Press Release, page 10
“There’s a convenience store around the next corner. I’ll grab us waters, and we can regroup,” says Cian.
“I’ve got to call Gilly,” says Jack, lifting his cell to his ear. “She’ll be nuts wondering what happened.” His eyes fill with panic. He darts a wary look Cian’s way, dropping the hand with the phone to his side. “Bollucks.”
I wave, metaphorically erasing the waves of stress pouring off Jack. “It’s fine. He knows your situation.”
Jack’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he forces a swallow. “Knows…”
Cian sticks out a hand for Jack to shake. “Congratulations on your wedding, which I vow never to mention until it’s old news.”
Jack narrows his gaze to size up Cian. “Will you sign one of Meg’s fancy NDAs to swear to it? I’m keen on keeping my personal life under wraps.”
“Absolutely. I’m a True Time man first and the soul of discretion. You have my word. Nothing to hurt you, Gillian, Meg, or the show will leave these lips.”
Jack looks at me for a character reference. I smile and nod, sneaking a peek at Cian’s fine lips.
“All right then,” says Jack, clasping Cian’s waiting hand. He ends the shake quickly and turns away to call Gilly.
I catch Cian’s arm before he heads into the store. “Thank you for the assist. If I’da known the fool was going to show up, there’d be triple the security.” I shake my head. “No. There’d be no need for security because I’d tie him to a chair in his hotel room.”
Cian laughs and jerks his chin at Jack. “They’re never as invisible as they think they are.”
I blurt without a hint of forethought. “You’d be very welcome to come to dinner with the lot of us in Old Town tonight.” My resolve of avoiding the distraction of Cian swirls down the drain. A man riding in on a white horse’ll do that to you.
Cian crooks a pinkie finger around mine and swings our joined hands. The familiarity we shared last night returns with a jolt.
“I’d love to hang out with The Chieftain’s Son bunch to see the next leg of your scavenger hunt firsthand.” He leans in. “And maybe after dinner, the lovely head of publicity would continue my private education into the drinking of whiskey.”
He’s ducked into the store before I draw a mental red slash over any after-dinner connecting. It’ll be easy enough to beg out later, even though declining Cian’s offer makes me seem ungrateful. He awarded us a blue-ribbon favor, whisking Jack out of a potentially crushing fan encounter.
Yes, dinner with my team will be a grand and appropriate way to say thanks, very businesslike. First and foremost, we are business colleagues despite the generous portion of my personal thoughts devoted to the man. Cian’s surely still got a worthwhile nugget or two to toss my way about the Cali Con game. Pinky swinging, kissing, and whiskey tasting belong behind a door I should be careful about opening too far.
I watch him press through the glass doors of the mini market. He’s a very nice picture to look at. No harm in appreciating the visual.
Jack takes a few tentative steps in my direction. His sheepish expression is schoolboy caught cheating on exams. “Okay, get to it, Meg. Remind me of the rules, and I’ll absorb every last one.” He crosses his heart. “I swear I’m finished making your life a misery.”
God, he’s so serious, I can’t help laughing. “I doubt that.”
The usual irritation with my Gilly and Jack dilemma doesn’t scratch at me. He didn’t show up to give me grief. Jack came to support his wife. A woman who’s rapidly gaining admiration from me after the way she handled the panel. If I wasn’t so damn rigid and paranoid about the two of them, he might have come to me first instead of sneaking in. I’ve got to be easier on the two of them.
I pat Jack’s arm. Lord, the man is made of granite. “Just one rule here,” I say, fanning my face to cool down. “And don’t you dare fight me on it, you stubborn ox.”
He crosses his heart again. “I’ll be your obedient beast of burden.”
“No legging it back to the hotel, Captain Fitness. We’re taking a cab.”
Chapter 8
Casa de Fiesta
A large and very fragrant gentleman covered in tunic, leather, and fur scoots his way up the aisle of the train, or trolley, as Cian calls it. To me, trolley brings quaint and horse-drawn to mind, not a group cuddle clanking along metal tracks. We attempt to keep our feet as we stand wedged in the crowd. I slide closer to Cian—professionally closer, not I-kissed-you-on-the-beach-last-night closer.
