Picture This (13 page)

“Wait.” Celia shook her head as if to clear it. “What?”

He leaned closer to her with a wicked grin. “I'm not drunk. I hardly ever drink, in fact.”

“But you were . . . I mean, I saw you!”

“Smoke and mirrors, like I said. Sleight of hand. I had the equivalent of about one beer the whole time I was there. I do it all the time.” Celia must have looked completely confounded, because he explained, “Look, everybody wants to buy me a drink. Everywhere I go. If I drank them all, I'd be under the table. Or dead. If I refused, or accepted them but didn't drink them, it'd be taken as an insult. So over the years I've managed to get it down to a science—I take a sip, or pretend to, carry the drink around for a bit, then conveniently ‘forget' my glass somewhere. Somebody sees me empty-handed and gives me another one, which I carry around for a while, then ‘lose.' Rinse, repeat. It's a little wasteful, but worth it in the long run. Everybody who wants to buy me a drink gets to, the bar makes money, and I stay sober. I act wasted—
ha, ha, Niall's so funny
—everybody's happy.”

“So you're not even a little bit drunk.”

“Nope. Just perpetuating the Niall Crenshaw myth.”

“Why?”

He studied her, and Celia felt the familiar flutters in her belly—the ones that kicked in whenever he looked at her so intently, like she was the only other person in the world. Her heart started rocketing when he said softly, “I don't know. It's just what's expected of me at this point, I guess.”

An ache—that's what it was. Under the nerves twisting her guts and the physical, visceral urge to throw herself at him, morals and ethics and vows to herself be damned, an ache swelled deep inside her in response to the resigned, hollow look she saw in his eyes. That, more than anything, was going to be her undoing. She saw it coming, and she didn't know how to stop it. Or even if she wanted to.

Scrambling to get back on more neutral ground, she forced herself to ask another question. “How do you do that? I mean, you make a convincing drunk.”

“I
am
an actor, you know.”

“So you mean if . . .” She glanced up the street. “If I flagged down Officer Billy in his cruiser over there and asked him to give you a Breathalyzer test—”

“I'd pass with flying colors. Go ahead. Call him over.”

She thought a minute. “Mm, better not.”

“I'd do it, if that's what it'd take to convince you.”

“No, I believe you.” And she did. He was completely stable, not wobbly in the slightest. Although he'd draped his arm over her heavily, he hadn't leaned on her so much that she couldn't move. And every time he'd shouted drunkenly, he'd made sure his head was turned away so he didn't hurt her ears. He'd been in control the whole time. “Besides, if you still need people to believe you're wasted tonight, then don't prove to Officer Billy you're sober.”

“He'd tell everyone I was faking?”

“No, he's a good guy. He doesn't do random gossip. But somebody might see you.”

Niall laughed as he looked around. The streets were still empty. “Who?”

“The town has eyes.”

“Wasn't that a horror movie?”

“You'd better not drive your car back to the inn, either. Oh—and you'll have to act really hungover tomorrow, right?”

Celia started walking toward her grandmother's car, and Niall fell into step beside her. “You know, you're pretty good at this.”

Niall opened the driver's-side door for her, and her stomach flipped a little at the courteous gesture as she ducked inside. When he'd rounded the car and swung into the passenger seat, folding his long legs under the dash, she asked, “How did you end up in the middle of a packed house at Beers? On a Sunday night? With Audra?”

“Well!” he huffed jokingly. “You know Audra!”

“I do. Very well. I'm surprised you still have your pants on the right way around.”

He laughed heartily. “Not for her lack of trying. Poor Toby.”

“He knew what he was getting into. I think he enjoys the challenge. Or maybe it's the drama. So answer the question.”

“What—how I got there? I ran into Audra and Robin—literally— and they promised to tell me all about you if I bought them a few drinks.”

“Oh really. And what did you find out?”

“That they can
really
put those cherry bombs away.”

“True.”

“And that they don't know as many secrets about you as I do by now. Of course,” he went on, eyeing her, and she felt her cheeks heat up, “you never told me about Lester.”

“Lester Biggs?” she exclaimed as she put the car in gear and pulled out onto an empty Main Street.

“He said you two were as good as engaged at one point.”

Now it was Celia's turn to laugh. “One night, a couple of years ago, he invited me to his dairy farm to—how did he put it?—introduce me to ‘his girls.' All three hundred of them.”

“The hooved variety?”

