Not to Scale, page 6
The arena is devoid of human and horse. Bales of straw, low jumps, and a plastic wading pool are surrounded by a low, white wooden fence. I trudge across to the stables, appreciating the lack of evidence horses usually leave behind.
Once inside, I inhale deeply, savoring the aromas of horse breath and hay. A perky chestnut-colored friend bobs its head over the stall and nickers at me.
“Is someone lonely?” I stroll over and pet the white streak on its nose. It’s gooey lips slurp my hand, looking for a treat. “No cheating on your diet, sweet thing.”
Various pairs of large, curious horse eyes take me in as I explore deeper. At the end of the center aisle is an empty office with a glowing computer screen. Next to that is a tack room.
“Hello?”
Stamping and blowing answer me from off to the right. “Wow.” Standing in the last stall, fully saddled and ready to go, is the real star of the show, Streaker, the leading man, Donal Cam’s white horse. This is the single being in the universe of The Chieftain’s Son who traipses through time with the star. Poor Donal Cam must woo his eternal love Nieve in a different incarnation of his chieftain’s son role in every book. She never recognizes him at first thanks to a fairy curse the poor guy’s parents triggered. Luckily D.C. always wins Nieve over with lots of charm and his prowess between the sheets. Sadly, he’s doomed to lose her as he’s plopped into the service of a different chieftain. He remembers everything he’s gained and lost. Sucks to be him. Donal Cam needs a Kevin.
Streaker nudges her snowy nose against the door to her stall.
“Hey baby, you need exercise?” She’s not sweaty or tired looking. The girl is ready to party.
I pop my head into the office to see if there’s an inner sanctum where the show’s wrangler is hiding. “Hello?”
Grabbing a helmet from the tack room, I secure it on my head and wait for the wrangler to appear. Streaker blows her impatience. Since I’ve probably clocked more hours on horseback than the wrangler, I consider taking the darling into the arena.
“What’s it going to hurt if I walk you out to the playground, Streaker?”
She nickers at me, which I take as assent. Slipping into the stall, I get to know her a little with pats and coos. The beauty bumps her head against me, loving the attention.
“Anyone here?” I call again. When there’s still no answer, I lead the obviously ready-for-a-ride horse from the stable into the arena. She’s calm and obedient, no horsey shenanigans. We pause next to a mounting block that I’m sure Jack O’Leary doesn’t need to jump onto Streaker, but I sure do. It’s tempting.
“What do you think, sweetie pie? Should we take a spin while you wait for your daddy? You’re all dressed up with nowhere to go.” What are they going to do, fire me? I may earn a thank you for saving someone the trouble of exercising their equine leading lady.
I wait another five minutes, and no one comes out of the stables or into the arena. It’s not like I’m an amateur who’s going to compromise the horse. After adjusting the stirrups to fit me. I nuzzle Streaker’s head with my own, climb the block, and slip into the saddle. She’s magnificent. I feel her strength and trust as I walk her into the center of the arena. The calm I’ve always enjoyed on horseback washes over me.
She answers my commands before I finish the question, and soon we’re cantering around the track. The ride is smooth and intoxicating. Stress sloughs off me like dust washed away by sweet summer rain. I’m connected to the horse through its rhythmic hoofbeats, but the thread goes deeper. The door at the end of the space is wide open, letting the brisk October breeze send fragrances of grass and earth into the air. This Irish horse moves in harmony with the land outside and beneath us. For the first time I imagine a thread connecting me, through the horse, down into the myth and magic of Ireland. I sense the land of the story I’m meant to tell. It calls to me, inviting me to know it better.
We go faster, and I guide Streaker in line with a jump. Horse wind whips my hair behind me. The two of us are destined to fly. Up we go, clearing the pole with ease. Pounding—turning—freedom.
That’s when I hear the shouting.
“What the fuck,” bellows a man the size of a young buffalo, with a tangle of brown hair to complete the picture. He and a blond, tall, body builder type race toward me across the arena.
