Picture This (5 page)

She decided she'd just remember what he looked like right then, giddy and joyous and above her, and go back to her own world. Secure in the knowledge that he couldn't see her, she blew a kiss his way, then refocused on her immediate journey, to get the hell out of this loft. She was nearly at the door. If she could just take a few more steps . . .

Suddenly an arm was around her waist, pulling her close from behind. Her insides flip-flopped. How did Niall get down to the floor and over to her so quickly?

“Wanna dance?”

She turned. It was the joker who'd called her a stalker. Crap. She pried herself out of the man's grip, ignoring the disappointment that it was someone other than Niall. What had she just told herself about forgetting him, dammit? “No, thanks.”

“Drink?”

“Nope. I was just leaving.”

“Aw, you should stay.”

“Gotta go. Thanks anyway.”

The man made one last grab for her, but she pirouetted out of his grip, grasped the handle, pulled the door open, and spun one more time . . . into total darkness.

“Shit,” Celia hissed.

This was most definitely
not
the way out of the loft.

She passed her hand over the wall, trying to find a light switch, desperately hoping she was in a room and not a closet. But from the depth of the blackness and the proximity of the walls, or maybe objects, or both, she had the very bad—and embarrassing—feeling she wasn't going to be so lucky as to find out it was a bedroom or study, or even a bathroom. Uproarious laughter from just outside the door, likely from the sarcastic guy and his friends, confirmed it. A closet.

Sighing, Celia leaned against the door, listening to the muffled chaos on the other side, including a shout of “Hey, girl! Come on out!” Not a chance. She was kind of enjoying the peace and quiet in here, even if she didn't know how she was going to exit with her dignity intact. She figured that, based on the ebb and flow of the roiling crowd, it would take a while for the guy who grabbed her to drift off to another part of the loft, but once he was gone, she'd probably be able to sneak out unnoticed. Or at least un-laughed-at.

She waved her hand over her head; maybe there was a string to pull, to turn on a ceiling light. But no matter how much she flailed, her fingers never came into contact with one. So, what, she was just going to stand there in the darkness, waiting till it was safe to walk out? Apparently so.

Someone slammed into the closed door, and she jumped, taking a step back. Her heel caught on something lumpy—shoes, perhaps—and she stumbled into a coat. Every ounce of her remaining dignity—what little she had left—abandoned her as she promptly fell over, taking the coat with her. Its empty hanger jangled against the rod.

Fabulous.

Even more fabulous, her suitor decided now was the perfect time to seek her out instead of waiting for her to exit on her own. She heard the door open; the party noises got louder. She wondered if she should start kicking wildly now, to take the guy by surprise, instead of after she managed to haul the coat off her head. Yeah, that was a good idea.

She sat up, ready to start whaling on shins, when a voice said, “Celia?”

She froze. “. . . Niall?”

The door shut again. She worked even more frantically to get her head out from under the heavy fabric.

“Now, why didn't
I
think of hiding in here?”

He sat on the floor next to her, his hip touching hers; she felt his torso twist as he tossed the coat away, and she could breathe again. In theory, anyway. Niall's proximity made it a little difficult.

“I thought this was the way out.”

“It wasn't.”

“I figured that out.”

She reached over to where she thought her purse had landed, found it. With difficulty, she rooted around inside until her hand closed around her keychain.

At the sound of keys jingling, Niall said, “You're not going for the pepper spray, are you?”

She laughed softly. “No.” She turned on her mini flashlight and shone it around the closet. “Nice place you've got here.”

“Thanks.”

She stopped the beam along the wall. “Is that . . . a framed
Haring
?” Niall shrugged. He seemed embarrassed. She suspected it wasn't a cheap print, either.
Must be nice to have so much money that you could stuff a Haring original in a closet
, she thought. Then she felt Niall studying her; she glanced over to see his shadowed eyes traveling over her slowly.

“You were leaving? Without saying good-bye?” he murmured.

“You were kind of busy.”

