Page 3 of Hot Set
I slide away. “I don’t know the first thing about writing a screenplay…teleplay? See, I don’t even know what to call it.”
“No one knows how to write one until they do it. We’ll teach you. My writing staff is as generous as they are talented, and I’m betting you’re a fast learner.”
I can only imagine how big of a thorn a green writer with no experience would be in the side of a staff trying to condense a twelve-hundred-page novel into thirteen episodes. I’d resent the hell out of me. I’m not eager to flaunt any more insecurity, so I go with the practical argument. “You shoot in Ireland. I live in L.A. Bit of a commute.”
He shakes his head. “You’re a hard ass, aren’t you? I’m used to people begging to get a foot in the door ofThe Chieftain’s Son. We’re on the brink of a five-season pick up, and I’ve no doubt we’ll add five more to that, a season per novel. What’s not to love?”
“The offer is flattering, but I just don’t see myself joining a television writing staff. Too intimidating. I’m sorry.”
A muscle on Bobby’s jaw twitches, and his fingers tap the dash of the golf cart. The hummingbird perks up. “What if I find a way to ease you more slowly into the picture?”
I nearly take the bait but stop myself so I don’t give the impression of false interest. I need to veer away from this subject and resuscitate the Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear agenda.
“Continuing our trend of full disclosure, what will it take for you to agree to Lanie Blesch over your leading lady as the spokesmodel for our line?” I ask.
Bobby’s eyes narrow at my skittish change of subject. The way he appears to be reading me like a cheap novel is disconcerting. I fully expect him to reject my new choice of topic and launch back into his campaign to unhinge my life.
“My green Irish hillocks are ripe for the picking if Mr. Graham signs my star, Niks Tellefson, as spokesmodel.”
Relief softens my stone-hard muscles. The elephant has been evicted from our cart as we shift back into conversation that doesn’t force me to take stock of my existence.
The corner of his lip sneaks up and his pupils flare. “Hmm? Then again, Mr. Graham wants my land, and I want his writer. Dare I say there may be a bargain in the making?”
And Jumbo plonks back onto the seat between us. I sputter like a kitchen faucet coming back on after the water’s been turned off. Treat will have an apoplexy if my repeat rejection of Bobby’s job offer gets in the way of his plans for the Ireland shoot.
Someone hollers behind us, and I realize we’re stalling the tournament. I hit the gas to drive the cart up to where my ball landed. “That’s not where I was going with the conversation,” I say as I hop out and grab my six iron. “You know that one has nothing to do with the other.”
Bobby chuckles. “I didn’t get where I am without testing every available angle.”
Every available angle to bait me again. His business with Treat and his job offer to me exist on two entirely different planes. There’s no leverage crossover between them, and Bobby Provost will not bamboozle me into thinking there is.
As I line up my shot, I notice Lanie and Treat are nowhere in sight.They must already be on the green. Damn, how long were Bobby and I yakking?I’m equal parts flattered by his kind words and jittery from his pressure. A golfer’s worse enemy, distraction, clutches the back of my neck, and I slice my shot into the trees.
“Damn it.”
It takes my entire reserve of self-control not to stomp back to the cart or snap my club in two. That was my worst shot of the year.
Bobby leans with his back against the cart. “So, you are human.”
“Tragically human.” I pick out a few clubs. “I’ll go find my ball and meet you on the green.”
He tugs at the sleeve of my newly acquiredChieftain’s Sonjersey. “New deal. If I can’t convince you to join my team, which I’m not giving up on yet, how about this? I’ll agree to let Treat Graham useThe Chieftain’s Sonproperty for his shoot and go one more round with him over the spokesmodel stand-off, if”—he holds up a finger—“you joinThe Chieftain’s Sonfoursome in our charity golf tournament at the end of the month.”
“Which course?”
“Gal Tré in Kerry.”
I stumble on the cart path. “As in Ireland?”
Bobby nods. “Expenses paid by the network. It’s a good cause.”
I should say yes. The showdown for the Irish Country Lass model will be over by then, and I can settle back into my clandestine but adoring relationship with Treat.
The thought of putting the Atlantic between Treat and me feels perilous. The shattered goblets in my stomach tinkle a warning, but I shake it off. A night in my apartment in front of the fireplace with Treat and a bottle of wine will wash away this rising sense of doom. He cozies up to women for business, but at the end of the day, it’s my bed he’s in. Orwasin. It’s been over two months since he’s been in town long enough to spend couple time with me, our longest separation so far.
Unwelcome thoughts percolate in my head. What scares me the most? Treat not showing up at my door or seeing his face next to me on the pillow while I continue to invest in a relationship that only goes in circles?
“You’re sweet, Bobby, but this is a crazy time for me with looming Irish Country Lass deadlines. I can’t get away.” With what I intend as a kindly wave, I head into the trees to find my errant golf ball. It sits on a tidy patch of grass between two sycamores in a direct line to the green. I may pull off a decent score on this hole in spite of my godawful slice. As I address the ball, a familiar giggle fouls the air to my right. Shadows dominate this makeshift forest but don’t obscure everything. As I turn toward the sound, golf becomes the least of my problems.