Picture This (6 page)

“O
h yeah, you wouldn't believe how many people think they can just walk into their local branch and walk out with a wad of money. Legally, I mean. It's incredible. Of course, I'm not at liberty to provide any details . . .”

Celia bit the inside of her bottom lip to stifle a yawn and reached for her glass of wine while the man across from her talked. They'd been at the restaurant for an hour and she was ready for bed. By herself. To sleep. Because her eyes were already at half-mast.

She'd known this was a bad idea. The very minute she'd walked back into her apartment last night, demanding one of Danny's comforting hugs, right after she'd told her friend all the gory details about what had happened at Niall's loft and how she didn't want to experience anything like it ever again, he'd declared, simply, “Buck.”

Buck, some guy who'd asked about her after they'd met at a Fourth of July rooftop cookout they'd attended a couple of weeks back. Buck, as in a perfectly normal individual with a penchant for wearing sweater vests, and not in an ironic way. Buck, whom she couldn't picture for the life of her, no matter how hard she tried—he'd made that little of an impression on her. Buck, whom Danny swore was the perfect antidote to the crazy intensity of Niall Crenshaw.

So after an exchange that had made the two of them sound like panicked squirrels—“Buck?” “Buck.” “Buck?” “Buck, I said !”—she'd reluctantly agreed to let the guy get in touch with her. And now here they were, the very next evening, on a nice, normal date. No catfights, no mounds of blow, no monkeys.

Buck wasn't a bad guy, and he wasn't frightening to look at. He was just . . . average. Normally she wouldn't have viewed that as a detriment. Average was good. Average meant he (probably) wasn't a serial killer. Average meant he probably didn't have a basement full of Strawberry Shortcake collectibles. Average meant he was a decent sort, with a good job, a pleasant personality, a clean (if boring) wardrobe, and interests like golf and woodworking and maybe a little gourmet cooking.

But lately nothing in her life had been normal, and now average wasn't good enough. She listened to Buck's pleasant, if boring, anecdotes about his job as a loan officer at a bank, but the words didn't infiltrate her brain. Before they could get there, they were jumped, dragged into an alley, and smothered to death by thoughts she'd rather not be having. Like wondering what a date with Niall would be like.

Would it consist of a nice dinner in an Italian restaurant, like this one? Or would it take place in a trendy club, surrounded by a hundred of his closest friends and hangers-on? Knowing Niall, it would more likely be a trip to a roller-skating rink. Or skydiving. Or snorkeling. In the East River. Or . . . would he dispense with the formalities and expect to skip right to . . . well . . .

And then her thoughts drifted off to the closet and the dark and the heat of Niall's body, and she jumped when Buck said, “You're not eating. Is everything all right with your food?”

She blinked and forced herself back to the present, back to her pleasant and—
pay attention, hormones, this is what you should be attracted to
—courteous date across the table. “Oh. Yes, it's fine. It's kind of you to ask, though.”

“Are you finished?”

Celia studied him. Why was he asking? Did he want to leave already? Was
she
boring
him
? This wasn't going well, was it? It really wasn't.
Dammit.
She really needed to get her head in the—

“Because if you are, I was wondering if I could have your meatball.”

From the recesses of her purse, on the floor at her feet, her phone pinged. She ignored it. “Sure. Go ahead.” And Buck reached across the table, harpooned the meatball, plopped it on his plate, and decimated it with a mash or two of his fork.

Buck smiled at her around a mouthful of meatball. Nice guy, she reminded herself. No craziness. Yeah. No craziness. She kind of missed Niall's craziness, how he could make her laugh with just a word, a goofy expression, a tickle . . .

“So, Buck,” she said, straightening the napkin on her lap. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the gleam of her phone's light in her bag as it pinged again. She decided to ignore that text, too. Probably Danny trying to find out how the date was going. If she texted back in the middle of it, that would prove the date was a failure, but she wasn't about to give up on it yet. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Oh, I've really gotten into golf lately . . .”

