Hot Set, page 12
There’s a way to be real and still be smart. Together, we’ll find the right way to define “us.” We have to. The more I’m with Jack, the less I can control the need to have this man in my life, not parallel to it.
I slide my thumb across his bottom lip to his chin and take him in a kiss. My “yes” to Jack. Before it escalates into something that makes my absence from the writer’s room long enough to require a search party, I wiggle away from him.
He drops onto his back with an exaggerated sigh, turning his head toward me. As he watches me lift the crazy heavy Donal Cam sword he’s abandoned, a smile plays across those dusty rose-colored lips.
I mimic one of the stances Jimmy demonstrated, even though I have to use two hands instead of one, and point the tip of the blade at his nose. “Okay, Jack. Let’s figure us out.” Before I drag the sword from the room, I turn back to him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Chapter
Twelve
The perfect place to commit death by freezing is on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean in February before dawn. My teeth chatter so hard I’m afraid I’m going to bite my lip.
Just as I find the perfect place next to the Charlie Chaplin Statue to block the wind, a single pair of headlights appears in the distance. I’m alone on this stretch of the Waterville Heritage Trail at half-six in the morning so I can safely jump into Jack’s car without turning up on the front page of a tabloid.
A stab of fear makes my heart race. What if the car is Bobby coming home after an editing all-nighter? How am I going to explain lurking around Mr. Chaplin in the pre-dawn hours? I slide around to Charlie’s back and catch a blast of freezing air off the water.
Thankfully, a familiar silver and blue Renault pulls up to the curb and idles. With an assist from my Atlantic tailwind, I fly to the passenger side of the car and grab the handle. The car lurches forward as my ghostly appearance nearly sends Jack into cardiac arrest.
“Mother of God, woman,” he says as I surge into the passenger seat and slam the door.
It’s blissfully warm inside the car. “Do you have seat warmers?”
My Celtic god punches the control to toast my ass. He envelopes me in an all-consuming hug. Hot breath flows down my neck until my lips are taken in a kiss that ignites a steady pulse between my legs.
Damp lips trap my earlobe, and a deep, rumbling voice whispers, “Good morning, love.”
Love. Calling people “love” is pretty common for the Irish, but to hear the word from Jack to me, even in this casual way, is overwhelming. Deep in my gut, I wonder how it might feel if he ever used the word in a more meaningful way.
What are you doing to yourself, Gilly? Carts, horses—once again completely out of order.
When he settles back in his seat, I miss the touch of his lips on mine. “Waterville is already part way ‘round the Ring of Kerry.” I learn the Ring of Kerry is the road we’re on and not the land. The “ring” circles the Iveragh Peninsula, the area where Jack was born and raised before he went off to Dublin and Trinity college.
“First, I’m going to take you to Portmagee, and if the Atlantic is cooperative this morning, we’ll jump on a boat out to the Skelligs.”
Jack is proud, showing off this land he so clearly loves. “And a Skellig is…a sea monster? A shipwreck?”
“It means rock in the sea.” He squeezes the back of my neck. “You’ve so much to learn.”
“As in island?”
“Oh, so much more than an island. It’s the sanctuary in Skies of Wind and Mist, where one of Donal Cam’s Chieftains, the King of West Munster, flees to escape the King of Cashel.” The look on my face while I connect these dots makes him chuckle. “Third book down in the stack I left on your desk.”
“Oh, my gosh. I’ve never thanked you for the books. That was so sweet of you.” I lean across the car and kiss the corner of his mouth. As I hoped, it coaxes his lips into a smile I could stare at for hours, days, the rest of my life.
“I hope you don’t mind secondhand. Deidre gave ‘em to me when I got cast as himself.”
“You gave me your books?” His generosity touches me. I don’t have the heart to tell him Mom and I share our own set of well-worn Chieftain’s Son tomes back in L.A.
“For the love of God, don’t tell her. I bought the set in paperback so I can write all over them without feeling like I’m defacing relics.” He looks quickly at me and then back at the road. I’m starting to notice his little quirks like the way a sidelong look precedes quick glances before he speaks. “Those stories are my world for the foreseeable future.” There’s another rapid-fire peek in my direction and then away. “It’s a place where I want you with me.”
