Page 14 of Hot Set

Jay’s face is bright red. “Meg, this is Gillian, the one Bobby’s been on about, the new writer’s assistant.”

She gives me a sharp nod. “So, you are. Meg McGrath, publicist. Welcome aboard.” Her gaze rakes the room. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” She pulls out her phone. “I’m texting Bobby to corral the reporters over for an interview. Jack, you duck behind the bar and out the back door. Patrick’s waiting to drive you.” She assesses me. “It was dark enough at the table, so I don’t think they saw you with Jack, but stay here until Bobby dumps the mob, or they’ll crawl all over you.” Meg plays her cell like a slot machine. “I’d hate for your first night in town to be a nightmare.”

I narrow my eyes at Jay. “Jack?”

He clutches my hands. “I thought you knew. I’m Jack O’Leary. Bobby calls me ‘J’ for Jack.”

Meg shoves Jack, busting us apart. “Okay, go! Go!”

He turns to me just before disappearing behind the bar and mouths, “I’m sorry.”

Five seconds later, the press swarms Bobby. Jack O’Leary, star ofTheChieftain’s Son, bolts out the back door with Meg on his heels, leaving me alone in the shadows of the snug.

ChapterFive

Momentum is a funny thing. We pretend to have control over it, but that’s a wish, not reality. The momentThe Chieftain’s Sonentered my life, I became a captive of momentum.

There was never a defining moment when I officially began this new life. It wasn’t when I said “yes” to Bobby or that first step off the plane at Shannon Airport. Momentum gobbled me up at some point last night in the pub. Jack—aka Jay or J, per Bobby—introduced me as the new writer to Meg, and she made sure I got to my hotel in Tralee. This morning, Patrick, a production company driver, is bringing me toThe Chieftain’s Sonstudio complex called The Clan near the town of Waterville.

What I said to Jack last night is true. Tiny seeds of entertaining the possibility of an extended future here lay in my hand. I haven’t shown them the Irish soil yet, but they’re with me. Those seeds appeared, first one then the rest, as I assigned myself the task of breaking book one ofThe Chieftain’s Sonseries into hypothetical episodes. I did the exercise to prove to myself I may be able to do this. I’m not ready to admit to the seeds, but I will keep them safe. Maybe I should thank Treat for being a cheating asshole and throwing me clear of the car crash that my life with him had become.

Patrick nods out the window. “That way’s Waterville, where you’ll be staying, but Mr. Provost wants you at The Clan straight away.”

I recognize Patrick’s name as the driver who rescued Jack from the press last night. “Do you usually drive for Jack O’Leary?”

“Nah. Miss Tellefson’s my ongoing concern.” He lets out a percussive laugh. “That one’ll never take to driving herself. Her assistant, Marisa, isn’t fond of our narrow roads.”

If I’d been tossing back pints last night with Niks Tellefson—Nieve, the female lead onThe Chieftain’s Son—I wouldn’t have mistaken her for anyone else. Her porn satires online are snort laugh hilarious. My personal favorite isSloppy Serenade,where she plays a hooker with a list of clientele she has no desire to sleep with. Disgusting examples of humanity show up to her fluffy, pink boudoir to collect their pleasures. Niks makes them wait while she chows down humungous, four-patty cheeseburgers, sending pickles, tomatoes, and secret sauce spilling all over her would-be lovers. One by one, they stomp out in disgust, which we learn was her diabolical plan all along. It ends with her ordering a pizza and tipping the delivery boy with one of the hundred-dollar bills she collected in advance from her men. Classic.

Patrick slows by a tiny guard shack and rolls down the window.

A ruddy-faced man the size of a pro wrestler sits in front of an electric fireplace playing video games. “Ho, Paddy.”

“Ho, Dev. Couldja, send word to Mr. Provost that his girl is here?”

His girl? If Patrick hadn’t been witty and wonderful on the drive down and given me a list of all the golf courses I have to play before I go home, the title would rankle me. I don’t intend to be anyone’sgirl.

There are no signs marking this nexus ofThe Chieftain’s Sonuniverse. On either side of the single-lane road, grasses grow so high I can’t see beyond them. The further down the road we go, the more violently butterflies flap in my stomach. I try to tell myself the buzz is only eager anticipation over my new adventure, but that would be a lie.

My nerves are on the verge of shorting out because of Jay. Correction, Jack. Jack O’Leary. I’d like to blame our cozying up to each other last night on the Guinness. Blame it on the high of winning the golf tournament. Blame it on Treat for making me crave what he doesn’t give me. Where the fault lies doesn’t matter. Last night was fun, but it’s a one and done. A decent takeaway from my Treat Graham debacle is to stay out of the shark-infested waters of workplace romance.

If only I hadn’t liked Jack so much. He’s fun, smart, ridiculously handsome, and damn it, a decent golfer.

The land opens up, sheep as far as the eye can see. Spray-painted sheep. Lines of orange, green, and even pink spread across wooly coats.

“Patrick, who tagged these poor sheep?”

“Ah. The orange are Catholic sheep, the green, Protestant, and the pink, nondenominational.” He allows me a few beats of silence, watching me in the mirror before he laughs. “The colors tell you who the beasts belong to.”

I answer him with a cheeky look. “Is anyone in this country serious about anything?”

“Only on Tursdays,” he says with the characteristic “t” replacing the “th” sound that I’m getting used to. “See over tere.” He points to a trio of donkeys gorging themselves on grass. “Those are Doolin’s ladies. I hear you golfed a round with the man himself yesterday. He rescued these darlings from a bad situation. Now they follow him around like dogs.”

Beyond Doolin’s donkeys and the sheep, cows roam the lush fields. As we descend a small rise, a gray warehouse complex appears in front of us. It’s at least the length of three football fields.

“Here we are,” says Patrick.

The massive collection of nondescript buildings plunked in the middle of a pasture is not how I envisioned The Clan.

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