Nailed it.
She could call Buck transparent and predictable, or she could see him as safe and steadfast. Yeah, safe. Not predictable. She was going to put a positive spin on this if it killed her. Her phone pinged and her purse lit up again. Starting to worry that something was wrong, she reached for it.

“I'm sorry,” she said, interrupting Buck's anecdote about his first birdie on a par three course. “I don't usually do this, but I'm getting a lot of texts all of a sudden. I'm afraid it might be urgent. Would you mind—?”

“No, of course not.”

Buck excused himself to visit the men's room; as soon as he was gone, another text came in. She looked at the list—they were all from the same number. Starting at the bottom of the list, she opened the oldest one.

It was a photo of an armpit. A hairy armpit. Disgusted, she almost deleted it, but at the last minute she read the message. I'm going to keep sending photos of random body parts till you agree to talk with me.

Niall. Her stomach fluttered nervously, and she caught herself smiling. He hadn't followed her out the door last night, but he'd called. Several times. She hadn't answered. Now here he was, trying to get her attention with an armpit photo? Insane. So very, very Niall.

The next one was a photo of an eye. Yep, it was his, all right. She'd know that hazel iris and devilishly arched eyebrow anywhere.

The third got a little more risqué: a nipple.

She was afraid to open the fourth, wondering how far he was going to take this, but it was an ear. She let out a relieved breath.

Another one came in, and she tapped the picture to enlarge it. She stifled a gasp with a hand over her mouth . . . but no. It was a bent elbow. Giggling ruefully, she scrolled through the thumbnails of the photos. What was she going to do about this? She'd promised herself not to communicate with him ever again. She'd ignored his previous calls . . . but she hadn't blocked his number. Still, she needed to push him out of her head (and her heart because, if she was going to be honest with herself, he was creeping in there, bit by bit), to be realistic about things. And being realistic meant dating Buck, or guys like him, and not entertaining ridiculous fantasies about—

Ping
. Another text came in. Against her better judgment, she opened it. This photo was a downturned corner of Niall's mouth, creases at the corner forming a couple of nested
c
's. The message said, Need to talk to you. Strictly business.

Business?

Plus I want to apologize. Please.

Celia hesitated. He was wrong. What he'd proposed had been wrong. But an apology would be all right, wouldn't it? She quickly texted back, Stand down before you hurt yourself. Call? Text?

Meet, please.

Oh God, was that a good idea? But she found herself typing back, When?

Just as Buck sat back down across from her, the last text came in. When you least expect it. And as soon as humanly possible. It was accompanied by a photo of Niall's broad, delighted smile. Celia grinned at the sight.

“Good news?” Buck asked politely, taking a sip of water.

Celia nodded. “Yeah,” she said, beaming. “I think so.”

When you least expect it, eh? She snuck a glance out the window and was relieved he wasn't standing outside the restaurant in a trench coat, holding a boom box over his head. Or was she disappointed?

 

Celia's steps slowed as she reached her building. She'd met Buck at the restaurant and had politely refused his offer to see her home. The date had been fine . . . well, no. She was certain there wouldn't be a second. Especially when she realized she couldn't recall a single thing about the guy she'd just spent two hours with when she spotted Niall sitting on her apartment steps.

He glanced up and tossed her a casual, “Hey, 'sup?”

Fighting back a smile, and failing, she asked, “Been here long?”

“About this long.” Niall gestured around him. All over the stoop, and on the wide brick and concrete stepped walls on either side, sat colorful, bulbous balloon creations. He finished twisting a pink balloon and handed it to her. “For you.”

She turned it over, scrutinizing it. “Er . . . what is it?”

“An elephant. Or a platypus. Or a sword. I'm not sure. You can decide.” At that moment, a mother walked past, tugging the hand of a small child who hung back, eyes bugging at the display. “Here, kid.” Niall plucked a blue balloon creation off the wall and handed it to her. “Enjoy.”

