Picture This (15 page)

S
omething uncoiled in Niall as he watched the fight go out of Celia. He was glad to see her shoulders drop a fraction. That was as close as she'd ever come to losing control and letting her emotions take over. Interesting that the woman had some inner fire, even if it was directed at him.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came by to see if you wanted to get something to eat. George and Casey keep talking about this place—nothing much to look at, but has great ice cream?”

“Lix,” she said immediately. “Just outside of town, by the softball fields.”

He was aware that he was still boxing her in among the rosebushes, but he wasn't inclined to let her out. He'd keep her this close all day—and all night—if only he could. The scent from the blossoms was making his head foggy. At least, he assumed it was the roses.

“That's the place,” he rasped, forcing himself not to run his fingertips over her bare arm or toy with the sweat-dampened tendrils of hair curling at the base of her neck, under her ponytail. “Interested?”

“Sure,” she said, and her voice sounded as shaky as his. “But you'll have to let me out of this corner.”

He blinked. “Right.” He took half a step back.

A small smile stole across her lips. “Um, a little more? Don't let me get too close. I'm all sweaty.” Celia seemed to know what he was thinking just as it crossed his mind—
And what's so bad about that?
—because she added quickly, “And smelly.”

Smelly?
he thought as he tripped backward into the grass.
Not a chance.
He caught a trace of Celia's scent as she slipped past him—sun-warmed skin and grass and musk and . . . dammit, she carried the scent of roses with her. His head was buzzing as he followed her across the lawn and in through the back door, keeping close so he could catch another hint of it.

“We could stay here,” she offered, looking around the kitchen. “Gran should be back soon.”

Staying in? The two of them alone. In an empty house. It was tempting. So very tempting. The memory of kissing Celia in the closet nearly overwhelmed him. He wanted more of that. Before he could stop it, his imagination kicked into overdrive. Up against the wall. On the kitchen table. In the hallway. On the sofa. On the stairs because he wouldn't be able to wait long enough to get her up one flight and into a proper bed.

Stop.

Besides, her grandmother was going to be home any minute. She'd just said as much.

He swallowed, with difficulty, and said, “Sure. I'd like to meet your grandmother.”

“It wouldn't be anything fancy. Gran hardly ever sets foot in the kitchen. I don't know what's in her freezer besides ice for her drinks.”

“I thought you baked cookies together.”

“Well, yeah—the dough in the tube. Half of it never made it into the oven.”

“Your
grandmother
let you eat
raw cookie dough
?”

“While teaching me how to play Texas hold 'em. She's . . . not your typical grandmother.”

“You don't say.”

“I should get cleaned up.” Celia made for the stairs. “I'll just be a few minutes. Make yourself at home.”

“I, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “I've got to check in with my assistant. Take your time.”

Trying valiantly not to think of Celia shedding her clothes on the second floor—which only made him think of Celia shedding her clothes on the second floor—Niall paced in the small living room as he texted Trent.

Well?

After a moment his assistant texted back. Leave me alone. It's dinnertime
.

You're fired.

Ha ha. Ask me how my day went.

Don't care. Hear anything back from the lawyers?

You're a lousy lord and master. You need to take more interest in your minion.

I am interested. Lawyers—>Tiffany—>my freedom—>my happiness—>your happiness. Trickle down.

Okay, okay. No need for loophole in contract. Word is Tiffany wants out too.

Niall's heart leapt. Excellent.

Still waiting to confirm, but her agent says she might sign off on this if you do.

Oh, I do. I will. Whatever. What's next?

Will let you know. Making progress w/ Ms. Hottie Not-A-Model?

I would, if you'd freaking get me out of the thing with Tiffany.

Always back to me, isn't it?

You noticed that too? No pressure, now. Just hurry up.

Heard that song before. All right. Will contact you w/ next steps.

Better be soon. Can't hold out much longer.

*Rowr.*

Gotta go, smart-ass.

To do what exactly?

Having dinner with her grandmother.

Nothing from Trent for a few moments. Then, Ho. Ly. Shit. Schmoozing the grandma? Is it LOVE?

1) Shut up. 2) Lawyers. 3) Shut up. Checking back later. Have answers.

Then Niall was left alone with his thoughts, which immediately reverted to Celia, and what, exactly, she was doing on the second floor. Luckily his imagination wasn't allowed to get too far along; there were thumps and bumps, and then she came down the stairs again in a fresh pair of shorts and a loose-fitting T-shirt with a distressingly low scoop neck. Or maybe anything short of a shapeless sack that tied under her chin would have been distressing to him. Her long hair was still damp from her shower, a few strands at her temples twisted neatly and secured at the back with a clip.

And it happened again. Niall forgot how to breathe. He realized, dimly, that he was probably staring at her like a halfwit, because she avoided looking into his eyes again.

Nervously toying with her hair as she glanced around the room, she said, “Look . . . I'm sorry about . . . earlier.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“No, I want to apologize. I can be really protective of my friends, and sometimes it makes me quick to take offense.”

“So you're loyal. That's nothing to be ashamed of. Plus you're under a lot of stress right now, so . . .”

“Stop making excuses for me!” she insisted testily, but a shy smile escaped her. “I don't deserve it.”

“I disagree,” he murmured. She didn't answer, so he went on. “Seriously. We're good. Okay?”

“Okay.” There was a moment's heavy silence, then she gestured awkwardly toward the kitchen. “I . . . should . . .” And she hurried in that direction. When she realized Niall was following her, she asked over her shoulder, “How are things back in New York?”

“Coming along.”

“Your next movie?”

Oh God, the next movie. Thank goodness the script was still being written—well, rewritten. Otherwise he'd never have had the time to do Night of Shooting the Stars. He stopped his thoughts. Night of the
Shooting Stars
. That was its real name, and he had to start using it. Celia had been right—making that type of joke, and laughing at Ray in the diner, was disrespectful. Ray, and all her other friends and neighbors, were real people, not the butt of his jokes.