I want to yell at them not to spook the horse, but there’s no need. My better half slows to a trot and heads straight for the newcomers, whinnying a greeting. Blinking the blur from my eyes from our last burst of speed, I focus on the pair.
Holy hell.
Mr. blond and muscular is none other than Jack O’Leary. He’s as pretty as his horse. Ten times the hunk of gorgeous as he appears on screen.
Jack takes Streaker’s muzzle in his hands and plants a kiss on her forehead. “So, lady in the saddle, are you my new horse-riding double?” He laughs. “The shots better be nice and wide to sell it, and you need the hair.” He flicks one of his own blond locks and gestures to mine.
“Actually, I’m your dinner guest.” I reach a hand toward him. “Elodie Pettipas, the new production designer.”
Jack takes my hand in both of his. “And I’m Gilly Bettencourt O’Leary’s husband, Jack.”
Grumbling buffalo man circles the horse, inspecting her like he’s looking for dents or scratches in the paint of a new car. I pull my hand quickly from Jack’s to get out of range. I’m afraid Buff may grab my leg to yank me off Streaker’s back. He stops next to Jack and points a finger as large as a carrot at my face. “No one touches my horses without my say so. Get your ass off her.”
I found the wrangler.
Jack slaps the man on his meaty shoulder. “Moose, I think we can all agree Elodie here knows her way around a horse.”
Moose grunts and glares at me. Great, someone else on The Chieftain’s Son staff I’ve pissed off. He jerks the reins from my hands and leads the horse to the block so I can dismount.
“Mr. Moose…” Shit, Jack called him just plain Moose. Adding the Mr. makes him sound like a cartoon character. “I promise Streaker was in capable hands. I grew up on a ranch and can handle a horse as well as I do a paint brush.”
If my statement softens Moose’s ire, there’s no evidence.
Take two. “I’m sorry I took liberties.” I shrug. “But she was saddled and asked me so nicely.” The last thing I want to do is make an enemy of my access to horses.
Jack barks a laugh while Moose stares me down.
Take three. “She’s a beautiful horse. Sweet, talented. You must be proud of her.”
What, is he her dad? I’m burbling.
I believe there’s the barest easing in the creases between Moose’s brows before he holds out a hand, jerking his chin at my helmet.
After unclicking the strap, I offer it to him. With a swipe of his giant hand, he snatches the helmet from me and turns his back on us to walk Streaker to the stables. He mumbles something that if my ears don’t deceive me, just might be fine jump.
I lament the angry set of Moose’s shoulders as he disappears into shadow. “He’s never going to let me touch a horse again, is he?”
“Did you not hear him compliment your jump. A tick in your win column.”
I bounce a knuckle against my chin. “I figured I was hearing things.”
Jack flicks a hand at the retreating wrangler. “Moose is really a softy. You can tell by the way horses love the man.” He pops his lips. “My advice—show up with a finely rehearsed grovel and a decent bottle of whiskey before you ask for another ride.”
I register what Jack is wearing: jeans, flannel shirt over a thermal one, boots, and a helmet strap dangling from his hand. “Shoot, you were coming to train on Streaker for the shoreline battle, weren’t you?”
Guilt prickles. The massive war scene, our last shoot for season two, is coming fast and furious. Donal Cam has tricky horseback shots that will work a thousand times better if it’s Jack and not his stunt double pulling off the moves.
“Don’t think on it. My ass could use a day off from Moose’s drills. The man is ruthless.” He gestures to the garage door-sized opening leading out of the arena into The Clan complex, and we start toward it. “Gilly told me we’re on tonight for Waterville’s brilliant Dover sole. Fair warning. It will ruin you for all other fish.”
I catch myself staring at Jack. No one could fault me for gawking at this gorgeous human, but it’s not his looks I’m after. I want his insight on the pull I felt riding Streaker. Actors thrive on key moments and emotions. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure thing.”
“Your between season’s filler show, My Two Loves, what drove you to double your workload considering the brutal shooting schedule of The Chieftain’s Son?”