“Never too busy for you.”

“You never came back.”

“I was trying, believe me. I got hijacked.”

“I saw.”

“I saw you seeing.”

“You did?” Had he seen her blow him a kiss? Oh God, she hoped not.

“Naomi didn't scare you, did she?”

Celia took a deep breath before she answered. She could smell a bit of beer on his breath, residual cigarette—and other—smoke coming off his clothes. And she felt warmth radiating from his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was awfully close. It disturbed her how much she liked it. Just like during their photo shoot, he made her nervous, but a good nervous. Never once did she have the urge to move away. Just closer. Good lord, how was she going to keep her promise to herself to walk away and forget this guy?

But right now he was waiting for an answer. So she said, in what she hoped was a lighthearted tone, “Naomi? Of course not.”

“Liar. She even scares the shit out of
me
.”

“Come on. She's, what, seventeen?”

“Seventeen going on fifty. A scary, biker-chick kind of fifty. So you can admit it. Go on. She's terrifying.”

Celia laughed softly. “Maybe a little.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” She paused, then forced herself to say, “You should get back out there. Your guests will be looking for you.”

“They'll never notice I'm gone.”

Niall moved closer. His shoulder pressed against hers as he turned toward her. Celia's breath caught. She started to move back, and the flashlight went out.

“Dammit.” That would teach her to buy her safety devices from a guy with a folding table on the sidewalk.

Niall's hand found hers, pushed it down gently. “Leave it,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Oh God.

“I mean,” he went on, reverting to his usual joking tone, but still softly, “it's kind of nice, isn't it? It's like that party game from middle school, where a boy and a girl get shoved into a closet—”

“Seven minutes in heaven.”

She felt him laugh against her. “Oh. My. God. I am absolutely in love with you right now, just because you knew that.” He paused. “So. You were a player in middle school, huh? I should have expected as much.”

“
No
,” she insisted, mortified, although she felt a ridiculous bubble of laughter well up inside her.

“Hey, let me have my fantasies, all right, woman? Lord knows I had enough of them the last time I had a chance with a girl in a closet. And back then that was
all
I had. I was a disaster—I never knew what to say or where to put my hands . . . Now, now, I didn't mean—well, maybe I did. Anyway, I'd just be sitting there, a quivering lump of nerves, and then all of a sudden I'd just sort of lunge, you know? Go in for the kill and hope I hit the target.”

“And then both your braces would clack,” she couldn't resist adding. “If one set was really heavy duty, one of you would end up with a cut lip . . .”

“I
knew
you knew what I was talking about. Player.”

“But now we're adults.”

“Speak for yourself,” he shot back without missing a beat. “Still, I'd
like
to think I'm better at this than I was back then.” He paused. “This is the part where you're supposed to say ‘prove it.' ”

Celia froze. She wanted to say it. Oh God, she wanted to. But what came out was, “I . . . I can't do that.”

“Well, then,” Niall murmured, “I guess I'll just have to go in for the kill.”

His fingertips found her lips, traveled over them with the lightest of touches. She felt light-headed at the contact. She needed it to stop, if she was going to think clearly. She didn't want it to stop.

“Niall, I—”

His wandering touch traced her jawline. “I meant it when I said I was glad you came. I've been dying to see you again.”

“But—”

“Celia, you . . . do something to me. I don't know what it is, and it scares me a little bit. Not like Naomi.” She could hear the smile in his voice. His hand crept into her hair, and he ran his long fingers through the strands at the back of her neck. “I really like you,” he said earnestly. Then the switch back to joking, as though he were reading a kid's scrawl on a piece of notebook paper. “Do you like me? Circle one: yes, no.”

Celia laughed again, even as her heart raced, beating triple time against her chest, which was now inexplicably pressed up against Niall's. She had every intention of pushing him away. She really did. But when his hand in her hair pulled her closer, slowly and gently, she went to him. A denial was in order, at least. She could protest, say he'd gotten it all wrong, that she didn't like him one bit. Then his soft, generous lips met hers, and every logical thought deserted her.

