Picture This (4 page)

“Shit.” Niall lurched across the room, grasping people by the shoulders and moving them to one side, watching the flying Sharpie the whole time. One last leap and he had the Haring off the wall and tucked under his arm. Then he reached out and plucked the marker from the artist's fingers. “Beat it,” he snapped.

“Hey, you should let me finish—someday my art's gonna be worth ten times that stick figure picture.”

“Due to your untimely death, you mean?” he growled, and the guy moved off, into the crowd, with a wary look back at his wild-eyed host.

Hoping the incident wouldn't make it onto a celebrity gossip site within the next five minutes, Niall squired the painting to a safe place—the back of the coat closet in the entryway, by the front door. When he emerged, he turned to Trent, who was still behind him, as always. “You were saying?”

“Business. Money. Guest appearances.”

“Hey, an invitation to a supermarket ribbon-cutting isn't in that stack of papers you're waving around, is it?”

“Let's find out.” Trent shuffled through them. “Ah, here we go. Supermarket—”

“No.”

“Didn't think so.” He put a slash through that one, then relegated it to the bottom of the pile. “Fundraiser, animal shelter, Brooklyn.”

“Maybe. Probably. Sure.”

His assistant scribbled a note on the corner of the paper. “I'll tell them to make sure whatever animal they hand you for the photo op won't pee on you. Next . . . skin care boutique opening, Rodeo Drive, next week.”

Niall made a face. “What the—? Doubtful.”

“Okay. Um . . . not that one . . . not that one,” Trent muttered, and Niall appreciated the fact that Trent was filtering out the noise and only giving him the highlights. “Oh God.” He laughed. “Emcee for an
American Idol
type thing.”

Niall nearly tripped over a group of partiers sitting in a circle on the floor, prepping for God knew what—drum circle, bong circle, naked yoga-in. Whatever it was, they sure had made themselves comfortable. The thought of doing a reality show made his stomach churn. He knew it might come to this eventually; he was just surprised it had come so soon. Then again, the entertainment industry was pretty unforgiving, and he'd tested its patience lately. What was it now, three movies in a row that had bombed? His luck had to run out sometime.

“Network or basic cable?”

“Pfft. You kidding? I think it's a small-town . . . Christ . . . pig-calling contest or something. Marsden Arts Center.”

Niall didn't laugh along with Trent. Instead, he fixed him with a sharp look. “Did you say Marsden?”

“Yeah.”

“Marsden, New York?”

“Yeah. Why? You know it?”

He yanked the paper out of Trent's fingers. “No, but I know somebody who does.”

T
he assault on Celia's senses as she approached the open door of Niall's loft nearly made her jump straight back into the elevator. The thudding music, the cacophony of voices, the swarms of people . . . she knew about this side of night life in New York City, but only by hearsay. This was not her thing. She didn't get invited to these types of parties. Her nights were spent scarfing cheap dim sum in Chinatown with her roommates and frequenting dive bars when there was a two-for-one well-drinks special. This was a whole nother level of partying.

For the hundredth time since she'd forced her feet onto the M train in Brooklyn and let it carry her toward the SoHo address Niall had texted her (along with a rather demanding note for his boxers and a—she had to admit it—really hot photo of the two of them from Vic's shoot), she wondered what the hell she was doing. The celebrity summons her, and she goes? Insanity.

But she couldn't deny that she wanted to see him again. Well, sort of. Sometimes. First she'd decided to follow the trail of breadcrumbs to his lair—er, his apartment—and let the chips fall where they may, consequences be damned. Then she'd changed her mind as she'd realized going to a near-stranger's place alone was a stupid thing to do. But then the more reckless part of her—the part she'd promised she'd indulge, and even nurture, after spending too much of her too-safe life in her tiny rural hometown—gave her grief.
Drop the boxers in the mail? Seriously?
it sneered at her.
Throw them away and pretend you never met the guy? Worse!

She hated to admit it, but the reckless part of her had a point. If she didn't take this opportunity—for what, she had no idea, but something other than doing
nothing
—she'd end up doing something stupidly tame, like folding up those boxers into a tiny square, stuffing them into the bottom of her keepsake box, then discovering them decades later after a life left unlived, wondering what could have been.

How overly dramatic. Maybe Niall Crenshaw had rubbed off on her already. All she knew was, after a bit of Danny's prodding (okay, more than a bit), she'd finally made the trip, and now here she was, outside Niall's apartment.

Well, she thought, on the upside, she didn't need to worry about being alone with him. The possibility had consumed her ever since she'd received his text, but she'd never considered the opposite—that she'd be unable to find him in a crowd in his own apartment.

