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“C
elia. Time to get up.”

“Mm. No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Bed. Soft.”

“We've got someplace to be.” Niall kissed her gently. And again. “Don't you remember? I told you last night—”

“You told me a lot of things last night.”

“And I meant every one.” He kissed her bare shoulder. “But remember I said we have to go—”

His words ended in a mangled growl as her hand trailed down his bare chest, over his stomach, and lower still.

“What were you saying?” she prompted lazily, her voice liquid.

“Can't . . . remember.”

“We have to go somewhere?”

“It can wait.”

 

“Should we be driving this fast?”

“Well, now we have to make up for lost time, trollop.”

“Me?” Celia was incredulous. “Hey, that last time was all your idea.”

“I believe you were a willing participant.”

She squirmed and readjusted the ill-fitting sundress she'd borrowed from George, blushing at the price she'd had to pay to get it—a knowing grin from her friend, a silent promise that George would tease her about it relentlessly at the first opportunity. “Just drive, horndog. Where are we going, again?”

“I have a ribbon-cutting ceremony at noon—what time is it?”

“About ten o'clock.”

“We'll make it.” And Niall eased up on the accelerator.

“A ribbon-cutting for what?”

“You'll see. It's something that's very important to me.”

“Tell me, then.”

“When we get there.”

 

Celia stood on the front walk of the sprawling house and read the sign over the double doors. Aaron Crenshaw Recovery Center. She looked over at Niall, her emotions a jumble. Now she knew why he'd grown more serious the closer they'd gotten to their destination—and quieter—startlingly quiet, for him.

“This isn't just any ribbon-cutting,” she murmured.

“No. You know those fancy addiction treatment places only celebrities can afford? I wanted regular people to have a place to go, like those but for free. So they can have the best chance at starting their lives over too.”

“This is where you've been sneaking off to?”

“I wasn't lying when I said I had personal business in the area. When Trent told me about the Night of the Shooting Stars gig in Marsden, and I realized it was within a decent driving distance to Utica, I figured I could meet with the people here a few times, tie up all the loose ends before the opening. It worked out pretty well.”

“I think it's time you told me about your cousin.”

She led Niall over to the porch. The place was quiet, just a couple of workers moving around inside. The paparazzi who had camped out on Holly's street had preceded them—the task Niall had set for them the night before. Now they milled around on the sidewalk, far better behaved than they had been in Marsden. Sensing the seriousness of the occasion, they waited, talking quietly with one another until things got under way.

Celia and Niall sat down on a bench under the porch roof, and Niall took her hand. Looking down, he said, “This place . . . it's all I could think to do to honor Aaron's memory.”

“What happened to him?”

He swallowed, and she could see his Adam's apple working in his throat. Eventually he murmured, “Our grandmother . . . remember when I said she knew I was going to be famous before I did?” Celia nodded. “She practically shoved me out of the house, told me to get my ass to California or New York. I wanted to stick around. I figured I had plenty of time to try acting—what was the rush, you know? But she knew if I didn't go off and start auditioning as soon as possible, I might never go. So I went. I did a lot of stand-up and improv to fill my time, took acting classes, worked odd jobs—the usual. But I was lucky—I didn't have to wait very long before I started getting bit roles and commercials.”

“That's not luck—that's talent.”

Niall snorted.

“Star quality. Q score.”

“
Any
way”—he cut her off, but not angrily—“when I got my first big movie role, it kind of went to my head. My grandmother knew what I was up against, so she sent Aaron to California to help me out. You know, to look after me, be the one person I could trust.”

“Wise lady.”

“Yes, but . . . it didn't work out that way.”

“What happened? Aaron didn't like it there?”

“Oh, no, no. He liked it. Loved it, in fact. Loved it too much, in the end. I was a partier, but he was . . . out of control. I should have known—my cousin never did anything halfway. But I had no idea he would go off the rails that badly. He was falling apart right in front of me, but I had my head too far up my own ass to realize he needed serious help. I made all sorts of excuses instead—he wasn't as bad as I thought, it was just an occasional thing instead of an every-night thing, he'd pull himself out of it. And then one day it was too late.”

Celia was unable to speak around the lump in her throat, so she just squeezed his hand and waited for him to go on.

Eventually he said, “I didn't even know he was gone. We'd had a party in my new house in LA the night before—it was absolutely insane—and I just thought he was sleeping it off. I didn't find him for . . . hours. And he was in the room right down the hall from mine.” He drew a shaky breath. “It was my fault. He came to California to watch out for me, but I didn't watch out for him.”

Celia remembered something in the news about a relative of his dying . . . but there had been no details—not about a drug overdose, and certainly not about Aaron dying in Niall's house. He'd kept the incident as private as he could; it was impressive, considering what she knew about the entertainment press by now.

Niall hung his head, his hair concealing his face like a curtain. Heart breaking for him, Celia put her arm around his shoulders and said softly, “It was
not
your fault.”

“Yeah, that's what everyone said at the time. I didn't believe it then, and I can't believe it now,” he murmured, an ache in his voice.

“This was your year on antidepressants?”

“Good memory. It was. I almost quit acting for good after Aaron died. It just turned my stomach, the whole lifestyle. He . . . he bought into it, fell into it, and look what happened.”

“And that's why it's not your lifestyle anymore,” Celia guessed. “That's why you don't drink much? Don't party?”

“And why I don't have a ‘posse.' God, I hate that word. The last thing I want is a group of shallow ‘friends' egging each other on to do wilder and wilder things. Because look what happens.”

Celia and Niall shared silence together for a few minutes, then she said softly, “I'm so sorry about Aaron. I'm sorry you've been living with this guilt for so many years. Do you think . . . do you think by opening this recovery center, you can get some peace?”