As challenging as it is to breathe, excitement bubbles in my stomach. The brute in costume is dressed as Donal Cam. This fellow was not one of the Donal Cams at the library earlier. No chance I would have missed someone of his bulk. Even though the wannabe Irish warrior invades my personal trolley space, I’m willing to forgive his squish and stink for the homage he pays to the show. He’s added confirmation The Chieftain’s Son has arrived in force on the Cali Con cosplay scene. For sport, I’ll walk the convention floor tomorrow and play count the Donal Cams and Nieves. I might even spot a Bowstring or Rory O’Connor in the throng.
I study the trolley stop map above the windows. “You’re positive of the place to hop off?”
Cian taps a dot on the trolley brochure in his hand. “Have you forgotten your own clue? Right there, Old Town.”
A jerk of the train shifts jumbo-sized Donal Cam into full-body contact with me. I don’t want to get a stain on my silk blouse from someone else’s sweat, so I press against Cian. He takes it as a signal I don’t intend and drapes an arm around my waist to pull me closer. The tang of his spicy chai tea scent is a pleasant diversion to the fragrant clansman canting in my direction.
At the next stop, enough folks slip off the trolley to free up a pair of seats. Cian and I slide in before anyone beats us to it.
“Three rows back. Listen up,” says Cian in a low voice. We both lean to eavesdrop on a robust discussion.
“It’s going to be Anthony Myhers.”
“Anthony Myhers as Brian Boru, a crime against nature!”
Goodness, Lord. They’re talking about The Chieftain’s Son season two.
“We’re definitely going to hit the Battle of Clontarf site when we get to Ireland.”
“After we check out the Ring of Kerry. I want to sniff out The Clan, where they do the show. I know they’ll be filming. We might score seeing Jack or Niks somewhere.”
They mention our leads as casually as dinner guests. My protective side inches up but quickly falls. These folks are heading to Ireland because of The Chieftain’s Son. My days with the travel agency, Toolin’ Around the Isle, combine with my current job and create a mental spark. A series of Chieftain’s Son themed tours could be brilliant. Since Deidre’s books are based in facts and history, I can bundle actual historic locations and shooting sites. True Time will love the tie-in.
I’m coming for you, Dash.
New voices join the fan pair behind us. “Are you guys following the scavenger hunt?”
“What scavenger hunt?”
My excitement wanes. Maybe my scheme isn’t as popular as I reckoned.
The newest member of the fan clique remedies the problem. “Go to hashtag ‘find Jack and Niks.’”
My eyes meet Cian’s, and we both dive into Twitter. #FindJackandNiks is on fire with speculation on tonight’s locale.
I nudge Cian. “You go to hashtag ‘Chieftain Son scavenger hunt.’ Let’s get a sense of how many figured out the riddle.”
We simultaneously swipe at our cells.
“Okay,” says Cian, scrolling and reading. “The Mariachi three clue is throwing people off.” He catches the concern in my eyes. “Good call. Too easy and you’ll have more than True Time security can handle.”
“There’s a debate going on in this thread about what the old or new means. A lot of guesses are Old Town, but there’s no consensus.”
“Pretty cool, huh?” says Cian, bobbing his head in the direction of the conversation.
“It’s got my wheels turning faster.”
He widens his eyes in question. “More thinking on your feet?”
I’m protective of the brainstorm brewing in my head. Cian’s a help, to be sure, but as Jack pointed out earlier, Star’s Shadow is also competition. If any of my ideas misfire and help his show, it may get credit for more subscriptions to the True Time streaming app than The Chieftain’s Son, a death sentence for me.
When I don’t answer, Cian turns to stare out the window as building after building pass in a blur. Keeping his eyes out of the equation, he asks softly, “Why is it so hard for you to open up to me?”
If he knew me, he’d realize I’ve already cracked my comfort zone wide.
Long, slender fingers close on my upper arm. The usual confidence weaving through his voice thins. “What’s it going to take for you to see me as a friend on the same team?”
