Page 6 of Hot Set

Mom holds up a finger and disappears.

Bobby’s gloating turns to chagrin. “You’re never going to wake me again, are you? I’m about to be set adrift in concussion limbo forever.”

“Siccing my mother on me is not playing fair.”

“I suck at golf etiquette too.”

I drop into the chair. “It’s crazy flattering my story meshes with your show—”

Bobby lays the back of his hand on his forehead. “As my dying wish, don’t turn me down again. Come to Ireland. Play in the charity tournament. I’ll give you a tour ofThe Chieftain’s Soncomplex in Kerry. It’s ‘pretty brilliant’, as the locals say. We’ll take your picture next to the board in the writer’s room where we proudly display our staff copy ofTraipse of Moonlight,and you’ll see why you belong with us.”

A book comes sailing through the doorway and lands on the foot of the bed.TheChieftain’s Son.

“A little something to kill time between wake ups,” says Mom, baring teeth in her wiliest grin.

Bobby throws her a thumbs up. She bows and leaves us alone.

“You do sort of owe me after…” Bobby points to the bruised bump on his temple. God, if my ball had hit a few inches to the right, he’d be the late showrunner ofThe Chieftain’s Son.

I drop my head back to stare at my lavender ceiling. The color is supposed to be calming. It ain’t working. A concoction of pissed off and regret slosh inside me. Part of me wants to confront Treat, another says never look back. Saying yes to Bobby is runningtosomething instead of just running away from the man who crossed the line from wooing a client to being a cheating bastard. God, this is such a leap.

“Nap time.” I reach over and turn off the bedside lamp without answering him.

Bobby’s eyes close before he sinks all the way into the pillows.

I retrieveThe Chieftain’s Sonfrom the bed and run a thumb over the well-worn cover. I’ve read this book a dozen times. Inside the front cover, an illustration of a powerfully built blond fellow in a tunic and other assorted draped fabrics stares at me. Donal Cam stands beside a snow white horse. The man’s cheekbones alone are the stuff of dreams. This Jack O’Leary fellow has a lot to live up to. Atop the steed sits an ethereal beauty in a long green dress with a fur collar. There’s something about the way they look at each other than flattens what’s left of my heart. That look says love, not adore.

Is Treat even thinking about me? Is he with her tonight? A sob busts out with such force I slap a hand over my mouth and shoot a glance at Bobby. He’s out cold. It’s twisted, but I’m grateful for his concussion. Taking care of this friendly stranger gives me purpose, at least for one night. Tomorrow is not something I’m looking forward to. After witnessing Treat’s lusty slobbering over Lanie, how am I going to walk into the offices of Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear and pretend nothing has changed?

I hope knocking backThe Chieftain’s Sonwill be a distraction. I set a phone alarm for ninety minutes, as promised. A niggle of self-satisfaction that the showrunner of this phenom personally asked me to join the team stokes a small flicker of adrenaline inside me. What if I did say yes? Bobby knows how inexperienced I am. It’s not as if I’m misrepresenting myself. Am I up to the challenge? Fear mixes with the adrenaline, and I feel wobbly. Kicking off my shoes, I snuggle into my favorite armchair.

The Chieftain’s Son, Book One, by Deidre LaRochelle

Time and love are the strongest forces a human heart must endure.

A tear sneaks all the way to my chin.You got that right, sister.

“Color coded Post-its. I’d expect no less.”

Bobby’s voice snaps me out of a doze. “Technically, they’re Post-it flags.” I rub my eyes to pull myself through the threshold of sleep. “Hey, you woke up on your own.”

Stripes of morning sun wash the stubble on his face into a walnut sheen with a few hints of gray. Treat’s beard is as black as coal. Harsh and prickly.

“I may survive yet.” He swings his legs, clad in my father’s sweat pants, off the side of the bed and stretches each arm across his chest.

He wobbles and gingerly probes the impact zone on his temple.

“Slow and easy there.”TheChieftain’s Sonplops onto the carpet near Bobby’s foot when I reach out to steady him.

He retrieves it. With his thumbnail, he fans the line of Post-it flags sticking out of the pages.

Waves of shyness and embarrassment collide in a cross current as my cheeks heat up. “I had to do something to occupy myself while I made sure you didn’t go to the great golf course in the sky.” I shrug. “Text analysis is my drug of choice.”

His lips curl into acaught yousmile as he thumps the cover. “Will you share your system, or must I crack the color code unassisted?”

“You’ll laugh. I’m over-the-top systematic.”

“I didn’t get where I am without reveling in the glory of systems.”

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