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I duck into my office and pray my fingers are capable of typing after Jack’s lingering look turned me to goo. On my desk is a stack of hardcover books, the entireChieftain’s Sonseries. The corner of an envelope sticks out from under the bottom tome. I slide it free, wondering how much time Bobby has allocated for me to reread these thousands of pages before he expects me to have an intelligent discussion about their content.
Inside the envelope is a note written on what looks like the ripped-out page of a journal.
Gilly,
I’m so glad you’ll be on this journey with me.
-J
J. Jay. Jack.
I drop my forehead onto the top book. This man is quickly becoming the hitch at the top of my backswing.
ChapterNine
Iwaffle between disappointment and relief that Bobby decided my first Irish language class with Doolin trumps hanging out at the location. A more unnerving thought takes up residence in my brain as I head toward the classroom. Did Bobby’s change of my plans have anything to do with that suspicious look he gave Jack and me? Bobby did have a front row seat to our first night together in the pub. Did he see the kiss?
I replay my short but eventful friendship with Bobby Provost. At the tournament in L.A., he was super friendly, but I wrote that off as his plan to woo me for this job. Did I misjudge? He asked me to dinner, but wasn’t that just to make me feel welcome? Dang, he showed up to take me to breakfast. Toss in more than one arm around the shoulder or waist…
“Par-a-noid,” I sing to myself. Bobby is helping me acclimate to this new existence since he personally twisted my life inside out. Papa showrunner wants all his little chickadees to be happy.
The thought still nags me. Did Bobby’s expression have a shade of jealousy?
Get over yourself,Gillian.
My mind flashes back to the pub. Bobby was very attentive that night too. Did I imagine a vibe hinting he wasn’t real keen on Jack and I making a connection?
Whether Bobby has an inkling about us or not, I’m pretty damn sure that Jack falling for me or vice versa isn’t on his agenda. Or Meg’s. Or the legions of female fans that already cast Jack as the lead in their personal fantasies.
What was the word Jack used for “shit” last night?
“Cac.”
“If that’s all the Irish you’ve got”—Doolin eyes me from where he’s leaning against the wall near an electronic white board, arms crossed—“we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
“Doesn’t that mean ‘hello’?”
There’s a howl of laughter from the end of the table. A woman in a floor-length, cherry and black, batik print dress slaps the table. “Score one for the new kid.”
She flies toward me with such force I almost stumble backward. Her mahogany hair, streaked with bright magenta waves, is twisted up in a garish turquoise clip with a few messy strands out of compliance. Bright red lipstick echoes the hue of her dress. I suspect the woman is a product of hippie parents like my own mom and dad, a free-spirit type. I wouldn’t be surprised if her name is Rainbow Wind or Sunflower. I’m guessing costume designer.
Eyes the color of dark roast coffee grounds widen as she takes me in. “So, you’re the girl who slapped two of my characters into one bite-sized piece.”
Holy, Mama.I’m face to face with Deidre LaRochelle, authoress extraordinaire.
I must look like a taser victim because Doolin catches my arm to steady me. “She’s havin’ a go at you, Gillian. Don’t mind her.”
Deidre swallows me in an embrace. “As they say over here in the land of the good folk, that move was brilliant. I’ll be first to admit Mac and Mary are redundant.” Her laugh is bold. I believe this woman could save a baby from the jaws of a tiger. “I suppose Mary now has a touch of multi-personality disorder since she’ll be filling in Mac’s gaps.” She swivels so one arm is around my back as she guides me to a chair. “Honey, you are a real talent.Traipse of Moonlightis absolutely gorgeous.”
Deidre pulls me down to sit next to her. The woman who has sold more books than anyone on the planet is fawning over my writing. I may never speak again.
“Why aren’t you hiding in a garret, writing your own novels, instead of here shredding mine into Celtic grunts and battles?”
Within the first moments of meeting her, Deidre confirms that my years at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear may have been a colossal waste of my creative life. I told myself so many times that coming up with a dozen kicky new ways to describe the cut of a sleeve kept my spring of creativity bubbling. In reality, the work was thesaurus gymnastics. I want to blame Treat’s indifference to my personal writing for causing my creative essence to atrophy, but it was me who allowed it to happen.
I smile at Deidre. I’m certain she does everything in her power to keep her creative well filled to overflowing. “Ms. LaRochelle, I have to tell you that I love the hell out of every book inThe Chieftain’s Sonseries. I’ve lost myself in them so many times. Every time I finish book ten, I can’t wait to go back to book one.” I know I’m burbling, but I can’t stop. “The detail, the historical accuracy is a mental feast. I hate the people that accuse it of being a sex romp with lots of hairy men and a plucky heroine. It’s the love story we all wish we had.”
Deidre leans on one arm, sizing me up. “I think there might have been an insult in there, but you ended it so pretty, I forgive you.” I didn’t expect Deidre LaRochelle to sound so…well, so American. I imagined her one hundred percent Irish. Her story is molded straight from the soul and spirit of Ireland. Talk about a disconnect.