“It's in preproduction,” he answered, leaning against the counter as she rooted around in the freezer.

“Was that what you were working on today?”

Niall hesitated. All he said was, “No.”

The word hung there between them. Celia obviously was expecting more of an answer, but he wasn't going to give her one. His business today was just that—his business. He wasn't even going to try to start explaining it to anyone, not even her. He'd kept it to himself for this long, and that's the way it was going to stay.

She shut the freezer door slowly. Now she was watching him, curiosity in her eyes . . . and a little bit of hurt, as well. “Okay. Um, not much in here, to tell you the truth.”

“Why do I get the feeling there's no Thai delivery in this town?”

Back on safer ground, the subject of Marsden, Celia's lighter mood returned. “I'll have you know we have three pizza places, one Thai place, and one Chinese. Of course, the Thai and the Chinese are the same restaurant as one of the pizza places—”

“Okay, you can stop right there.”

And then that silence again. Niall wasn't sure why tonight was suddenly different, awkward, between them. Maybe because they were alone for the first time since the closet of his loft—except for their drive, which was mostly supervised by the chaperone balloon and impeded by his need to operate a moving vehicle. Not that either thing had stopped his imagination from working overtime. And now, in the old, empty, oddly intimate house, his thoughts were all over the place . . . and singular at the same time: up against the wall, on the kitchen table, in the hallway, on the—

“Lix?” he said abruptly, and Celia answered, “Yeah,” almost before he finished getting the word out.

 

Twilight was deepening, turning the sky a mellow violet, the food stand with scattered picnic tables, as well as the batting cages, miniature golf, and softball fields lit up by floodlights. Downright mesmerized by the scene of small-town Americana before him, Niall wasn't sure if he felt enchanted or nauseated.

Celia paused before she got out of the car. “Are you all right over there?”

Yeah, he had been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive over. It had been a long day, and he was still sifting through his emotions. Adding Celia to the mix just stirred him back up again, and he wasn't sure where his head was. And that led to fear that his plan to get out of the contract with Tiffany might not work. Niall forced himself to focus on the present. “You bet. Why?”

“Oh, you just seem . . . different.”

“That extra foot sprout out of my back again?” he asked, stretching to try to see over his shoulder.

“You're acting . . . you know . . . sedate.”

“Well, we can't have that! I'll try to do better. Or worse. Whatever.” She was out of the car before he could open the door for her, so he just met her in front of the Corvette. “Now, what kind of ice cream is the specialty of the house?”

“You should probably have some real food first.”

“Yes, Mom. ‘Have real food first.' You're going to make a magnificent mother someday.”

“. . . Thank you?”

After a large family cleared away from the window, all attacking ice cream cones as big as their heads, Celia led him through the menu of grilled and deep-fried food, pointing out the most popular options.

“No salads, huh?”

“Does coleslaw count?”

“My trainer is going to kill me, but screw it. Nora's pancakes just opened the floodgates. Gimme fried, gimme grease, gimme carbs, gimme sodium. I'll worry about it later.”

 

“So,” she ventured, when they had settled at one of the picnic tables with their plastic trays. “What about Tiffany?”

Niall froze with a loaded cheeseburger halfway to his lips. “What
about
Tiffany?”

“Is she going to make a good mother?”

The mere thought of Tiffany being pregnant, let alone raising a small child who would drool all over her designer clothes, or chasing after a toddler in her four-inch heels, made Niall want to laugh hysterically. But he knew Celia wouldn't take kindly to his laughing at his alleged girlfriend. So instead he carefully set his food down, took a sip of his soda to buy some time, and said, finally, “I don't think that's in her grand plan.”

“You don't
know
?”

“Should I?”

“Couples usually talk about things like that.”

We're not a couple!
he wanted to shout. Instead, he said mildly, “I take it you didn't see Tiffany grace the screen in our last cinematic endeavor. If you had, you'd know that she's dedicated to her . . . art. For her, a personal life is a distant second.”

“Really.”

“You, er,
didn't
see
Party Clown
, did you?” God, he hoped she hadn't.

Celia pretended to think while she daintily dabbed at her mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. “Mm, I don't quite recall. In all honesty, I can't say that I've gone out of my way to see many of your films.”

Smart woman, he thought. After the first few good ones, he hadn't gone out of his way to see them either. “But when I first met you, you admitted to having heard all sorts of salacious gossip about me.”

“Oh, well,” she answered, eyes dancing, “you don't have to follow a celebrity's career to get a face full of entertainment gossip every time you turn on the TV or go online.”

“You have a point.” He paused. “And do
you
?”

“And do I what?”

“Want kids.”

She looked at him evenly and replied with a simple, “Yes.”

It felt like a dare. Like she was giving him a nonnegotiable response just to gauge his reaction, see if the declaration threw him. It didn't.

“Me too.”

“You?”

“What, you think I don't like kids? I love kids. I get along great with them.”

“You do?”

“It's not that difficult when you're mentally about nine,” he said, tapping his temple and grinning at her.

Despite the heavy food sliding down his gullet, he felt a lot lighter than he had in a long time. He looked around and decided: He was enchanted. Definitely. As long as he was with Celia, he loved everything in sight, no matter how cheesy—the kids, the ice cream, the miniature golf, the softball game, the velvety warm night. She was enchanting, and therefore everything around her was cast in the same light. She had that power.

“You know what?” he said, twirling an onion ring on his index finger. “This place is so great, I'm going to do a movie that needs location shoots in a small town, and I'll make sure it's filmed right here.”

Celia flushed slightly and studied her food. “You don't have to keep saying things like that.”