Not to Scale, page 8
I cringe. “Ouch. She’s intense.” The head of PR hit me with a Jack and Gilly NDA before the DocuSign ink was dry on my contract. “Did she order a hit on you?”
Bobby chortles. It’s nearly as cute as his scampering. “It was not pretty.”
“Did you guys cool it after that?”
Jack tucks his chin into the space between Gilly’s neck and shoulder. “Nope. I married my mystery woman.”
I nod. “And then Meg ordered a hit on you.”
“Thankfully, those type of contracts are above her pay grade,” says Bobby.
Danna picks her way over to us. “We’ve got what we need. Good work.”
“To the bridge,” Jack bellows, a chieftain calling his clan to battle.
“To the bridge,” Bobby answers his liege, and they smack a very loud high five. He takes my hand again as we traverse the uneven ground toward the nightmarishly steep stone steps. I don’t care if his purpose is to help me navigate or to keep up our pattern of touchy-touchy, which is something I’m growing very fond of.
Chapter 8
Carrick-a-Rede
I’ve never been afraid of heights. In fact, I crave them. Super high earthbound vantage points are as close to flying as we mere mortals are allowed. Planes don’t count. That’s just riding a glorified bus through the clouds.
The Carrick-a-Rede bridge counts.
The rope bridge is one hundred feet above a gap in the Atlantic between the main Antrim Coast and Carrick-a-Rede Island. Our group seems to be the only ones braving the crossing today. I’m first onto the bridge. It takes all my willpower not to skip or see if I can set it swinging. The freedom is intoxicating. The sea beneath is a muted emerald as it flows in and out of the mouth of an enormous cave below in the gap. Black mounds of stone that could be gargantuan pebbles dropped from a giant’s hand, maybe Fionn himself, butt up against the island, wearing the frothy lace of incoming surf. Rocks fringed with ten different shades of green grasses cap the mainland’s cliffside. Thick fingers of basalt, cousin to the Giant’s Causeway pillars, form the craggy face of the small island at the far end of the bridge. Off to the right, nestled on a flat outcropping overlooking the open sea, are the remains of a stark white fishing boat.
My newfound sense of the land and its mysteries sizzle like a live wire. This living world of myth grants me passage to walk upon its surface where giants once tread and fall in love with it. I climb onto the wooden landing as our guide on the island side of the bridge offers me a hand.
“Amazing,” I chirp.
The man, who could be cast as an old, wizened sea captain, beams at me, his face breaking into a maze of deep wrinkles.
“I see you’re not one to be needing a boat or a helicopter to bring you back across,” he chuckles.
“That’s a thing?” I ask.
“Oh, t’at’s a t’ing,” he says with a tilt of his head and a narrowed gaze.
I’m also falling in love with the way some people here trade TH for a T. Ten Pettipas points to Ireland for charm.
I twirl toward the bridge to share my exhilaration with my friends, letting loose a whoop and holler. The forms I find picking their way across the bridge are far from whoopworthy.
Scared shitless-Bobby clings to the ropy railing as he steps forward with one foot and then brings the other to meet it in a cautious shuffle instead of his normal confident strides. His gaze is fixed on the wooden path along the center of the bridge. I want to shout at him to look over the side and not miss the exquisite vista from his bird’s eye vantage point. Ten feet behind him, Jack has one hand on the rail and the other clamped around Gilly’s waist as he practically carries her across.
I step up the little rise onto the island to give them room to exit the bridge. Bobby gives me a smile almost as shaky as his hands. Jack guides Gilly to join us at the crest of the slope where she promptly turns and vomits behind a convenient rock.
I wonder if puking is a t’ing with people daring to cross the bridge.
With the exception of Jack, I am not in the company of daredevils. I feel a twinge of guilt. Did I actually sway the bridge enough to bring on Gilly’s motion sickness and Bobby’s shakes? Oops.