“I don't know,” he said simply, honestly. “I just knew I had to try.”

“And this is where all your money is going.”

“This place exists thanks to McManus scotch. And every other soul-sucking endorsement and shitty movie I've ever done just for a fat paycheck.” He laughed hollowly. “It's weird—that part of my life is done now. This place is built, funding is set up for people who need it . . . I'm not sure what I'm going to do with my career now that I can pick and choose my projects based on quality instead of the size of the paycheck.”

“How about you take some time for yourself while you think about it?”

Niall squeezed her knee, his eyes looking deeply into hers, and she felt that familiar thrill in every pore. “No time. The one thing I've learned is that there's never enough time.”

“No, there's always time to breathe.”

“Did you ever notice when somebody says that word, ‘breathe,' you suddenly feel like you have to take a deep breath? It's like when somebody yawns and you have to yawn.”

She smiled gently at his attempt to lighten the mood. “Niall? Breathe.”

 

Celia was glad Niall was feeling better by the time the ribbon-cutting ceremony was done. He'd brightened up by degrees throughout the morning as he toured the facility, making small talk with the administrators and posing for pictures with anyone who asked. He made sure Celia was by his side the whole time, or at least never farther away than arm's length. She was honored he'd asked her to share this special moment with him—even more than if he'd asked her to accompany him to the Academy Awards. Because this was far more important to him.

They drove much more slowly back to Marsden. Now they had all the time in the world. Celia wondered what that meant. Would Niall want to go back to New York right away—today, even? Did he want her to go back with him? What would happen when they resumed their lives in the city? Judging by the fact that he kept her hand in his for the entire drive, when he wasn't stroking her cheek or playing with a stray lock of her hair, she dared to hope he had been sincere last night, when he'd told her he loved her and wanted them to be together in New York. She had certainly been telling the truth when she'd said she loved him as well.

It terrified her, but in a thrilling way. She was so charged with energy, she felt as though she'd float right out the open window if the seat belt weren't anchoring her. She couldn't keep her eyes off Niall, either—his handsome profile, his long, lean body that she'd finally come to know so intimately last night. She wanted another chance to explore him all over again—soon. The closer they got to Marsden, the more she practically squirmed in her seat.

As though he could read her mind, Niall glanced over at her with a smile, then his expression changed. “Uh . . .”

“What?”

“Celia, I think that's your grandmother's car.”

“Out here? Don't tell me she decided to go for a hike or some other nonsense.”

He pointed past her, to the side of the road, then let go of her hand to swing the car over onto the shoulder, throw the car into reverse, and back up several yards, kicking up dust and gravel. She was out of the car before he was, but not by much. Ignoring the still-settling dust, she peered in the driver's-side window.

“Gran?” She knocked on the glass.

Her grandmother glanced over, surprised, then lowered the window. “Hi, girlie. What brings you here?”

Just as Celia let out a relieved breath as she realized her grandmother wasn't ill or hurt, her stomach clenched. Something definitely wasn't right. “What are you doing?”

“Going to the grocery store. We need milk and bread.”

Celia glanced at Niall, who had come up next to her, a concerned frown on his face. She said carefully, “Gran . . . you're about half an hour outside of town.”

Holly didn't answer for a minute, just stared at the steering wheel. Then she nodded. “I couldn't find the store. I've been looking.”

“For how long?”

Another pause. “I'm not sure.”

Celia felt Niall's hand on her shoulder. When she looked at him through anguished, terrified tears, he said, “Hospital. Now.” His voice was soft, but brooked no argument. She nodded. There was no ignoring this anymore.

 

“I said I'm fine!”

Celia took a labored breath. She was exhausted and frustrated, and the return of Holly's usual bullheadedness wasn't helping. Her grandmother sat bolt upright on the end of the exam table in the emergency department cubicle, showing no trace of her previous confusion, with the exception of a bit of weariness around her eyes. They'd been in the hospital for hours, which was to be expected; Niall was still there as well, which was entirely
un
expected. And he refused to leave.

His voice wafted through the closed curtains surrounding the exam table. “Knock knock.”

“Come on in, movie star.” Holly gave him the once-over when he ducked through the curtains. “You gonna bust me out of here or what?”

“Not a chance, old woman,” he snapped, but in a warm tone. “You scared the daylights out of your granddaughter, and you're going to get some help right now. Here.” He held out a white waffle-weave blanket. “I figured you might be cold. I had to sign quite a few autographs and pose for plenty of pics to score this, so be grateful.”

“Pah,” Holly scoffed. “I don't need a blanket like some invalid. I need to get out of here. And I need a drink. You got any on you, movie star?”

“Sorry. That's going to have to wait.”

Despite her grandmother's protests, Celia arranged the blanket over the woman's legs. Holly immediately pulled it off. Celia put it back.

“Stop trying to make me an old lady.”

“You
are
an old lady. And there's something wrong with you. So we're going to find out what, and you're going to sit here until we do.”

Holly snorted and looked away, but didn't protest any longer. She'd told the doctor she had no memory of getting into her car and driving half an hour away from her home, or stopping, or how long she'd been sitting by the side of the road. He'd asked about her medical history, her other incidents of memory loss (which Celia had filled in for her, because Holly had denied any other lapses), her psychological history (which Celia could have gone on about, at length, but she'd held her tongue), her medications, her diet, her lifestyle. He'd ordered an MRI and other tests. Now they'd been left alone for quite a while, and Holly was bored and itching to get away. Celia toyed with the idea of requesting restraints, but she knew it was a long shot.

Holly stayed quiet, but not for long. “Are we done here?”

“No.” Celia sighed. “Do you want some food?”

“No, I don't want any damned food. I want to go home.”