For a moment, she could think of nothing but his kiss. She fell into it, and it was a wonderful, soft place to land. Niall didn't grab her, didn't grope, didn't go on the attack. There was no “lunge”—yeah, it seemed he'd definitely improved since middle school. His mouth moved over hers slowly and lazily, as though they had all the time in the world to explore each other. The tip of his tongue met hers and twined around it, gently, but he went no further. When he moved back, giving her one last small, soft kiss at the corner of her mouth, every inch of her screamed for more.

“I want to see you again,” he murmured, his breath hot against her cheek. “Can we make that happen?”

Yes. Absolutely yes.
But she forced herself to say, “No, Niall. We can't. Tiffany—”

“Don't worry about Tiffany,” he breathed.

Celia drew back. “What?”

“Wait. That's not—”

“What you meant? Really? How many different ways are there to interpret that?”

“It's com—”

“Do
not
say it's complicated.
Please.
”

“It
is.
”

“Oh, give me
some
credit.”

“You don't understand.”

What in the world could make him think he had the right to hit on her—or any woman, for that matter—when he had a girlfriend right outside the closet door? And what was she doing in a dark closet with a celebrity, anyway? What was
wrong
with her? Better question: What was wrong with
him
?

“I understand just fine.”

Whatever he said next was drowned out by shouts from the main part of the loft. Strident, violent voices rose above the music.

“Shit,” Niall muttered, lurching to his feet.

He yanked open the closet door and burst back into the room. Celia followed. Nobody noticed them coming out of the closet together because everyone was circled around two people who were grappling with each other in a cleared space. For a second, all Celia could see were hunched bodies and flailing arms. A single, huge earring skidded across the wood floor and came to a stop directly under the track lighting, where it lay glinting in a beam from one of the lamps. Various screeches of “Bitch!” and “Whore!” rose over the shouting of the rest of the crowd. Each woman had the other woman's hair in her grasp. One pulled, and a clump went flying. Celia gasped, horrified, until she realized it was just some extensions.

Niall threw himself into the fray, getting behind the blonde and putting one arm around her waist and pulling. She wrestled herself away from Niall and pushed her hair out of her face. Tiffany. And the other . . . the brunette lunged, but another man in the crowd grabbed her just like Niall had grabbed Tiffany and backed her away. Although Tiffany was taking a breather, the brunette kept flailing. Her captor was laughing, thoroughly enjoying himself, even though he got whapped in the nose by one of her flying limbs.

“Neener! Cut it out!” Niall ordered.

Naomi obeyed, stumbled, righted herself, and then started crying immediately. Very few people paid much attention, although some of her friends circled around her to comfort her.

That helped Naomi regroup, and she rallied enough to fling at Tiffany, “You suck! I hate you!”

“Go home to your mommy!” Tiffany retorted. “If she's done walking the streets tonight.”

A stream of expletives worthy of a much older mouth issued from Naomi, and the crowd surged, whooping. Celia took that as her cue to finally get out of there. The path was clear to the front door—the actual front door—and she took advantage of the easy exit.

Once out in the hallway, she stood still and took a deep breath. She wasn't sure what she'd just experienced, but she was pretty darn sure she didn't like any of it. Well, except for that moment in the closet with Niall . . .

No.
No.
Not even that. Especially not that.

She hit the button for the elevator, straining to hear the rumble as it made its way up to the third floor to fetch her. She glanced over her shoulder; the door to the loft stayed closed, the crazy securely trapped inside, but she wasn't far enough away yet—not by a long shot. She needed to put some serious distance between herself and Niall. She needed to forget what his body had felt like. She needed to stop remembering the feel of his fingers tracing her lips, caressing her cheek. He shouldn't have kissed her, but dear God, she'd wanted him to. And she'd let him. Of course, if that ever got out, it could land her in a hair-pulling girl fight with Tiffany. Or Naomi. Or both of them. And that was
so
not worth it.