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“You realize I can see you.” Jack leans on the rail. “I saw you come in under the arch. Did you figure if you held your breath, I’d mistake you for a wooden post?”
There isn’t a damn thing I can say to prevent coming off like an idiot. “I didn’t want to scare your horse. Sorry to interrupt.” I turn to go, but Jack is fast.
He’s got my upper arm in a firm, but non-threatening grip. “Gilly, wait.” I stare at the hand holding me captive, and he lets go. Light from the lanterns shines off his golden hair tied back in a ponytail with a frayed piece of leather. “I owe you an apology.”
“Nope. Everything’s cool. Great job at the table read this morning.” I back away from him, trying to look casual.
Jack holds a hand out. “I truly thought Doolin and Bobby told you who I was straight away, or that you’d seen ads for the show.”
“Nope again.”
“I thought you were playing along with me at the pub.”
The back of my neck starts a slow burn. “Me, playing?”
He shakes his head and tries to speak, but nothing comes out but a few sputters.
“Look, Jack, the first time I even heard your name was the night Bobby stayed at my parent’s house because I gave him a concussion. I’ve never seen you in anything, and I don’t read fan magazines while I’m waiting in line at the market or scroll entertainment sites on my lunch hour.”
He steps closer to me. “Please, Gilly. I am sorry I made assumptions about you knowing who I was. Call me an ass and be done with it so we can get on together.”
The warm, honest face looking down at me is as guileless as any horse in this stable. “I’d like to think you’re not an ass.”
His smile is as intoxicating as the Guinness from last night. “So, what do you think I am?”
I play with a halter hanging from a peg. “You struck me as a sweet and genuine guy.” I press my lips together. I remember the way his hands kept traveling to mine last night. The kiss. I flash on those same hands all over Niks at the table read. “And then I find out you’re this whole different person.”
Jack leans his back against the rail. “How do you know I’m not as you say?”
I study his face. “You flirted with me, then at the table read, I saw some very familiar physical interplay going on between you and Niks.” He looks genuinely confused. “Arm around her, a kiss, basically some snuggling.”
“Niks is a pal. We’re on this crazy ride together.”
“Are you referring to the multi-week ride in three countries you just finished with her?”
“I give you my word, there’s nothing more than a close working relationship between Niks and me.” The start of a grin eases up the corners of his mouth. “Familiar physical interplay, huh? You were watching me that close? And I couldn’t even catch your eye. Nearly strained my neck muscles trying.”
“Why were you trying?” The question is out before I can filter it.
He moves so close heat rising from his body wafts over me. “Listen, I’m not one to kiss a woman the first day I meet her. I didn’t kiss you last night for nothing.” Jack’s fingers slide up my arm. “You fascinate me. Have for a while.” A blush turns his skin the color of my mom’s tangerine rose. “I think I started falling for you a bit when I first readTraipse of Moonlight.”
“How can that be? You had no clue who I was.”
“Ever heard of the source of all knowledge in the known universe, Google?”
“You Googled me?”
“I thought it best. Didn’t want to risk my heart on a granny or someone’s wife.”
“So, you found out I’m not fifteen or sixty.” I haven’t Googled myself in a while, but I’m well aware of what tops the links, and it’s not my handful of awards for the short story version ofTraipse of Moonlightfrom back in the day.
“And you write grand and fancy words about clothing.”
There it is. My tenure at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear still dominates any Gillian Bettencourt search. I wince, thinking of the laughable descriptions he must have read.
“After Bobby gave me your manuscript to read for character work and tone, more pieces of Gillian Bettencourt fell into my hands.” He plays with a loose strand of my hair. “I drove Bobby near mad asking about you, then this spitfire of a girl gives me the business about my golf swing and tears up the Gal Tré course like she’s played it a hundred times. You knocked the breath from me.”
I’m in the vortex of a bizarre juxtaposition. How many women have Googled Jack, binge-watched his BBC sitcom, and fallen for him? He’s previewed me, and all indications point to no disappointment on his part. It’s a strange reality to be on this side of the equation. Strange, but at the same time, fascinating.