Celia stood frozen in the hallway, wide-eyed, watching the ever-changing scene framed in the doorway: what seemed like hundreds of bodies, each one more beautiful than the last, writhing, talking/shouting over the music, hugging, drinking, smoking, eating, moving on again.

“Hey, Niall! Did you order a stalker?”

Celia stifled a gasp and her heart rate picked up. Stalker? Somebody thought she was a stalker? Okay, this whole thing had been a mistake. She should have lied to Danny. She should have walked out of her apartment, shoved those boxers into the nearest garbage can, gone to a movie to hide out for an appropriate amount of time, then reported back that there was nothing to report: that she'd just handed them over and left. Better yet, that Niall wasn't even at home when she returned them.

That would have been the smart thing to do. Then Danny would have left her alone. Then she wouldn't have been standing there in the hall that smelled like pot smoke and industrial sheet metal, wondering why a total stranger thought she was stalking Niall—okay, she'd been standing there a little too long, probably with a deer-in-the-headlights look, but still.

She was unsure whether to stand her ground or run when someone pushed past the sarcastic dude. Niall. Filling the doorway, the biggest grin lighting up his face. All thoughts of running left her head immediately when she realized he'd brightened up just because she was standing there.

Celia struggled to find something to say. She had come up with several pretty good opening lines during her subway ride, but the fickle stinkers had deserted her just when she needed them.

Niall filled the gap. “Miss Celia,” he said loudly, over the music. “It's good to see you again.”

“I guess that proves threats work,” she shouted back.

He frowned, concerned. “You're here under duress?”

Yeah, what she'd meant to be quippy just sounded harsh. She scrambled to make amends. “No, no!” She ignored the memory of Danny shoving her out of their apartment. “I was, you know, in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd . . . um . . . is this a bad time?”

He put on a blank look. “What do you mean?”

“Your party.”

“Party?” Celia gestured behind him. He looked over his shoulder and jumped. “My
God
! Where did they come from? All of you—get out!”

As he flapped his arms wildly at the guests, who collectively ignored him, Celia smiled and moved closer. It was probably an honor that he expected her to play the straight man to his shtick; the least she could do was step up. She pulled a tiny shopping bag out of her huge quilted purse and handed it to him. “Boxers returned. Don't worry, I washed them.”

Niall held her gaze as he accepted the bag. “Pity.”

“Ew.”

“You're entitled to your opinion, but mine is the correct one. Come on in.”

“Oh . . . uh . . . I—I shouldn't—”

“Don't tell me. You have a wilder party to go to.”

“I don't think that's even possible.”

“So come on in, have a drink.”

He took her by the elbow and led her inside, helping her navigate around the knots of people. She looked for an open space, but there simply wasn't one. She stuck close to Niall as he parted the crowds; out of the corner of her eye she caught people staring at her. She realized she didn't quite fit in here, but some looks—from the women—were downright hostile.

“Was it okay to come over?” she shouted in the general vicinity of Niall's shoulder. “I mean, the guy downstairs said it was okay to come up, but—”

He turned to face her, ducking his head close. For a split second Celia had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. And she realized she didn't pull back, but rose up on her toes instead, heart thudding. Before she could deal with her own body's betrayal, Niall spoke, his lips nearly touching her ear, his breath warm on her skin. He just wanted to make sure she heard him over the music. Oh.

In a serious, even tone, he said, “I'm so glad you're here.” And her heart started jackhammering all over again.

He drew back only far enough to look into her eyes. She needed to respond, say something meaningful, something . . . cripes, anything. What came out was, “I was wondering if I should have called first.”

Smooth.
What was she going to do next, start yammering about what route she'd taken to get here, subway or bus? Celia tried not to let the full-body flinch going on inside her show on her face. She wasn't usually this inept when it came to speaking to men.

Or maybe it was just this man in particular who threw her off her game.

Fortunately, Niall was smiling at her. Warmly. Openly. Maybe she hadn't just sounded like an idiot. She smiled back. And then she was nearly knocked over by someone violently jostling her shoulder.

“Niall! Where have you been?”

Celia turned to face the person at the same time Niall did, and she jumped a little. She
really
had to learn how to take running into celebrities—or celebrities running into her, in this case—as a matter of course. She did her best to close down her expression as Niall reached out and plucked a glass of champagne from the girl's hand. Celia knew why. This girl really was a
girl
: seventeen-year-old Naomi Burdick, who'd played Niall's little sister in a movie from a couple of years before,
Wotta Nut.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, reaching for the glass.

Niall held it high out of the petite girl's reach. “Nuh-uh. Not on my watch.”

“Niall! Come on! Nobody cares—”

“
I
care. You're
not
drinking if I have anything to say about it, you hear me?”

Suddenly the expression in the girl's enormous blue eyes switched from fury to devotion, and her entire body softened. She stopped grabbing for the glass, and her shoulders slouched under her tiny gold halter top. “Aww,” she cooed. “You care about me.”