“The same. I declined. Or, rather, I was speechless, and George declined for me, bless her.”

“He remembers it differently.”

“I'm surprised he remembers it at all. Actually, I'm surprised he remembers his own name half the time. Beers is his home away from home—probably when he has a little tiff with his three hundred girls.” She turned a corner and started heading away from town, up the hillside toward Bowen Farms. “And your little heart-to-heart with Audra and Robin turned into a party how?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted. “One minute I'm handing over the cherry bombs—then wrangling pitchers when they switched to beer—and the next thing I know, the place is packed.”

“Audra probably texted all her friends, and it snowballed. You should be flattered. It's not every Sunday Charlie Junior is run off his feet serving half the town. You probably earned a friend for life.”

“Have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

Celia nearly drove off the road at this sudden change of subject. “What?”

“Have breakfast with me tomorrow.”

“Wh–why?”

Niall was silent a moment. Then, “I just want to see you.”

“Niall . . .”

“I know, I know. But like I said back in New York—no funny business. Just friends. Out in public. Both hands where we can see 'em. One foot on the floor at all times.” She hesitated, and he added, “Please.”

Ignoring the melting that was going on inside her, she asked, “Shouldn't you be looking up Ray about this job you say you have?”

“Funny you should mention Ray . . .”

N
iall wanted to hang his head out the window of the pickup truck like a dog, to get some fresh air. He had told Celia the truth last night—that he hadn't had much to drink at all—yet this morning he felt as though he'd wrecked himself. Maybe it was because he still couldn't sleep, what with all the silence except for the symphony of crickets, not to mention all those nonstop thoughts of Celia running through his head. Or maybe spending a third day without his usual creature comforts was getting to him. He was in the same clothes, except he was going commando, having worn his emergency backup boxers the day before (take
that,
Ms. What-Type-Of-Person-Carries-Around-An-Extra-Pair-Of-Underwear Marshall). He'd tried washing them in the bathroom sink but found the waistband still uncomfortably damp this morning, so he'd left them behind. And he was in a T-shirt borrowed from Casey.

The T-shirt lender in question was in the driver's seat, giving him a lift into town so he could meet Ray and Celia for breakfast, and he was grateful for that, as well as for the shirt—and the reassurance that FedEx usually rolled up to the farm around ten o'clock. Niall was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept of once-a-day deliveries, but the promise of his own clothes and toiletries did help lighten his mood.

The problem was it was being squashed by a whole lot of tension in the truck cab. He got the feeling Casey didn't like him much. Was it because he was accommodating an inn guest before he was ready? Was it because Niall was a celebrity? (He was ready to assure Casey that he put his underwear on one leg at a time, just like anybody else—when he had underwear, of course—but Casey wasn't really putting out a “willing to chat” vibe.) The last option, and the most likely one, was maybe Casey was frosty because of Celia. And he wasn't sure how to deal with that.

Around the halfway point between the farm and town, Niall opened his mouth to speak—to say anything, just to put this other guy at ease—when Casey suddenly came out with, “So! New York, huh?”

“Yeah!” Niall responded, too quickly and too loudly.
Sheesh.

“I thought you'd live in California.”

“So did I.”

Casey glanced over. “What?”

“I mean, yeah, sure, LA, Hollywood, right? And I did that for a while, but I like New York a whole lot better.”

The other man gave half a shrug. “Sure. I can see that. So you're not from California originally?”

“Nah. Florida.”

“You'd think California'd be more your speed, then—the heat and all.”

“This humidity's reminding me of home just fine.”

“Yeah, our summers can be pretty sticky. Sorry about that.”

It occurred to Niall they were talking about the
weather
. What the . . . “You've, uh, got a really nice setup—the farm and the inn and all. Really nice.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.”

Crap.

After another moment's silence, Casey said, “So . . . you and Celia . . . ?”

“Ah . . .” He fidgeted uncomfortably. Much as he loved letting people assume he and Celia were together, he knew he shouldn't perpetuate the fantasy.

“Look . . .” Casey tried again, still sounding uncomfortable. “About that . . .”

“I know, man.”

“I don't think you do. I've known Celia more than half my life. She's one of the sweetest, kindest—”

“I realize that.”

“She's special.”

“I know that too.” God, did he know. He was realizing it more and more every day.

“I mean
really
special. Plus she's gone through a lot in the past few years.”

“I've heard.”