It’s a fair question. He’s asking why someone in my position wouldn’t want to soak in the experience he’s willing to give so freely. I’d like to tell him. Explain that the times I’ve given the we model a go, it’s blown up in my face. Dominic the fucker, back in secondary school, was the first debacle, followed by group projects at Trinity College where I knew the level of input required to get top marks, but my team preferred bare minimum. When I started adulting and gave Skylar the head-in-the-clouds artist a go, I ended up in the same place. My efforts and investment were sucked out of me until I was left a pathetic afterthought.
Cian clearly wants me to trust him, but that’s a commodity I hold close, especially after only two days.
“We’re colleagues, Meg.”
“Colleagues with competing shows.”
I still feel the sting of Dash taking credit for my accomplishments. The bastard gave no effort past an obligatory stamp of approval after I scored the high-profile building wrap and the Entertaining for You special Cali Con edition cover.
Cian’s graciously let me cipher a few drops off the top of his knowledge pool. If he were going to steal my scavenger hunt idea, it would’ve already happened. No denying he bailed me out at the podcast panel and hasn’t mentioned a peep about it. Isn’t it better having Cian take me under his wing instead of one of those jowly, pompous fellows I never even met properly at Tuesday’s prep meeting?
Perhaps I should step out of my own way—if I’m honest, something I try to make a habit of. I’m resisting Cian because Dash as much as threw me at him. It’s Dash who chafes my confidence, not Cian.
I startle when I see Cian’s been watching me think through our scenario.
“Does my question require this much introspection?”
I have an urge to ease away from Cian, to create both physical and interpersonal distance. Since I’ve breached both boundaries by kissing him and opening the door on my professional life, he’s earned an answer to his question. “I do best at trusting myself alone. Relying on others in the past has not gone well for me.”
He nods slowly. “Being screwed leaves a mark.”
I’m suddenly very interested in marks left behind on Mr. Cian Malley, but I’ve got no right to dig. “I’m the sort that needs to control a situation.”
I expect him to laugh or tease at my admission, but he doesn’t. It’s his face wearing the mask of introspection now. “It’s a need we share, Meg.”
“Nothing wrong with it.”
He takes a long, slow breath. “Except the isolation tied up with it.”
Isolation is the perfect word. That aloneness from wearing all responsibility and consequences is a yoke across my shoulders. Up until now, I’ve viewed Cian as steering a ship full of crewmates, not the singular type. Not like me. Could it be we’re more alike than I’ve allowed myself to believe?
“Is this where I tell you self-imposed isolation is as much blessing as curse?”
Cian leans his head to the side. “Is it?”
“I trust me to get things done the way I plan them. Less room for cock ups.”
“A narrow perspective, M-Squared. What about things you might miss when acting alone?” Cian covers my hand with his. “Ones you don’t see coming?” His eyes rest on my lips.
Damn the man, and those eyes, lips, and the kindness he’s so eager to throw my way. Is he the divil tempting me or a saint riding a sunbeam to shake up the isolation I thought I’d made my peace with?
His fingers find their way between mine and he squeezes. “Let me rephrase my question. ‘What can I do to make it easier for you to let me in?’ I’m not asking you to change or compromise who you are. Put the impetus on me to forge a way between us.”
I may consider throwing a bit more trust Cian’s way. If I let him in a little at a time, I’ll get a sense of him in small doses. If one step works, I’ll take another. My eyes drift to our joined hands, and I nearly laugh. Isn’t that what I’ve already been doing? So far, he’s given me no cause to stop opening my door a crack wider. “For starters, let’s go over my celebrity escape plan for the Old Town scavenger hunt appearance. You’ve been to Casa de Fiesta, so you’ll know if I’ve hit the mark.”
The right side of his mouth quirks up. “Are you actually asking for my help?”
I shoot him a quick scowl but then plunk my map of Old Town San Diego State Historic Park onto his lap. “I’ve secured a table here at the restaurant.” I tap a spot on the map that lands right on Cian’s zipper. A low grunt of surprise and his quiver leave no doubt I’ve hit a very sensitive target.