“Of course I care about you, Neener. You're like a real little sister to me, you know that.”

The dark clouds reconverged on the girl's pretty features. “That's
not
what I meant.”

“But that's what
I
meant. Now, can I get you some soda?”

Naomi sighed. “Fine.”

Niall nodded and said to Celia, “I'll be right back.”

He threaded his way through the crowd, and Celia watched him go with the terrifying realization that she'd just been left with Naomi. She turned back, and sure enough, Naomi was still there. Studying her. With a displeased duck face that would put McKayla Maroney's original to shame.

Celia hoped flattery might clear the girl's expression. “I like your movies.”

“Hmph.”

Maybe not.

“Who are you, anyway?” Naomi demanded, the emphasis she put on the word “you” implying she was . . .

“N-nobody,” Celia stammered. “I just—”

Then the young girl cut to the chase. “Don't think you're going to get a piece of Niall, okay? Just forget it.”

“What?”

“People like
you
don't get a shot at somebody like
Niall
. You got that?”

“You're making a mistake,” Celia insisted. “Besides . . . you know . . . Tiffany, right?”

“Tiffany?” Naomi's lip-twist got so severe the lower half of her face looked like it was being reflected in a fun-house mirror. She let out an indelicate snort. “Please.”

“But they're—”

“Just mind your own business.” With one last dismissive look up and down Celia—which effectively communicated her severe disapproval of everything from her scuffed shoes to her inexpensive jeans to her hairstyle—Naomi spun around, her long, honey-streaked hair lashing at everyone around her like a cat-o'-nine-tails as she pushed her way through the crowd, heading in the same direction Niall had gone.

Celia let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Yikes. She'd just been shut down and reduced to the nothing she'd described herself as, by a girl less than half her age.

Fun night.

Celia waited a while longer in the same spot, but Niall didn't return. She wondered if Naomi had intercepted him. Even though the young girl was making no secret of her interest in him, it was obvious he didn't return the sentiment, which was a relief. Celia realized she was still expecting the worst of him because there had been no proof to the contrary. Now she clung to this little bit of evidence that maybe he was a decent guy. But for all she knew, maybe he really did lead the wildly decadent, debauched life that was hinted at in all the articles about him, which might very well include sleeping with teenage costars. Everything in her immediate vicinity implied he most certainly was as wild as the press regularly reported.

She was no prude, but the action all around her was a bit startling. Body shots on the dining room table? Check. Some girl-on-girl action from a couple of gorgeous model types standing over the body-shot woman, on the same table? Check. Someone with a monkey on his shoulder, and the monkey was drinking more than his owner? Sure thing. Quite a bit of bending-and-snorting off the coffee table in the sitting area? Major check.

Oh, she absolutely did not belong here.

This was just plain-old too much for her. Never mind the promises she'd made to herself to take more chances, live a wilder life, outside of Marsden. She wasn't cut out for this. Maybe she was too old for it already—not just this taste of the celebrity lifestyle, but her choice to make a go of it outside her hometown. Was the far side of thirty-five too old for all this? She suspected it was.

And what about Niall? Where'd he gone? For all she knew, she'd be standing there, watching all the licentious activity swirling around her, until she dropped over, senses overloaded, before he found his way back to her. She should just leave, instead of waiting around like a dope for him to come back.

Easier said than done, however. She had no idea which direction was the way out. She turned around on the spot, craning her neck, trying to see over the crowd. Which way should she go? Away from the windows. That was the ticket. Unless this loft was at a corner of the building and had two walls of windows. She picked a direction and started pushing. Now she knew what a salmon swimming upstream felt like . . . if every point in the journey was the spot where four streams, from all four directions, converged. And if the poor fish had lost a couple of navigational fins somewhere along the way.

Pushing through the crowd a little more, overheated from the exertion, she reached a rare pocket of empty space and spied the door. Freedom! She took a breath and dived back into the crowd, energy renewed.

“Hey!”

Niall's voice cut through the loud music and the chattering crowd. She paused, but only for a moment. She would
not
look around to find out where his voice was coming from. But he was hard to miss—within seconds he came into view, carried high overhead, passed along from guest to guest. Crowd surfing. Of course he was.

Celia shook her head. He hadn't been calling out to her—he'd just been startled when his friends grabbed him. She watched him float on his back over the crowd, everyone clutching at him, eager to place a hand on him. He may have been disconcerted, but he wasn't upset. He was even laughing.

Celia felt a warmth spread in her chest at the sight of his grin. He really was too charming and attractive for his own good. Too charming and attractive for
her.
Naomi had been right. He wasn't for the likes of her—not by a long shot.