Since it looks like he could use support, I hold out a hand to Bobby. It’s also an excuse to touch him. He hesitates for a beat and then grabs my hand. I drag him along a path across the top of the island to give the O’Learys privacy. We veer left and find a cluster of rock to park ourselves on. He reclaims his hand to stuff it inside his sleeve. I fight the urge to dig past his cuff to reclaim it. I convince myself not to take it personally and that hiding his hands is part of his move to regain equilibrium from his cross-bridge shuffle. Maybe I assumed we’d reached hand-holding status when he really was just helping me keep my footing at the Giant’s Causeway. Bobby’s breathing evens out as we take in the view of two mini islands nestled next to Carrick-a-Rede and the spectacular cliffs of the Antrim coast.
Daggers of frosty breeze slice through our jackets, but the cold doesn’t bother me. The air is fresh and unencumbered, with no hints of civilization. I’m not only in a foreign land. It’s a new world, an untouched piece of Earth. Seabirds add a layer of wavering grace as they dance near the islands. The sea is not at peace, rather it plays the building crescendo of the violent symphony below us.
This is the Ireland I’m newly acquainted with, a beautiful top layer with hints of wildness churning beneath the surface. Millions of years ago magma roiled, escaping Earth’s crust to create the Giant’s Causeway. I am becoming convinced the otherworld of Tír na nÓg under our feet, the realm of eternal youth where the characters in The Chieftain’s Son owe their roots, may control the flow of magic seeping up through the ground to be claimed and cherished by the people who believe it exists. Jack believes it or he wouldn’t have encouraged me to find it. I am overwhelmed to be gifted the opportunity to mine the energy of this place and communicate it through my designs.
“You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” says Bobby, nudging me, his confident tone reinstated.
I close my eyes. “Shh, I’m absorbing.”
Bobby’s gaze drifts across the landscape. “If given the choice of a personal heaven, this may be mine.”
I turn to face him. “Is there room for one more?”
“We usually book a lifetime in advance, but I could make an exception.”
Feeling bold, I crook an arm through his. “I’ll take it.”
He squeezes my arm. “In my heaven, there would be no rope bridge involved.”
I love the way his face wears an undercoat of pink beneath his windblown cheeks. “Rope bridges aren’t for everyone.”
His gaze darts to where the O’Learys found their own private perch. “Clearly.”
We sit arm in arm for a few moments. I relish being so close to Bobby, even with the buffer of our jackets between us. He admitted he was a touchy type. I have no barometer to know if this is regular closeness to him, or did I rate an upgrade? Before my overanalyzing ticks to the next level, Bobby pops up. I’m afraid he’s going to head back, but he stares intently down at me.
“What were you and Jack talking about at the Causeway?” There’s an odd strain in his voice. I’m guessing he’s not the type who likes to be out of any loop. A strand of hair whips across his face. “When you told me you felt everything…what did you mean?”
I almost indulge in a teasing smart-ass remark, but a wave of emotion knocks me off course. Patting the rock next to me, I invite him to quit scampering. He looks edgy but complies. “Let us return to your query in regard to my castle touching.” Leaning back on my hands I raise my face to the wind. “I’ve done my research and put heart and soul into my designs for the show, but…” I meet his gaze. “There was an element missing.”
Bobby shakes his head. “You’re wrong. They’re beautiful.”
For a moment we stare at one another. The side of my lip twitches as my brain glitches with its usual resistance to accepting compliments. “Maybe nothing was missing visually for you, but for me something was missing intrinsically here.” I thump a fist over my heart. “My work hit me as above adequate but incomplete. Up to Jeff Palmer standard but not mine. I expect myself to tell a deeper story, and I wasn’t there yet.”
He starts to chime in, but I lay an icicle finger on his lips.
“I couldn’t nail down what was lacking.” I pull my finger away. “I felt it was me. So what did I do? Bulldozed ahead, assuming if I upended the entire layout of the art department, I’d fix the missing link.” My ironic chuckle disappears on the breeze. “When I rode Streaker in front of a backdrop of The Clan’s countryside, I had a wild, almost out-of-body experience. The tug of an invisible connection knocked at my brain, but I couldn’t decode it. Jack was there so I shared what I was feeling. He totally got me and said I should come here today to explore my inkling by experiencing this place.