His sincerity raises a tear in the corner of my eye. I want to tell him to sweep me off my feet and carry me into his world, but I stop myself. We have to go slowly. Our togetherness is tricky. I can’t make promises that might turn out impossible to keep. Being with him is all about fun. A gift to the new Gilly.
“Losing myself in ol’ Donal Cam’s journey is definitely a place I’m growing very fond of.”
Jack’s shoulders relax. I said the right thing, confirmation I’m onboard with giving us a whirl.
He taps the top of the steering wheel with his index finger. “Speaking of Cashel, we’ll have to get you some of their famous bleu cheese. Nothing like it.”
Were the Kings of Cashel cheese moguls? Munster is a cheese as well. Are all Irish kings in the cheese biz? “American history” is a file drawer in my brain from years of schooling. I’m sure Jack has one for Ireland’s past.
“I’d better brush up on Irish history. Any suggestions of a good read?”
“Well, I could steal one of my nieces’ schoolbooks, but my big sister, Bonnie, might well beat the tar out of me for doin’ it.”
I’m hungry for more about Jack’s real life. “Tell me about your nieces.”
His face softens. “The pair of ‘em are near perfect.” A corner of his lip rises. “Speaking as a proud uncle, of course. Feisty and brilliant. Both gingers like me and their ma. Mary Catherine, my Cat, is ten this spring and Mary Jane, Janie, just had her eighth birthday.”
“You’re close to them.”
“Since the day they were born. I go back and forth between wanting to eat them they’re so delicious or giving them a whack on the bum for their sass.” Jack takes a curve in the road so fast the seat belt nearly strangles me. He’s oblivious to his speed. “Have you ever seen a Puffin?”
“Since I’ve never been to the Arctic, that’s a firm no.”
He laughs. “We’ve got them here abouts. When we get to shooting third season locations, you’ll become acquainted. The Skellig Islands crawl with them.”
I love his certainty that I’ll still be part of The Chieftain’s Son in season three.
“The feathery beasties wreak havoc when folks film on the islands. If you don’t want a Puffin on screen, skip the Skelligs.”
“Have you ever made it out there?”
“On a boat, weaving around the islands. There’s a strict limit on how many feet they let touch the place.” He takes a long, slow breath. “Shooting on a Skellig is one of the things I’m most looking forward to on this crazy Chieftain’s Son ride.”
“Not screaming crowds of women?”
Wicked Jack shoots a sideways glance in my direction. “Naw. There’s just the one woman’s screams I’m interested in.”
I match him wicked to wicked by waving my hands in the air and wiggling my whole body. “Jack! Jack! Look over here, you hunky slice of man flesh!”
“Man flesh, is it? That’s a new one.” He squeezes my leg above the knee. “I like it.”
The setting moon reflects off the mist blanketing the land around us, giving the whole world a silver sheen. I’m on a carriage ride with an elven prince. If I ask, he’ll lift us into the sky to watch dawn break over the Ring of Kerry.
The main drag of Portmagee runs along an inlet. A bridge crosses the narrow water between boats bobbing at the dock and a strip of green that looks like an island. “Is that a Skellig?”
“Naw,” says Jack. He pulls into a parking place in front of a stone building wearing a red painted sign with letters in a kicky font that read The Port Bar. “That’s Valentia Island. Best place for seeing the Skelligs if the boats aren’t running.” He kills the engine and taps his phone, on the hunt for something. The corners of his mouth dip into a frown. “Which they aren’t. It was a long shot anyway this time of year.” His hand strays to my thigh. “Any time of year, really. Sorry, love.”
“Guess I’ll have to wait for season three. Where to next?” I chirp, not entirely disappointed to avoid a boat in the sloshing waves of the Atlantic even with the reward of puffins.
“We’re here. Our first coffee stop.” He roars in character as Donal Cam. “And food.”