Dazzling smile is not just PR with Jack. He does frickin’ dazzle. “It’s in the name. I love my wife. I love my home. That’s worth a bit of being overworked, don’t you think?” He grunts. “Exactly why we changed the name from Secrets of My Ireland, or My Ireland.” Even his derisive noises are ridiculously sexy. “And it’s throwing the network a bone since I’ve mucked up their grand publicity plans by daring to marry my soulmate.”
Wow, Gilly is a freakin’ real-life fairy tale princess to have this near perfect example of manhood calling her his soulmate. I stare a little too long, soaking in the sweetness and beauty that is Jack O’Leary. Crushing on him is a no-go, but I certainly will not miss the opportunity to appreciate him as a colleague and maybe someday a friend.
I pursue my hunch Jack may be key to something I need. As the actor who is the beating heart of our show, he’s a resource I’d be a fool to overlook. “Hey Jack, I need a favor.”
He raises an eyebrow at the woman he’s just met already diving in for an ask.
“I feel I need to gain a deeper understanding of Ireland. I’ve bathed in the fairy tales and myths, read about battles and kings—architecture and Vikings. But I’m embarrassed to admit my connection still seems surface when it needs to radiate into everything I create for the show. You’re doing a whole spin-off featuring that bond. I need help to find it.”
Jack starts to speak but I cut him off.
“You may think I’m nuts, but since we’re both creatives, hopefully you won’t run screaming when I tell you something.”
He rests hands on his knees and leans down so we’re eye-to-eye, which is no mean feat given our disparity in height. “Let’s operate on the notion all creatives are a little bit mad or as my lovely wife would say, bonkers. Go on.”
I turn back toward the stables. “On horseback is one of the times I’m not trapped in my own head. I feel instead of think. I felt a vibe when the breeze from outside hit me as I was riding Streaker. There was a—pull, as if a presence was trying to get my attention, give me hints, invite me to grasp something vital about this place I haven’t yet embraced.”
Damn, his next smile is as warm as lemon ginger tea on a cold morning. How many smiles does this man generate? Jack O’Leary, man of a thousand smiles. “Welcome to Ireland. You’re not the first person in our Chieftain’s Son family who’s experienced such a thing. In my opinion, an invitation like that is not to be ignored.”
“So not bonkers?”
He straightens. His gaze drifts to the huge doors open to the outside at the far end of the arena. Jack’s chest expands as he draws in a breath.
I follow his line of sight to the fields, small hills undulating in the distance, and the deep green trees standing sentinel on The Clan property. He’s seeing what I see and more. Depth and appreciation of the country that Jack’s called home his entire life shows on his face. It’s a mystery I’m dying to explore.
“One of the tragedies of our modern world is that we’ve disengaged with the ground beneath our feet.” One side of Jack’s lip curls as he looks down at me. “I’ve an invitation for you. Can you spare a day to come with Gilly and me on our shoot tomorrow out to the Giant’s Causeway?”
Yep, this guy is the key to a treasure chest I’m keen to open and peer inside. My schedule flickers like a neon sign in my brain. Can I spare a day?
“Jack, Elodie, everything okay here?” Bobby blows into the arena, a stronger force than the rising afternoon wind. He waves his cell at us, but his gaze locks on mine alone. “I got a call from an extremely disgruntled Moose.”
As he stops a foot shy of ramming me, the loneliness that’s lingered around my edges melts away. I’ve missed him today. Even though I’m probably horse banned, warmth at being with Bobby holds disappointment at bay.
I raise a hand. “Guilty.”
Bobby shakes his head. “Nope. Not you.” He raises his own hand to grab mine and lower it. Our fingers slide together so easily as if we’ve clasped hands a dozen times before. “I’ve been found guilty of not introducing him to the new talented horsewoman on the team.” He gives my hand a shake and slowly slides his fingers free. I’m tempted to reclaim them and just stand there in front of Jack, holding hands with Bobby.
“He said I was talented?”
Bobby smirks and leans in for a stage whisper. “He said you were pushy and talented.”
I tilt my head to the side and study the design of Bobby’s lips. “I own that.”