Bobby slowly nods.
I narrow my eyes. “Is that an I follow you nod or an I’m going to hire a new production designer who has all her marbles nod?”
His voice is quiet. “It’s an I do get you nod. I fell for The Chieftain’s Son because it isn’t just a love story, it connects on a primal level to what this country is.”
My body superheats, and I’m tempted to throw off the jacket. Instead of leaning into this moment that I desperately want to be a moment as we speak a shared language, I barrel ahead.
“Exactly, it’s the vibe of Ireland I was skirting around and not sinking into. The depth of its mystery and deep-seated connection to the story of the show.” I mentally kick myself for not defining my deficiency earlier.
Back in my early days as an assistant art director, I relished being the only person shopping the vast studio prop and furniture warehouses where we rented set pieces. I’d sit on fabricated thrones and channel kings and queens. Staring at portraits that had once graced set walls in classic films sucked me back in time to the world of those stories. I’ve been so caught up in being the big boss and the responsibilities and expectations associated with it, not to mention my constant waltz with imposter syndrome, I shut off my love of whimsy and the poetic emotional time travel objects can evoke. Shame on me. Thank goodness Ireland refused to let me settle for an outline instead of a fully realized rendering of the visual story I’m charged with telling.
I can’t tell if Bobby’s pulling off a stare or a gaze. Whichever it is, it’s relentless and makes me squirmy. The guy is a writer, the head writer of a freakin’ time travel romance. He of all people should understand going deeper than the page is not a form of lunacy.
I draw a circle in the air in front of his face. “What is this look?”
His rigidity melts, replaced with a dazzler of a smile. “I’ve had the moment you found today. I remember it clearly.”
I grip his arm. “Tell me.”
He chuckles. “I suppose it was my own version of castle touching. Jack has a mate who owns a thirteenth century castle, and he arranged for me to spend time alone there, taking it in. It was just me in an ancient tower house from dawn into the night surrounded by its history of cattle stealing, murder dinners, and generations of lingering souls. You don’t come away from that unchanged.”
“Does Jack have some magical contract with the otherworld to lead us dumbass Yanks to understand Ireland?”
Bobby barks a laugh. His breath warms my face. “You’d think.” He rubs hands over his knees. “It’s Jack’s generosity, dedication to the show and his country’s history that drives him. He doesn’t want anyone left out of the richness waiting to be appreciated.”
“I see his spinoff is another facet of his passion. I’ll bet it wasn’t hard to convince him to do it.”
Bobby scratches his chin. “Easier when Gilly came into the picture, since he’s so eager to share it with the love of his life.”
My heartbeats take off running as I stare through the mist at the landscape disappearing around us.
The love of his life
I’ve been career driven since the art director on the ranch first took me under his wing. I’ve had my share of crushes and a pair of memorable flings, but to be the love of someone’s life…
Bobby stares out over the Atlantic. “I’d let the books get under my skin obviously. I was obsessed with winning Deidre over and getting The Chieftain’s Son greenlit by True Time Network, but it wasn’t until I came here, to Ireland, that the story fully sank into my heart.” He breaths deeply. “I understand how special this day is for you.”
I’m fully leaning against him now. “Layers,” I breathe into the mist.
“Layers,” Bobby says, his gaze boring into mine as he repeats what has become a loaded word between us. “You won’t just tell the story with your designs now. You’ll be the story.”
I don’t want to be imagining this pull between us. I’ll make a complete idiot of myself and pop open a jumbo can of uncomfortable if I’m wrong. An electric charge surges through my body. I have a split second to decide if I’m going to go for it with him or not. Proceeding with caution wins out and sends me to my feet. I pace along the grassy ground in front of Bobby.
“Yes. Jeff Palmer created a luxurious museum piece. I want to give the look of the show a stronger pulse beneath its skin.” A gust of wind turns my steps into a skid, but I recover. “I need to move minds, not furniture, and expect from my team what you expect of your writers.”
