. “This is on me. I should have pressed harder for more specific public image clauses in his contract. Made sure he wasn’t seen out and about with any woman we didn’t set up.”

Bobby’s face reddens. “You can’t orchestrate the man’s whole life. This isn’t Hollywood in the 1940’s.”

I could kiss him dead on the lips for sticking up for Jack, and without knowing it, me.

The two of them face off for a tense moment, then Bobby drops into a chair. He taps his finger a hundred times on the tabletop, eyes wobbling. As quickly as his drum solo began, it ends. He grabs the edge of the table and leans back, triumph brightening the exhaustion in his eyes. “J’s got a sister. She’s a Kerry local. We’ll point that out and say that’s who he had dinner with. That keeps his Sneem address quiet.” Using the table to push up, he’s on his feet and heading toward the door.

A ball of disgust hardens in my stomach. I hate the way they talk about Jack like he’s a commodity. Now, they’re bringing his family into the charade. Neither one of them picks up a phone to ask Jack what his take on all this might be.

Meg pinches his sleeve and shakes. “I’m afraid that will sound like a cover-up.” She bites on her lip in a series of furious nips that by all rights should draw blood. “True Time will want us to get out in front of this. Spin the game plan of Jack and Niks together. We’ll move up the reveal timeline. There’s our fix.”

Bobby holds up his hands. “I don’t think—”

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