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“It’s Meg’s doing, I’m sure. She calls it building a buzz.”
The pressure turns into my own buzz of anger. “Meg told people where you live? That’s such an intrusion.”
He presses his lips together. “There’s the place I live and the place where the fans think I live.” Jack snatches a water bottle from the drink holder and downs it. “Water Villa, Bobby’s term, is where you’ll be living, along with assorted guest artists. Meg’s had me pop by a time or two to sign autographs and take pictures with folks.” He crushes the bottle and heaves it over his shoulder into the back seat. “That’s why they think I live there. Lately, she’s takin’ to tossing out show T-shirts and saying I’m on location to get the fans moving on so they don’t block the road.”
Hitching a thumb over his shoulder, he says. “I stay in a little cottage on The Clan property about halfway to Waterville. It was an Airbnb before the True Time folk snapped it up. A private road connects my place to the studio, so there’s no need for me to drive through town. No one’s tracked me there yet.”
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed Jack and I aren’t cohabitating in Waterville. The storm cloud of a thought blows into my mind.
“Does Niks have a cottage, too?”
“Naw. She tucks in at the big hotel there on the water.” Jack lets out a loud hum. “Niks functions best with room service and dog walkers.” He rubs hands over his face. “I dealt with fan jams afterRandy in 6B, but that was small potatoes compared to what this show’s bringing about. Niks isn’t used to the crazy, so she insulates herself at the hotel.” He blows out a long breath. “It’s the books, you know. Whatever feller found himself in Donal Cam’s boots would be dealing with this.”
I rub his arm. “It’s not just the books. You’re a pretty amazing lightning rod on your own. Better than a golf club in a thunderstorm.”
Jack drops his forehead onto my shoulder. “It’s grand you think so.” The sound of a motorcycle nearby brings him to attention. He scans the street and his shoulders relax. “I should bring you to my place, and Patrick can drive you here after the watch gives up.”
The reason I can’t go home with Jack is because I really want to go home with Jack. This is all too fast. It’s only the second day I’ve known him. My primary goal is to make an impression on Bobby and the other writers. If I lose focus because of whatever seems to be starting here, I could blow that.
“Do you know which of the houses I’m in?”
“The yellow one with the stone duck out front. There’ll be someone on duty at a desk inside to get you where you need to go.” He starts the car.
I put my hand over the stick shift. “You can’t take me. If Meg banished me to a snug last night just for sitting at a table with you, I doubt she’ll be too keen if I pop out of your car in front of a crowd. Gotta protect the image, Donal Cam.” I reach for the door handle. “I’ll walk. It’s only a couple of blocks.”
Jack pulls my hand from the door and kisses it with a growl. “Leaving you off on a dark street is not the way I’d choose to end our first date.”
“Oh, is that what this is? I didn’t even get dinner.”
He pops open the glove box and offers an energy bar. “I hope you like pumpkin and flax.”
I grab it. “My favorite.” I slip out of the car and shut the door.
The passenger window slides down. “I’ll do better next time.”
“It’s all good.” Too good. Too tempting.
“Goodnight, Gilly.”
“Sweet dreams, Jack.”
He flashes me a Wicked Jack smile. “Oh, they will be.”
I do my best impression of a casual wave and walk toward the sound of surf while visions of Jack O’Leary dance in my head.
ChapterEight
Shadows are not to be trusted. Is there anything as fickle as an entity that changes height throughout the day and mimics your every move? The shadows that swallow the last glow of daylight are thieves. They rob us of depth perception, banishing details from sight.
I escaped shadows when I shed Treat from my life. Now, after only two days, I’m teetering on the edge of venturing into a shadow with Jack.
I love my new feeling of freedom, of being able to only care about myself. It makes me giddy. Jumping back into an all too familiar situation holds about as much appeal as a fuzzy plum at the bottom of the fruit bowl.
This would be a much easier call if I wasn’t so attracted to Jack. I’d rather this giant question mark hanging over my head blow away in an Irish breeze. The problem is, without conscious effort, I skipped over attraction straight into smoldering want. I can’t stop thinking about the feel of Jack’s full, soft lips on mine.
“Stop! Stop! Stop it!” I fan the air in front of me to erase the playback loop of Jack’s kisses.
Out the window of my quaint, little studio apartment, I have a clear view of the Charlie Chaplin statue by the beach.