If there is anything I’m more enamored with than Jack O’Leary, it’s Irish butter and brown bread. The pile of potatoes and ham we polish off for breakfast come in a close second. With my belly full, I’m tempted to recline my seat and snooze while my tour guide winds through this gorgeous countryside. Awe beats nap as I take in endless fields of waving green grasses and their tiny yellow wildflowers vying for my attention.
Jack slows for a moment, which doesn’t matter since there aren’t any other cars behind us. “Look at that majestic fellow.”
Near the road, poised on a small patch of green amid white-spotted granite slabs, is a ram. He’s as still as the rocks surrounding him, chin slightly tilted up to give him a regal air. A single line of blue spray paint runs down his shaggy back. “Behold the king of sheep,” I say, sweeping a hand in his direction. I steal a picture before the fine fellow decides to take off. Mom and Dad will love this one.
Jack lets out a low grunt. “I’d say he’s more the emperor type.” He nods to my phone. “Haven’t filled your quota of sheep shots yet?”
I tuck the cell back in my pocket. “I promised my parents one sheep picture a day for as long as I’m here.”
Jack lead-foots the gas. “And how long do you see that being?”
I feel his eyes on me as I shrug. “There are plenty of sheep waiting for their close-up.”
We’re both quiet as we float through the landscape.
Jack screeches off the road into a miniscule stretch of gravel and jumps out of the car. “I want to show you Caiseal Leaca na Buaile, a ring fort.” We trudge up a path under the watchful eyes of many sheep. I’m going to have to get in better shape if I’m going to keep up with Jack and his insane fitness. He waxes historic over the ring of stones up ahead, homestead of wealthy landowners from days gone by. “Entrances face east to avoid prevailing winds.” Who needs a book on Irish history when I’ve got my own personal docent?
A cow peers at us over a wooden fence. “Hello cow.” My words must translate to threats of death or dismemberment in cow language because it turns and trots away at the sound of my voice.
“You spooked the poor lady,” says Jack.
The cow stops to look back at us over its shoulder. “Maidin mhaith, bó,” says Jack with an adorable Irish lilt. Not so cute to our bovine friend, who lows what is clearly a cow insult at him and disappears around a small hill.
“Now who scared her?” I thread an arm through his. “What did you say?”
“Good morning, cow.”
“Ah, that explains it. Terrifying.”
He jerks his chin at the animal. “The name of this ring fort means ‘summer cow pasture’ in honor of her kind. You’d think she’d be a more gracious hostess.”
We stroll up the hill, soaking in the day. “Will you teach me Irish?”
His face is aglow. “Aye, lass.” I see why they cast Jack as Donal Cam. In the diffuse light, with his sculpted features and shining flaxen hair, he is a man from another time. He pulls me against him, hands clasped behind my back. “Here’s your first word, ‘Póg’.” His lips meet mine, and the kiss is as sweet as the fragrance of the fresh grasses covering the hills around us.
“Póg,” I whisper afterwards, running my thumbs along the creases on either side of his lips.
“Come on. We’ve a lot to see.” He takes my hand and drags me up to the circle of stones where we climb and chase each other, laughing like kids on a schoolyard.
Each place we go is more enchanting that the last. Peeking through a tangle of ferns at the Glenbeigh overlook, we see a gray-blue curve of ocean caressing the shore. Jack gestures toward a distant stretch of green. “When we get time away, I’ll bring you back here to play Dooks Golf Links.”
Further down the road, my eyes fix on the landscape as Jack’s narrative fills me with a peace I haven’t felt in a very long time. “Over there is where folks claim the gates of Tir na nÓg lay.”
“Nieve’s hometown.”
“The same.” The mention of Nieve brings Niks to mind, and my peace frays around the edges.
He gazes over the palette of green, chewing his lip. “I imagine Deidre’s Sidhe Otherworld Tribunal lurks there as well.”
“You mean the good ol’ boy network who dumps poor Donal Cam in whatever time tortures him the most?”
He grunts. “I suspect Deidre sits at the head of their table.”