“You know how to make balloon animals,” Celia said. “How did you—?”

“I learned for
Party Clown.
”

“Wow, no stunt double?”

“Amazing what actors will do for their craft, right?”

“How'd you find out where I live?”

“Are you kidding? It's unbelievable what a famous person can get just by asking for it.”

“You called Victor, the celebrity suck-up.”

“I'll never tell.” He winked at her as he stretched out a yellow balloon and, with a powerful puff, filled it until it spiraled in on itself. “Annnnd . . . done. Looks good.”

“And that one is . . . ?”

“A curly balloon.”

“Of course.”

He cleared a space next to him. “Please, sit.”

“Do you want to come up?”

“And leave all my friends here alone and defenseless? Perish the thought.” He patted the step next to him. She sat. “I want to talk to you.”

“So I gathered. Thanks for the photos.”

“I figured I could keep sending them to you and you could, you know, put them all together and have a picture of me in the end.”

“Or I could buy a
Party Clown
movie poster.”

“Where's the fun in that? Although I hear they're going cheap these days.” Noticing a couple of kids coming up the sidewalk, he grabbed a balloon animal, pulled back on the knot, and sent it flying toward them. When they caught it, he did the same with another. “So anyway, let's start with that apology . . .”

“You don't have to—”

“No, I do. What I said the other night . . . It was presumptuous of me and insulting to you. You're too good of a person for something like—”

“How do you know?”

Niall stopped stretching out an uninflated green balloon. “What?”

“How do you know I'm a good person—too good to sully her virgin ears with that kind of a proposition?”

“I didn't say
that
.”

“It's what you meant. But you don't know anything about me, let alone what kind of a person I am. I could be evil to the core.”

“Doubtful.” He laughed softly, and Celia smiled.

“Okay, maybe not evil. But my point stands. You don't even know if we like the same things. Like what kind of food—”

“Moroccan.”

“Seriously?”

“No. I'll eat anything that'll stay still on a plate. My only limits are what my trainer sets for me when I have to get fit for a film. See? I'm easy. You?”

Celia would have said Italian, but tonight's awkward dinner colored her opinion. “Fried chicken.”

“Nice. Go on. What else do you want to know about?”

“I don't know. Movies . . . ?”

“Don't say mine.
I
don't even like mine.”

“Really?”

“Well, not the last few, anyway,” he said with a shudder. Then he turned to face her squarely. He was serious and thoughtful when he said, “But I know plenty about you. I know you're smart. I know you're kind. I know you're sensible. And I know your ticklish spot is the back of your knees. One of your ticklish spots, anyway. Discovery of any others requires further investigation, of course.”

She felt herself blush, and she looked down at the balloon animal in her hands. Her palms grew damp with sweat and she resisted wiping them on her skirt.

He went on, “I know you smell like almonds. Sometimes. Strawberries other times.”

“I switched shampoos.”

“I know you're incredibly beautiful. And I know I like you a lot—”

“Wrong.”

“Hey, are you telling me how I feel about you?”

“I'm telling you you're . . . misguided. You think I'm pretty—”

“I said incredibly beautiful.”

“Attractive on some level. And you like the way I smell. That's not enough to really like me.”

“Okay. Then I am off icially declaring I'd like to get to know you, so I can be allowed to say I like you.”

“And what would Tiffany say about that?”

His face grew grim. “You have no idea.”

“Well, then.”

“Look . . .” He sighed and laced his fingers together between his knees. “When I said the thing with me and Tiffany was complicated, I meant it. I wasn't being clever, or coy. It really is. And I can't explain it—not just yet. All I can ask you to do is bear with me for a little while longer . . .”

“Is this the part where you tell me you're going to break up with her, you promise, just be patient and then we can be together soon, no really?”

“Maybe. So what do you say?”

Celia hesitated, then burst out in a rush, “I say that I think you're an interesting person. I would like to get to know you too. And I wish we could be friends.”