That was the one piece of important Celia intel all those cherry bombs had bought him last night: Audra and Robin had been quick to inform him that Celia had been married to a guy named Matt for around five years, and it had ended in an unpleasant divorce when he left her for some barely legal piece of ass. Celia had taken it really hard, pretty much shutting down for a while, according to Audra, while her ex shacked up with “the ho” (who apparently was going to be referred to only by that moniker, not her real name, for the rest of her life, if Audra and Robin had anything to say about it). And now said ho was pregnant and there were rumors she and Matt were planning a wedding, the news of which, the women worried, would get Celia upset all over again.

He saw their point—as slurred as it may have been in the delivery—and he didn't disagree, although he thought Celia might prove them all wrong and be strong enough to rise above it. He wasn't shocked that Celia had been married and divorced, but he was sort of hurt that she hadn't told him. Just a reminder, he figured, that she was right, as usual: They really hadn't spent enough time together to know each other well.

But he wanted to. He was certain. Despite the fact that he'd only known Celia for a matter of days, he already knew that when he wasn't with her, he wanted to be, and when he was, he treasured every fleeting second. He'd lain awake night after night ever since he'd met her, going over every interaction they'd shared, and then when he'd kissed her . . . good God, that made everything so much worse, because his fantasies took over, and . . .

Now Niall did stick his head out the open window, hoping the rushing air would clear out the fog between his ears.

Casey glanced over. “You all right, dude?”

“Fine.”

“Even after your, uh,
party
at Beers last night?”

“It amazes me how fast word travels in this town.”

“Better get used to it.”

“So I've been told.”

Casey pulled his pickup into an open spot on Main Street and turned off the ignition. “Nora's diner is just up the block. The green striped awning.”

“I see it. Thanks.”

“You need anything else?”

“No, I'm good. Thanks for the ride. Think my car is still parked near Beers?”

“Yeah.” Casey smiled faintly. “Wouldn't be the first time somebody left their vehicle behind after a few too many.”

“Great.” Niall unlatched his seat belt and pushed open the door, but Casey stopped him.

“One last thing, man.”

“Yeah?”

“Celia. Don't hurt her.”

The mere thought of it sent a shot of pain straight to Niall's heart. “I would
never
—”

“Just don't. If you do, I'll kill you.”

The ten-year-old lurking deep—okay, not so deep—inside Niall wanted to ask,
You and what army?
But he could pretty much figure out who Casey's backup would be: the entire town. It was evident from last night's impromptu party that Celia was truly Marsden's daughter; everyone wanted to bend his ear about her, and every comment was glowing with admiration. Not one person offered up even a hint of unpleasant gossip about her—it was truly amazing. Niall wondered what it was like to be so loved—by real people, people who truly knew you and you knew in return, instead of this two-way mirror of fame, where total strangers thought they were your closest friends.

To keep the torches-and-pitchfork brigade at bay, he looked Casey straight in the eye, ignored the disturbing realization that it was kind of intimidating that Celia had dated such a good-looking, upstanding guy—yeah, he could freely admit it—and said levelly, “I swear, I would never do anything to hurt Celia.”

 

“We don't have kale smoothies, so don't even ask.”

Now
that
was a voice that could only come from a diner waitress. Hard edged. Clipped words. Niall knew what sort of a woman he'd be looking at even before he put down the tall laminated menu—lean and mean, one hip jutted out, possibly chomping gum. No nonsense. Probably would rip the menu right out of his hands as soon as he was done ordering, slosh some coffee into his cup—and into the saucer, and onto the table—then carelessly swipe a soggy rag over the drops on the laminate. God, he hoped she was wearing one of those mint-green polyester uniforms with an apron and white nurse's shoes.

He looked up. There was the lean and mean—no doubt about that—a lined, hard face, frizzy hair, tired eyes, but the waitress was wearing black pants, sneakers, and a burgundy blouse. No gum chewing. Niall had a flash of insight.

“You're Nora, aren't you?”

“So?”

Ah, now the hip was jutted out at the proper angle.

He stuck out his hand. “Niall Crenshaw.”

“I know.” She said this belligerently, no trace of the breathy giggle he usually got from fans. This woman was most definitely
not
a fan. She ignored his hand. “So?” she demanded again.

Niall fidgeted. Over the years he'd cultivated the ability to tune out stares and whispers—and the surreptitious snapping of cell phone cameras—when he was out in public, but his skills failed him this time. Everyone in the diner was watching him but pretending not to, and he could feel the curious looks from the other patrons like fingers on his skin.

