Page 56 of Hot Set

“Let me paint the scenario.” She wags a finger. “Fans have a hard-on for Donal Cam and Nieve to be together. They’ll accept that. Hell, they’ll swoon with gratification.” She flings her arms wide. “Jack O’Leary and Niks Tellefson are the real thing. True love mirrors the story of true love. We redirect fan disappointment from Jack being unavailable into every woman dreaming a love like the one we present to the world is possible. Bam! We’re back in the lust business.”

Bobby’s shoulders droop. “Schedule a meeting with Jack and Niks. It’s their lives we’re messing with. They have to be on board.”

I bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

Meg’s expression dares him to argue any further. “If True Time tells them to be on board, they will be on board.”

I have an unhealthy urge to push Meg off a cliff. Niks thrown together with Jack even more is my Lanie Blesch nightmare all over again.

I press my phone to my heart as if I’m clinging to the last remnants of Jack. His nightmare of being pulled underwater flashes through my mind. Is this how the damn faeries answer the wish he made at the hawthorn? Did they not understand it’s me he was talking about, not goddamned Niks? Or do they know, and they’re having a rip-roaring belly laugh at we mortals’ expense? The good people, my ass. If I ever catch a faerie near that tree, I’ll have Streaker stomp it into the ground.

A sinking feeling in my gut warns that maybe the faeries aren’t mistaken after all. This might be the fair folk’s way of saving me from a relationship that can only exist on the dark side of the moon.

ChapterEighteen

Saturday is gloomy. Gray clouds with full bellies hang low in the sky above the Irish Sea, waiting for just the right moment to drench the golf course in a sheet of rain. My mood isn’t any brighter. Jack and I are not in the same foursome. He’s in the group ahead of me with a pair of chat show hosts and the president of the charity.

His brutal schedule hasn’t given us a chance to do more than promise to talk about our situation. Which we are supposed to be doing right now.

Thanks to Meg’s campaign of hints about a possible Jack/Niks relationship splattered across every platform in the known universe, the press has closed in. Jack won’t be caught with any more mystery women on Meg’s watch.

The throng of reporters, photographers, and spectators crowding around him is so thick I haven’t had more than a glimpse of him for the last fifteen holes.

“You’re away, Gillian,” calls one of the three octogenarians in my foursome from across the green. They’re cheery enough to me but bicker among themselves at every opportunity, constantly complaining about their various parts replacements. I’m rapidly becoming an expert on the best minerals to take for joint pain.

“Represent the show,” I hiss at myself through clenched teeth.

I nearly miss my birdie putt on the sixteenth hole as the gag-inducing TV3 interview from last night takes over my conscious thought. Jack and Niks, sitting on a white furry couch, holding hands and gazing at one another. Every answer was coy but tantalizingly noncommittal. Niks with her overly precious Norwegian accent blathering about Jack being as sweet as achokladbiskviermade me want to vomit.

Meg and the True Time Network are teasing the fans with a Jack and Niks coupling but haven’t come out with a blatant announcement yet. I imagine a fat playbook on her desk with every step of the romantic reveal.

I hold the flag at the edge of the green, pretending interest as my trio of great-grandpas finish out the hole. My eyes stray to the next tee box where I have my first clear view of Jack. He bends down to stab his tee into the sod, that magnificent ass pointed directly at me. His swing is the marriage of strong and smooth. I take credit for his glitch-free flow, especially at the top of his backswing, but the grace is all his.

My heart pounds with such powerful beats as I watch him, I expect to be shushed for being too noisy on the green. As if I’m speaking to him on some primal level, he snaps his head around to find me. It’s only a fleeting look. There are too many eyes on him. He’s got to be careful. But it’s enough to make tears sting my eyes because of the horrible situation I’ve landed in with him. Shadow Gilly rides again. I’m so goddamned sick of being a dirty little secret.

He strolls back to the cart path, and I watch him pull his phone from a pocket.

Panic grips my chest.No, don’t call me, Jack.Too many eyes. Someone is bound to catch him.

To my relief, he throws an arm around one of his teammates and takes a selfie. Crisis averted. The pic will be up on social media any second, immediately garnering thousands of likes.

“Nicely done,” I say to my teammates, complimenting their putts as we head back to our carts.

“Well, aren’t you just a darlin’ for sayin’ so,” says the wobbliest of my ancient crew.

Before I make it to the next tee box, I hear my phone buzz. I hang back to check it. My heart races when there’s a text from Jack less than five minutes old. The man is going to give me a coronary.

Give me an hour after tournament awards are handed out, then meet me in Howth at Lobster Lee’s. For the love of God, have a bowl of chowder and whiskey waiting for me.

Jack promised to take me to Howth, the kicky, little fishing village north of Dublin where lots of famous people live. Is that why he picked it? Does Howth protect VIPs from press invasion?

I text him back.

Kind of public, don’t you think?

His answer is quick.

Get a table in the side room. Not much traffic. It’ll be grand.

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