Jack clears his throat, and I realize Bobby and I are floating in our own little flirt bubble. Great, caught in another Deidre LaRochelle winkable moment with Bobby Provost.
“Elodie’s granting us the pleasure of her company to the Giant’s Causeway tomorrow,” says Jack to Bobby. “Didn’t you say you’ve been wanting to see the place as well?”
Bobby’s face flares, a ruby caught in a flash of light. He shoots Jack a tight-lipped smile. Jack grins back, the picture of innocence. Am I reading the room, or rather horse arena, completely wrong, or is Jack O’Leary playing matchmaker? Has Bobby said something to him about me? I know they’re super close. I tamp down my inner does he like me junior high school girl. I’m indulging in some wishful thinking. It’s more likely Jack is a textbook example of people in love wanting everyone they know to find happiness as well.
I guess I’m going to the Giant’s Causeway tomorrow.
“You’re very welcome to join us for dinner, Bobby. Gilly and I are going to educate Elodie on the brilliance of Dover sole.”
Bobby claps Jack on the shoulder. “As if I’d ever turn down sole, J.” His gaze flicks to me and quickly returns to Jack. “It’s a date.”
If we’re going with his word choice, it’s technically a double date. Is this one of the layers Bobby was referring to? A personal layer, one with interesting potential? The two of us are setting off to share a meal with a couple so in love we’re bound to received pinprick shocks from the passion sparkles flying off them. Will we get singed or ignited?
I may need to have burn cream standing by.
Chapter 7
My Two Loves
The prospect of spending six hours in the car with Bobby on the drive to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland both exhilarated and terrified me as I became a linen burrito flip-flopping in bed last night. Over-analyzing a possible future with Bobby kept me up way past the time I usually give in to the oblivion my meds deliver.
Dinner last night was a blast. Zero awkward. The O’Learys are as passionate about what they do as they are down to earth. Best insta-friends ever. Gilly called dibs again on a sisterly connection between us since her folks took me under their wing. I do love Rich and Amethyst Bettencourt. I wouldn’t be here without them, and who in their right mind could pass up the hot and kingly Jack O’Leary as an honorary brother-in-law? Not this girl.
Everything about the evening felt like a double date, from Bobby pulling my chair out to him walking me to Water Villa, which is a short stroll from the Yeats by the Sea Hotel. Well, everything except the absence of a good-night kiss. The end o’ the evening embrace surpassed squeeze and release status, but nothing beyond. Am I not sending the right signals? Is it me flashing the friend zone sign over my head? Shoot! Should I have asked him up?
Bobby and I are well past hour five of our road trip, and there hasn’t been a single lull in the conversation, even with our pre-dawn start time. Luckily, we’re both accustomed to the late night and early morning demands of a production schedule with the assist of highly caffeinated beverages. It’s as if we’re back on video chat, starting off with show specifics and then veering off into IRL Elodie and Bobby apart from our roles on The Chieftain’s Son. Comfortable. Fun. Promising?
There is one marked difference from our online get-to-know-you phase. Touching. Lots of touching. Bobby reaches over to squeeze my shoulder to emphasize something he’s saying that I’ve completely lost track of in my fascination with the swoop of a cowlick curving over his left ear. I’m all in with the series of cross-car contacts between us. So far, neither of us has breached the invisible line of casual familiarity. Leg touching is limited to knee patting without straying into thigh territory. No one’s lips have snuck into whisper-in-your-ear position. Every approach between us seems to be a test, a question.
Is this okay?
So far, neither of us twitched or leaned away.
Yes—check—okay.
I really should pay attention to what he’s saying instead of cataloging every single random brush of his hand. Except, I practically hold my breath, eager for the next touch. I crave his tactile attention to the point where more personal parts of me are getting louder about certain brands of touching they’d prefer.
“Thoughts on the new title of Jack’s show?” Bobby’s question tugs me back to the conversation.
I swallow and work at acting casual instead of fantasizing over the endless possibilities of Bobby’s touches. “Why did they change it?”
