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He chuckles. “Truth be told, it’s the Jean Valjean bullet I barely dodged.Les Misérablesis an annual read for Mom.”
“Jean Valjean O’Leary. Very international.”
Jack thrusts an imaginary sword toward the windshield. “I’d prefer D’Artagnan O’Leary.” He holds his hand up as if taking an oath. “Bit of a Dumas fan here.” Jack clenches his teeth. “My rotten sister, Bonnie, used to call him Alexander Dumbass to provoke me.”
My mind wanders to an image of a family in a quaint, whitewashed Irish cottage reading together from the light of the hearth. Jack lies on his stomach with his book open on the floor a little too close to the fire.
“What’s your dad do?”
“Sheep.”
I can’t resist letting Wicked Gilly out of her cage. “Your dad does sheep?”
Jack screeches his silver and blue Renault to a stop. Uplight from the dash deepens fury lines on his face. “Gillian Bettencourt, get out of my car. No one insults my Da.”
For a horrible moment, I’m sure he means it, but then Wicked Jack busts out a laugh so hearty the entire car shakes.Well met, Mr. O’Leary.Our dark sides complement one another.
“My God, your face.” He lays a hand on my cheek. “Swear, I’ve not yet booted a girl out onto a country road in full dark.”
Irish Thor leans my way over the stick shift, but the kiss attempt is thwarted when headlights blast behind us. He puts the car in gear, and we surge forward to avoid getting rear-ended. High beams reflect off my side mirror, blinding me. “I take it speed limits are only a suggestion in Ireland.”
“Wrong,” says Jack. “They’re a challenge.” He guns the gas to leave the other car far behind.
“So, sheep?”
“Yes, mainly sheep, chickens, a handful of cattle. The farm’s not far from here. The beasts with blue streaks in the fields near The Clan are O’Leary sheep. Bobby encourages locals to graze there as a perimeter buffer. Keeps snoopers away.”
I lean my back against the door so I can take in everything that is Jack O’Leary. “How does a farm boy grow up to be a heartthrob?”
“It’s all the tractor driving.” He flexes his bicep. “Turns ordinary fools into the beautiful people.” Jack lays a hand on my knee. “Actually, it’s shoveling shit that builds the muscles.”
I hope he can’t feel my skin quiver beneath his touch. “Don’t you say shite over here?”
“Shit, shite, cac—it all smells the same.”
We trade the countryside for a town road that skirts the Atlantic. Groups of people cluster at tables outside a pub with a mural of a giant compass floating in the midst of baroque-looking waves splashed across the building. It’s got to be near freezing out there, but people mill and visit like it’s a Fourth of July picnic. Neither rain nor snow nor spray from the wild Atlantic keep folks from hanging out with friends at the pub. It’s a party I’d love to join.
“You are very welcome to Waterville on the Wild Atlantic Way,” says Jack. “Former summer home of Charlie Chaplin and now Gilly ofThe Chieftain’s Son.” To prove his statement, we pass a statue of Charlie Chaplin, complete with bowler hat and cane, poised on a miniature plaza with the ocean as a backdrop. “A pal from school, Michael, pushed hard for that statue. He even got to meet one of the Chaplin family in the bargain.”
Jack talks so casually about his past it almost makes me forget I’m in the company of a rising star.
“Do you live in town?”
All the while he talks, Jack darts quick looks between the road and me. “I’ve got a little place in Sneem less than an hour from here, but Bobby puts me up in Waterville during shooting.”
My heart starts clanging like a bell in a church tower. Does Jack live in the same studio housing where Bobby put me? That could be some dangerous proximity, not to mention a complete lack of privacy if everyone in the place is connected with the show. Any comings and goings between Jack and me will be well documented.
“This is you up ahead,” says Jack, nodding to a row of buildings all matching in design but varying in color. Suddenly, he slams on the brakes, fishtailing to cut down a small side street. After putting a few blocks’ distance between us and the main drag, he pulls over in front of a low stone wall and kills the gas. There’s a sheen of sweat across his forehead.
It takes a moment for my stomach to drop out of my throat back into its proper place. “What the hell?”
He pounds his hands on the steering wheel. “I didn’t think.” His eyes are a little on the crazed side when he looks at me.
“What is it, Jack?”
“Did you see the crowd back that way?” He gestures so wildly he bangs his knuckles on the window glass. “Christ, it’s tripled since the last time I was by here.”
Pressure builds in my chest. “Those people knowThe Chieftain’s Sonhousing?”
