Page 9 of Hot Set

Bobby applauds. “Wait ‘til you see her putt. Poetry, my friend.”

Doolin says something in Irish and gives me a broad grin. “Yep. You’re very welcome here.”

I glance over at Jay, but he’s already making his way up the path toward his ball. For nine holes, he plays his solitary Zen game. It drives me crazy that Jay putts out before Doolin, Bobby, and I join him on the green. For those same nine holes, Bobby stays in the cart with Doolin, so I don’t get the chance to quiz him for details about my new job. All he’s tasked me to do so far is work on my relocation to Ireland and “reread the hell” out ofThe Chieftain’s Sonbooks one and two. I will be buying stock in Post-it flags.

I call out my score to Doolin. “Five on that hole.”

As I reread the hell out of book one, I played around with dividing it into episodes as a writing exercise. I’m damn proud of the way my breakdown honored the romantic heart of the piece without sacrificing the wealth of history. My imagined episodes build enough tension to make an audience dig their fingernails into the palms of their hands. I feel I’ve uncovered the connective tissue ofThe Chieftain’s Son, but Bobby’s right about my lack of screenwriting knowledge. I could have missed some essential strokes to tell the visual story. I’m dying of curiosity to see how Bobby and his staff broke down the book. Is it close to what I did? If my take on chopping up the story is even in the same zip code of what the staff is doing, this rising fear of being out of my league might ebb a smidge.

When we finish our tenth hole, I point to the retreating figure of our elusive teammate. “How do we know Secret Agent Jay is being honest with his score?”

Doolin and Bobby let loose twin explosive laughs.

Doolin lays a fatherly arm over my shoulders and flicks a finger in Jay’s direction. “You’re looking at the most honest man in Ireland. That one there’s got integrity tattooed on his bum.”

I smile at Doolin. “Just no people skills?”

We catch up to Jay two holes later. In an unspoken pact, we give him exclusive rights to the tee box. He begins his requisite three practice swings.Oh, God.That backswing, that hitch at the top. What the man could accomplish if he’d just add fluidity to his swing.

At the apex of his third backswing, I knock my head against the steering wheel of the cart and groan. “I can’t watch anymore.”

Bobby, who’s selecting a club from his bag saunters over to me. “What?”

I turn my back on the tee. “Jay’s backswing. He’s got this funky hitch at the top that totally kills his momentum. If he wasn’t all muscle, his ball wouldn’t get any distance.”

“That so?”

The voice behind me is not Doolin.Oh, crap.Jay heard me. Slowly, I turn toward him. He’s so tall he bends quite a ways to peer into the golf cart. I get an extreme close-up of the muscles bulging under his baseball jersey. His build isn’t gross like weightlifters in TV competitions. Jay’s body is solid and formed in a way that would make a sculptor weep with joy to have him as a model. Before my gawking becomes embarrassing, he slides into the seat next to me and pulls off his cap. The hair lump, now free from elastic, cascades in golden waves to his shoulders. Man bun down. Who is this guy? Freakin’ Achilles?

“What would you have me do?”

His Irish accent is as lyrical as Doolin’s is crusty. The strong chin is just a tease of a man so gorgeous God could have retired after creating this guy. From high, broad cheekbones, his face tapers gracefully down to that dimple. Along his jawline are three identical, tiny moles right in a row. I want to touch them and count one, two, three. Jay’s lips are the color of a blush and full enough to be inviting, but not so big as to produce sloppy kisses. I am staring. I want to stare more.

“It’s my backswing, is it?”

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek to avoid falling into a trance. “Uh, yeah.”

“Care to show me?”

Bobby knocks on the top of the cart. “Zen timer run out, J?”

Jay wags a finger at Bobby. “The new system’s shaved six strokes off my last round so far.” He knocks a fist to his abdomen. “It’s all about the core.” He points to the sky. “And connecting to the world ‘round you. Put them together, and you lose six strokes.”

I have an urge to pound on Jay’s abdomen to prove it’s as solid as it looks.

“Shall you doctor up my backswing, Gillian?”

Hearing my name spill from Jay’s lips jars me. “You know who I am?”

“Yeah. Bobby here hasn’t stopped gushing about the new writer since he got back from L.A. Welcome toThe Chieftain’s Sonfamily.” Jay takes my hand in his. It’s big and so warm I feel heat through my golf glove.

Bobby smacks the top of the cart. “We’ll all celebrate Gillian over a pint after the round.”

Doolin hollers from the tee box. “Will you break up your chat fest and tee off, for the love of Saint Michael? It’s getting too cold for my bones out here.”

Jay pops out of the cart. “I’m at your mercy, Gillian.”

My brain snaps into teacher mode. I’ve coached a dozen high school kids straight into golf scholarships. This is no different, as long as I can stop staring at eyes that match the blue of the Atlantic so perfectly the sea and the man are reflections of one another.

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