Well didn’t I manage to spoil what might have been something tender between us?
Bobby holds up his hands in a stop right there gesture. “Moving minds? You are assuming those minds aren’t already at the place you’ve just discovered. People who’ve lived here all their lives like Jack are miles ahead of we transplants in the connection with the land department.”
In an impulse, I lay my palms against his. “Bad choice of words. Not moving minds. I want to sync our purpose to add dimensions. I’ll work a day into the schedule for team building, idea sharing, consciousness melding.”
Heat rises where our hand touch. Bobby doesn’t pull away. “Be careful, Elodie. My philosophy is to gently pull people toward you, don’t force them into your mindset. Consider doling out your epiphany in small doses, not a downpour if you don’t want a repeat of your department remodeling disappointment.”
“How can I keep this to myself, Bobby? I wish for my team to be spectacular not serviceable. Why would they want anything less?” I crimp my fingers between his. “Do you expect me to believe you didn’t charge in on a Streaker-level horse to share your passion with your writing staff?”
His fingers remain at attention instead of settling between mine. Is that his subtle hint for me to withdraw my death grip on him?
“Guilty.”
I press my fingertips into the back of his hand. “Aha, you agree passion is not to be watered down.”
Bobby rises to his feet, finally completing his half of bending our fingers together. The diffuse light through the fog softens his features, and I’m treated to Youthful-Bobby. Before I have a chance to step into him, a near-gale force gust drives my body against his, our joined hands the only barrier between our chests.
“Never,” he says, a ragged edge to his voice. His gaze lingers on mine and then slides to my lips. I become hyper aware of my breathing, which has deepened, sending tiny bursts of fog between us. Bobby’s mouth curves into a gentle smile that dips closer to my upturned face. His hot breath cuts through the Elodie-generated fog, and I return his smile with one I hope is encouraging. Currents of heat from our joined hands run down my arms and straight to my core. My pulse goes nuts in my neck, my chest, and lower regions. Carrick-a-Rede Island is the perfect place for our first kiss.
Bobby’s lips brush across the tip of my nose, and he slowly begins to tilt his head when a very loud and unwelcome, “Hello,” sails our way from the path. We separate like we’ve been caught making out under the bleachers at a high school football game.
Jack waves both hands over his head as if we could miss the hulking mass of chieftain’s son interrupting our moment. “I’m taking Gilly back across the bridge. We’re off for a bite. Care to join?”
I notice the mist has thickened even more around us, much like my disappointment at the distance Bobby put between us. “Right behind you, J,” he calls up to his star.
Jack side-eyes us with a smirk. “Meet you at the car park.”
In my script, Jack would turn away and Bobby would grab the front of my jacket, pulling me in for a kiss that would render my legs too weak to cross the bridge. We’d huddle under a rocky, bird-free outcropping and make love until the steam from our bodies created their own magical sea mist.
In real life, Bobby gives me a dull smile. I wish my own disappointment was mirrored back to me. Instead, I detect more relief than anything else. Shit. Did Bobby Provost not want to kiss me on Carrick-a-Rede island? I madly rub my thumb over my ring to stuff down humiliation.
Bobby watches Jack retreat. “Maybe I should ask Jack to fireman’s carry me across the bridge,” he says.
I bend forward and pat my shoulder, offering the service. Humor—the great diffuser.
Bobby guides me upright. “I shall man up. If…” He raises a finger. “You promise not to swing the bridge.” With a swoop of his arm, he gestures for me to precede him.
I manage a tight smile as I pass. This is a far cry from my naked island scenario. Inspiration hits and I twirl to face him. “I want to go to the castle where you had your inspiration. Will you take me?”
I hate the conflict running across his face like a strobe light. Damn it. He was about to kiss me. What’s the cause of this retreat?
Decision tightens his features. Damn it. He’s going to turn me down. Whatever almost happened between us has shifted into a no-go for him, but then his face relaxes except for the intense gaze aimed straight at me. The delicious pressure of his hand against my lower back turns me from a pessimist into an optimist.
“Let me talk to Jack.”