The city of Killarney is as charming as I’m beginning to suspect all Irish cities are. Still full from breakfast, we can’t tackle a meal, but we both need a caffeine fix. Killarney is too crowded a place to risk being seen with Jack. He suits up in a baseball cap and sunglasses before pulling into a car park at the edge of town. I pop out to get us coffee.
We sit in the car and watch a line of horse-drawn carriages clip clop down the street. I understand why Deidre set her stories in Ireland. There is a strong overlay of the past even here in what passes as a city. Mist and stretches of land cover more ground than houses and towns.
“I do love it here, Jack. Everywhere we go is so beautiful.” I’m tempted to admit I’m also more drawn to him with each passing hour. He’s charming without trying and so down to earth it’s incomprehensible I’ve known him such a short length of time. He could be someone I went to school or grew up with.
He leans over to bump my shoulder. “I told you this could work, you and me.” I try to ignore the niggling of pressure behind his words. This man wants what he wants and isn’t afraid to push his agenda.
I’m not sure hiding in a car qualifies as working, but I won’t be the storm cloud to ruin our day. “I have to admit Mr. O’Leary, today ranks as the best first date I’ve ever had.”
“Fourth date. Pub is one. I count the stables and the car ride home as two. I did give you a gourmet energy bar for dinner.” Jack throws back the rest of his coffee. “Add in the driving range as a third.” He starts the car. “Which brings us to today and number four, which we’re not half done with.”
I’m suddenly blindsided with the thought that I never want to go on another first date. I can’t imagine anyone fitting their puzzle piece to mine as perfectly as Jack. The sensation is so overpowering it brings tears to my eyes. I pretend to be transfixed with the view out my window.
I don’t have to pretend for long, as we leave the city of Killarney and enter Killarney National Park. How could anyone not believe in ancient magic and faeries while driving through a forest so lush that water clings to the leaves like frozen waterfalls of diamonds? We climb, passing meadows and stretches of trees so tightly packed I’d have no trouble believing we’ve strayed off the main road into another realm. Fantasy overshadows reality. The beauty surrounding us permeates my soul. I’m afraid to speak and shatter the otherworldly vibe.
Jack’s screech-to-a-halt parking style is not for the faint of heart. I’m going to insist on at least a thirty-second warning in the future so my stomach can prepare.
He’s around to my side of the car, opening my door. Abandoned sunglasses sit on the dash. After a check of the immediate area, which appears to be empty, he flings the baseball cap into the back seat and holds out a hand to me. The look of anticipation on his face is so alluring, it makes me want to jump him right there in the car park.
“I’ve something to show you.”
I take his hand. He yanks me across the street so fast I almost trip. We pass weather-worn boulders higher than my head and step out onto an overlook.
“Oh, Jack.” Through the cool and mysterious late Irish afternoon, a landscape, the stuff of love songs, unfolds before me.
“This place is called Ladies View. Named for the delight it gave Queen Victoria’s ladies in waiting. Do you love it?”
I wrap my arms around his waist, but I can’t take my eyes off the view. A dozen different shades of green from hunter to mint roll down hillsides. Caps of granite covered in mosses of orange and tan dot the countryside. White lichen on the rocks read like delicate lace. At the bottom of the slope are lakes as dove gray as Jack’s eyes in low light.
“It’s a poem.”
He wraps his arms around me and we hold each other, drinking in the glorious scene before us.
“Will you come home with me now, beautiful girl?”
I turn in his arms and slide my thumbs along his cheeks. Bringing his face down to mine, I brush my lips against his in a dozen tiny kisses. He snatches me off my feet and into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist, as light kisses shift into an insane longing for one another.
A car grumbles to a stop in the car park beyond the trees, preventing me from giving myself to Jack under the shadows of the yew at the edge of the overlook. He sets me down. I slide my hands under his coat and down the back of his jeans, exploring the taut muscles of his backside. “God, I hope it’s not far.”
Chapter
Thirteen
Jack takes the mountain roads to the tiny town of Sneem at breakneck speed. I can’t keep my fingers away from his lips. He kisses and bites. When his hand strays under my thigh, it’s all I can do to keep from guiding it the rest of the way to a destination too distracting for someone already struggling to keep a car on the highway.
