Page 7 of Hot Set

I indulge in a moment of envisioning Bobby as my mentor.

I take the book from him. “Green is everything that makes Donal Cam tick, motivations, quirks, his big want—the usual nuggets.” I open a page wearing a purple flag. “Purple is the love interest because green and purple are complementary colors.”

A crease etches a path across Bobby’s forehead. “No, red and green are complementary. Thus, the harmonious décor of Christmastime.”

“Not on the color wheel of light. And in the world of romance, isn’t love all about the light?”

Bobby studies me.

“Red for the main plot points. And I twist them”—I point to one of the crumbled red flags—“when there’s a plot twist or a red herring.” I stick four fingers into the book, dividing it into five sections. “Sign Herearrows for act breaks. Five, not three. Three is too watered down. It doesn’t give enough traction to story shifts.”

Bobby sets his hands on the edge of the mattress and leans closer, studying my face. “I forbid my staff to write in anything but five act structure. Shakespeare was on to something.” He jerks his chin at the book. “You organized the whole book in one night?”

I nod at the clock. “I’m quite familiar with the material, and you’ve been in and out for twelve hours.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Have you fallen in love with Donal Cam all over again?”

I toss the book on the bed. “Maybe, even though he’s a teeny bit too good to be true.”

He leans back, hands behind his head. “It seems a shame to waste twelve hours analyzing the hell out of a story and do nothing with all that brainwork.”

If he only knew the real work going on in my brain. As each hour ticked by, I had to face the fact that the life I’ve settled for has been blown to bits. A life that slowly broke my heart.

I check in with the mauve carpet to gather my nerves then meet Bobby’s targeted gaze. “When you said, ‘ease me into the picture,’ what exactly did you mean?”

The grin on his face is hard not to answer with one of my own. “Holy shit, Miss Bettencourt, has the tide turned?”

New layers I hadn’t noticed earlier under his easy-going, nice guy attitude show themselves in Bobby Provost’s expression. He’s waiting me out. Calculating the penultimate chess move in his game.

Once, when my Dad was fried after art directing six seasons of a grueling crime drama, he’d said to me, “Gillian, every director is part Doberman, and every showrunner is a gambler. One bites, and the other never completely shows his hand.”

What the hell do I have to lose by saying yes? Bobby’s dangling a shot for me to make art through storytelling instead of selling clothing. “Why did it take seventeen holes for you to revisit your job offer to me?”

I see the all business, showrunner side of Bobby come online. “Since you turned down a meeting with me, I never got the chance to readyou, just the work. Gillian Bettencourt might have been a bubble-headed wannabe novelist who thinks she’s this century’s Jane Austen. Yes,Traipse of Moonlightis something unique and original, but a roomful of monkeys with typewriters may accidentally write Macbeth. If you turned out to be a zero, I’d have assumed you stole the story from your agoraphobic college roommate. In which case, I never would have repeated the offer.”

When Bobby stands, the rigidity of his posture borders on imposing. “I don’t play fast and loose with my show or the people I allow to work with me. I’m potentially investing a decade of my life and my livelihood intoThe Chieftain’s Son. It will not be less than exquisite. Before I opened the gate of my kingdom even a crack, I had to get a valid sense of who you are.”

Am I flattered to have passed Bobby’s test or insulted he thought I had potential to be a bubbleheaded, Shakespeare-typing monkey?

“Look, Bobby. I don’t know the form. I have no experience telling a visual story. That’s what I was trying to do last night with the breakdown. See if I could imagine liftingThe Chieftain’s Son’swords from the page and turn them into a movie in my head.”

“And?”

I look away from the eagerness in his eyes to the glare bouncing off the window. “I liked it.”

He retrievesTheChieftain’s Sonfrom the quilt and plops it back into my hand. “I’ve been where you are, Gillian—at the beginning. It’s scary.” Bobby chews on his lip. “As far as easing you into the picture, does the title of Assistant to the Writers sound less intimidating? I’m offering you the chance to take this season to learn the form, the process, the new way of storytelling, and apply your talent. The ball is on your tee, Gillian Bettencourt.”

I nod to Bobby, and usingThe Chieftain’s Sonas my club, I swing.

ChapterThree

Two hours on Irish soil, and I understand why Deidre LaRochelle set the ten books of herChieftain’s Sonseries here. The beauty is addicting. The people personify charm. Everyone I’ve met, from the taxi driver to tournament folks, bubble with warmth and humor.

Gal Tré Golf Course surpasses the most luscious places I’ve ever played. Grass appears to have been replaced with emerald velvet. The rise and fall of the hills echo the waves cresting below the cliffs. Greens and fairways flow into one another with the grace of clouds lightly blown by the wind. The Atlantic itself shushes and hums as a backing track.

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