“I've heard a lot about you, is all—it's exciting to meet the one and only Nora in the flesh,” he lied.

“Stow it,” she growled, although Niall would swear he saw her pale cheeks, etched with fine wrinkles that started under her eyes and traveled down her face to curve around the flat corners of her mouth, color just a little bit. “I've got customers, movie star. So gimme your order. No kale smoothies, no freakin' tofu stir-fries, and my cook doesn't take kindly to requests for egg-white omelets.”

“No problem,” he squeaked, glancing at the menu again, burying his desire for his usual, which was indeed an egg-white omelet. Nope, when in Rome . . . “How about the pancakes?”

“Carbs. Bold choice,” she muttered, yanking away the menu like he knew she would. “Coffee? Don't say decaf.”

“Leaded all the way. Thank you!” he called after her belatedly, as she went off to fetch the coffeepot. Niall found himself letting out a relieved breath just as Celia slipped into the booth.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said. Then, after studying him a moment, “What's wrong with you?”

“Uh . . . nothing,” he answered, but flinched when Nora returned, flipped over his cup, and, as predicted, sloshed coffee into it with abandon.

“Hi, honey.” Suddenly Ms. Hyde was gone when she spoke to Celia. “Coffee? How's the family?”

“Morning, Nora. Everyone's fine, thanks. Coffee and an English muffin, please.”

“With peanut butter,” Nora added, obviously from memory, as she filled Celia's cup.

“Yep, the usual.”

“Be right back.”

Niall watched the diner owner go with a mixture of fear and bemusement. “She doesn't like me,” he stage-whispered hoarsely.

“She's nice,” Celia whispered back, eyes alight, a big grin on her face.

“In what parallel universe?”

“You just have to get to know her.”

“Be happy to. Just as soon as I put on my Kevlar.” Then he pushed aside his fear of Nora to enjoy the sight of Celia's dancing brown eyes. Her delicate scent wafted toward him as she leaned in, upper arms pushed against the edge of the table, hands underneath, probably clasped together near her knees. “How are you this morning?” he asked warmly, a bit sorry that he didn't have the luxury of being with her all the time so he'd actually know how she was first thing in the morning.

“Good.”

“And your grandmother?”

“Also good.”

“Are you seeing any signs of . . .”

“Confusion? You know, I haven't. It's the weirdest thing.” Celia paused to take a sip of coffee. “She's acting perfectly normally. Well,” she amended quickly, with a wry grin, “
her
version of normal, anyway.” Niall raised an eyebrow, so she explained. “She can be a bit . . . eccentric at times. Most of the time. But in a good way. Until it's bad.”

“You're making less and less sense as you go along.”

“Sorry. It's the best I can do. She's hard to describe.”

“Have you talked to her about moving into the senior home?”

“Not yet. I had planned on getting up early today, making her a nice breakfast we could sit and talk over, but even though I woke up really early, she was already up and said she'd eaten. Took her pills, grabbed her things, and headed to the outlet mall with her girlfriends. Her girlfriends, I should clarify, are in their eighties and nineties. My grandmother is eighty-five.”

“She sounds . . . spry.”

“That's putting it mildly.”

“I like her already.”

“How's the ‘hangover'?”

“Under control.” He smirked.

Her attention was drawn to something, or someone, behind him, and she muttered, “Good thing. Incoming.”

“Already?”

And then a ridiculously cheerful voice boomed, “Niall Crenshaw! There you are! Glad to have you here. Glad to have you. Ray Dubois.” Niall looked up to find a fairly short, solid man, golf-course tanned, brown hair shot with gray, in a peach polo shirt and tan shorts. Niall shook the broad hand with the stubby fingers that was suddenly pushed toward him. “And Celia, you beautiful thing—such an honor to have a special summer visit from you.”

“Hi, Ray. How are you?”

“Just fabulous, now that you've brought our celebrity into the fold. Now, we've got to get to business, young man,” Ray said as he nudged his way into the booth on Celia's side. “Time's a-wasting.”

“Is it?” he asked politely.

“Wasting for what?” Celia asked. “What's this big plan?”

Ray leaned in, beckoning to Celia and Niall to do the same. They exchanged puzzled but amused glances and gamely hunched closer to the table. Just as Ray opened his mouth to speak, as though ready to impart the wisdom of the ages, a shadow fell over the table. Nora set down Celia's food gently, then plunked down Niall's plate so hard it rattled on the Formica.