To cover embarrassment, I forge on. My voice is higher pitched and faster, which only increases the fire on my cheeks. “We’ll be in the far corner away from foot traffic access, but not penned in.”
I find a picture of the plaza seating area on my phone to give us both a moment of recovery time. “Here,” I say, tipping the screen in his direction. “If I need to get them out in a hurry, we duck between these two potted cacti and through this little shop. Can Chip stand by at the curb just there?”
I position the map at belly height to avoid repeated zipper contact. To my horror, jitters and the pressure of my finger sliding across the designated escape route make me lose my grip. The map and my hand fall right back onto Cian’s lap to engage his crotch for a second go.
His face turns as pink as a Christmas ham as his real estate under the map rises in response to my inadvertent poke and clutch. I’m too flustered to apologize or lift my hand as quickly as I should. The sensation of bringing Cian to attention coupled with kiss flashbacks set off my own sensations. Very pleasant ones. Ones that don’t belong on a public trolley.
So much for opening my door a crack wider to Cian. I blew it off the hinges.
He lifts my hand from the map and folds up the paper. In a strained voice, he says, “Looks great.” A drizzle of sweat parades in front of his ear. “Give me a sec, and I’ll call Chip.”
By the time we roll up to the Old Town station, the summons to Chip is issued, and Cian regains the ability to spring to his feet and forge a path for us to the door.
As the train/trolley rolls away, Cian leads us across the street toward a large, whitewashed adobe structure with a red tiled roof.
Surely a double crotch pass deserves acknowledgement on my part. “Sorry about the personal poke with the map,” I say. “See what happens when you encourage me to open up?”
“I didn’t expect your first move would be to get me hot in public transportation.”
I sputter, searching for words of denial, but then shrug and play it off. “Your poor little man. All dressed up and nowhere to go.”
Cian lets go a snort followed with a belly laugh that breaks the tension from my trolley grope. I join him in a giggle.
His gaze flicks to my lips. “I’ve stopped guessing what might come out of that gorgeous mouth of yours, Meghan McGrath.” Cian takes my hand, and we head down the walkway.
It’s another lovely early California evening. I languish in the slow burn of fading light. I let him keep hold of my hand as we stroll alongside Victorian style buildings before turning into an open-air plaza strewn with colored lights and surrounded by multiple species of cacti.
“Don’t touch those,” says Cian, pointing to one of the succulents with leaves like a million skinny fingers, towering at least a foot over my head. “It’s a pencil cactus. My dad calls them ‘sticks on fire.’ Their oil can literally blind you if it gets in your eyes.”
I pull my hand clear of the plant. “Then why in the name of sense do they have so many around here where kids run wild?”
Cian doesn’t answer and drops my hand. Looking up, I see he’s spotted our group clustered around a bench in front of one of the shops.
“Her folks showed after all,” I say aloud, catching sight of a middle-aged couple, the Bettencourts, in close conversation with Gilly, Jack, and Bobby. I met them briefly at Jack and Gilly’s private backyard wedding in Sneem. Maureen and Grady sit on a bench nearby, trying to get a wooden ball toy tethered to a stick to land in a cup. Niks is nowhere to be seen. I’m not surprised. The woman loves to make an entrance.
Bobby is first to see me. His eyes shoot to Cian with laser focus, but then he relaxes and waves us over, recognizing my guest from the bar.
“Nice to see you again, Cian,” says Bobby as we approach.
Cian shakes Bobby’s hand. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing the party.”
“We’re all on True Time’s dime,” says Bobby.
“Except me,” says Grady.
“You can eat off my plate,” says Maureen, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “They’ll never know.”
“Talk business early and often,” says the man who must be Gilly’s dad. “Voila, you’re expensed.”
When Gilly gestures at Cian and me, Jack, clad in baseball cap and sunglasses, takes an obvious step away from her, clearly for my benefit. Luckily, no one at Casa de Fiesta seems to take particular notice of him. “Meg, you remember my parents, Amethyst and Rich Bettencourt.”
