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With waves and thank-yous to me, Benny and Benj head out. I guess everyone is off to the location.
Bobby pauses at the door. “Coming, J?”
Jack waves him off. “Right behind you.” He becomes very involved with stuffing the donut in his mouth and grabbing napkins. He’s stalling, and I’m not the only one who notices.
Bobby looks from Jack to me, a line creasing his forehead. I brace myself for some comment, but Bobby’s phone saves the day. He takes the call and zooms down the hallway.
“Are you nuts?” I ask.
Jack stops chewing. “What?”
“What do you mean ‘what’? You came all the way to the writer’s room for a donut. Who’s going to believe that?”
“Everyone.”
I hug the script to my chest. “Did you see that look Bobby gave us?” That cloudy look on Bobby’s face is more confirmation that Jack and I are a bad idea.
“I always sneak in here for donuts. Maureen’s engaged to the pastry chef at the hotel in town. He keeps her supplied with these drops of Heaven.” He licks caramel-colored frosting off his fingers.
The chameleon that is Jack O’Leary has shifted into yet another version of his being. It might be the morning light shining through the picture window, or the whole gestalt of Jack in full chieftain son costume, hair, and make-up, but he’s altered. The bone structure of his face is more pronounced. His overall frame looks larger than it did last night in the stables. He’s kingly. Majestic. Savage.
He takes a step toward me. I half expect him to scoop me up in his arms and carry me to that fur-covered bed on the hot set. I hug the script tighter to squelch any more dangerous thoughts.
Instead of keeping my hands off him, which is the smart choice, I dab crystals of frosting off his cheek. They shine on the end of my fingertip like fallen stars. I pop the finger in my mouth. “Donut on your face.”
His eyes lock on my finger and then my lips. “A bit of sugar won’t matter once I’ve got dirt smeared across my cheeks.”
When he steps closer, I move back. “I’ve been thinking.” I blow a soft breath. “Probably too much about what we discussed last night.”
Jack scans the room and the hallway beyond before he captures the hem of my shirt and pulls me closer. “We discussed a lot of things.”
He smells like the grass of the fields outside the window, uncut and wild. A sensation of lightheadedness wafts over me. What is it about this man that propels me into the land of stupid?
I reclaim my clothing and move around the corner of the table. “The cat and mouse game with Meg…” My gaze drifts to the tabletop to avoid his eyes.
To my surprise, he walks over to the door. “You’re right. This is not playing it safe. Anyone could walk in.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“On the other hand, it’d be stranger if we avoid each other.” He taps a finger against his lips, and they go a darker pink. “We’ll go to the driving range tonight. You can doctor up my swing and then…” The suggestive smile on this primal being whips my senses into a whirlwind.
“We shouldn’t be alone. Your fans or Meg or Bobby will see us and think there’s more going on than there is.” This is the perfect moment to tell Jack whatever sparks are jumping back and forth here can’t flare into something that could burn both of us. Before I get a single word in, Jack snaps his fingers and points at me.
“That’s brilliant. I’ll ask Meg and Bobby to go with us.”
“That’s not—”
Jack’s pocket begins to ring. Why does it not surprise me the ringtone on his phone sounds like an old-school landline? It’s genuine the way he’s genuine. “I’ll have Bobby drive you,” he says, “and we’ll all meet up at the driving range.” He slaps the phone to his ear, grumbling into it. “I’m coming.” Jack stares at me, eyebrows raised in question.
He really is tone deaf to the degree of pressure he’s putting on me. “No” is the best choice here. Avoid the whole meeting-up-after-work situation. Apparently, my brain doesn’t convey this decision fast enough to my body because I nod to Jack.
His eyes soften, erasing the warring clansman image for a brief second before he’s off down the hall. The tunic—skirt, whatever the proper historic name for his low-hanging fabric is—swishes side to side.Oh, Lordy.I have got to tell him tonight that this thing between us is not going to happen before I wake up next to him in an Irish dawn.
“Willpower, Gilly. Persevere,” I whisper to myself as a feeble pep talk while I choose the second-best donut with chocolate shavings and caramel drizzled over the top. Anything with Jack can only end in a Treat quagmire all over again. Except Jack is not Treat. Based on the way everyone around here talks about him and what I’ve seen, in the arenas of basic kindness and integrity, Jack is miles ahead of Treat.
A sucker punch of realization catches me in the ribs. I assumed I was in love with Treat, but in truth, I haven’t liked him much for a very long time. My reptilian brain must have sensed he was not the long-term emotional investment I should be making. Treat became a habit instead of a passion, and I’d been too lost in routine to recognize that any true sweetness and light had drained from our relationship.
Jack appears to be made up of equal parts sweetness and light—when he’s not tempting me into agreeing to things I know I should be avoiding.
