Picture This (9 page)

After they'd traveled a couple more miles, he ventured, “That thing you said, about cheating on your boyfriend . . . is that why you freaked out when I kissed you?”

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Maybe. I did a stupid thing when I was young, and it taught me . . . well, cheating is evil.”

Celia pointed out her parents' rather secluded driveway; Niall turned in and pulled up close to the house. Once he put the car in park, he turned to face her and took a deep breath. “Okay, look. I'm not supposed to tell you this. I could get sued into the next century if it gets out. But I want to. Tell you, I mean. To clear the air. Sharing secrets, right?” he added wryly, one corner of his mouth turning up a bit. He took another breath. “This whole thing with Tiffany—”

Wham, wham, wham!
Celia jumped a mile as someone rapped on the car's frame.

“We thought you were taking the bus!” Her father was leaning into the open window.

“Hey, Dad . . .”

“Well? Come on out of there and give your old man a hug.”

Then everything was a flurry of activity, with car doors slamming, her father smothering her in a tight embrace, her mother bustling out of the house and admonishing her husband to let Celia loose so she could greet her too, both of her parents talking at once, and then, rising above the confusion, a single question.

“And who's this?”

Celia pulled away from her mother's hug to see her father staring at Niall, a cautiously neutral expression on his face. Niall immediately came around the Stingray, hand extended.

“Niall, sir. A friend of Celia's.”

“I see.”

“This is Niall Crenshaw, Dad,” she supplied, waiting for him to realize just whose hand he was on the verge of breaking with his viselike grip. “Niall, this is Alan, my dad, and Wendy, my mom.”

“Uh-huh. Friend, you say?”

Unbelievable. Her father didn't recognize him. Neither, apparently, did her mother, who stood by, waiting for her turn to shake hands, a mild expression on her face. And they'd seen a few of his movies, if not at the theater, at least on cable. She'd watched at least one with them, she was pretty sure. Celia wondered if she was supposed to fill them in. Or would that be cheesy?
Mom, Dad, Niall's a movie star.
Ugh. Definitely cheesy. There was no good way to bring it up. So she didn't. Besides, she knew from the way her father was eyeing Niall, the only thing he wanted to know about him was just what kind of “friend” they were talking about.

Once Celia's dad released Niall's hand, the younger man retrieved her bag from the car while Alan Marshall appraised the vehicle. “Nice machine you got there.”

“Thank you, sir. I enjoy it.”

“What is it, an L-48? L-82?”

“I don't know, sir. It goes fast.”

Celia's dad grunted. It was a resounding dismissal. He didn't have much patience for men who didn't know their cars.

“Come on inside,” Celia's mom said, heading for the house.

“You've probably both got to pee. I know I do at the end of that long a drive.”

Wincing, Celia glanced over at Niall apologetically.

He hoisted her suitcase and said congenially, “I could pee.”

But she headed him off before he could follow her parents up the drive. “Wait a minute. Finish your thought.”

“I did finish it: I could pee. That's pretty self-explanatory, isn't it?”

“Not that! You were just about to tell me something about Tiffany. What about her?”

He shook his head. “Later.”

He tried to move past her, but she put a hand on his chest. He looked down at it. She snatched it away. “You keep saying ‘later.' What ‘later'?”

“Oh, didn't I tell you?” He grinned brightly, his wide mouth stretching and curling up at the corners till he looked for all the world like the Grinch hatching an evil plan. “I'm staying.”

“W
hat?”

“Staying. Here.”

“In
Marsden
?”

“You sound shocked. Careful—the next thing you say might be in a frequency only dogs can hear.”

“You're not . . . I mean . . . this isn't because of me—?”

Niall almost enjoyed watching the fleeting look of panic cross Celia's lovely face. She always seemed so composed, so in control, that it was a kind of triumph when he could knock her off balance. Like during the photo shoot. And in the closet. But he couldn't focus on either one of those memories right now, or his thoughts would go traveling down particular carnal paths he wouldn't be able to tear himself away from easily. And with her parents only a few yards away, no less. That wouldn't do.

He put on one of his patented rubber-faced expressions of incredulity and exclaimed, “Well, aren't we full of ourselves, Miss Egopants? Can't a guy stay in a quaint, dare I say
bucolic
, village without everyone assuming he's hanging around because of some woman?”

“Tell me the truth.”

He was brought up short by the sudden realization that her eyes flashed when she was irate. He could stand there and watch those sparks fly all day, if he let himself. Instead, he came back with, “Okay, if you must know, it has to do with that business we still need to discuss.”

“You expect me to believe that? Five minutes ago, you had no idea Marsden even existed.”

“It wasn't five minutes, it was five days. Maybe six. Now, I have plans. Plus I love Marsden.”

“And you realized this during a three-minute drive down Main Street?” She narrowed her eyes. “You can't stay here, at my parents' house, you know.
I'm
not even staying here—I'm going to my grandmother's. And there's no extra room there.” He wasn't sure why she was so terrified to have him under the same roof, except maybe she'd figured out it was probably a very, very bad idea that could end up very, very good. If it weren't for all those pesky family members, of course.

“Did I
ask
if I could stay with you? Point me toward the nearest five-star hotel and I'll get out of your hair.”

“We don't have five-star hotels. This is Marsden, not Manhattan.”

Well, that was a bit of a complication. But he'd get around it somehow.

She crossed her arms and studied him suspiciously. “You're
really
going to stay here.”

“I'm
really
going to stay here.”

“I can't entertain you. I'm going to be busy with my family.”

“Don't worry.” He adjusted his grip on her suitcase and walked past her, toward the house. “I won't have a lot of time on my hands. I've got a job.”

From behind him, he heard, “You . . .
wha—
?” and then hard footsteps tapping on the driveway as she caught up with him. He ducked his head to hide a broad grin. The woman had some comic timing in her.

He didn't turn around, just went into the garage through the side door, trusting she'd follow. “A job,” he said, his voice echoing off the concrete floor of the three-bay garage, up to the rafters and back down again. “I have one.”

“
What
job?”

“Ah, that's classified information for the moment. I have to talk with somebody named Ray before I can go public with the news.”

“Ray? Ray Dubois, Ray?”

“You know him?”

“This is Marsden. I know everybody.”

He spun around and walked backward a few steps. “Ooh, and everybody knows you? This could get interesting.”

The color rose in her cheeks, tinting them a perfect pink, like a fairy-tale princess. His stomach gave a little lurch.

“I have nothing to hide,” she stated flatly. “Do your worst.”

“Is that a dare?” She didn't answer, so he asked, “How do you know Ray?”

“I used to work at his print and copy shop. I was a graphic designer.”

“Ah, another little piece of the Celia puzzle falls into place.”

The door to the house opened, and Celia's mother poked her head out. “What's taking you two so long? The hot tea's getting cold and the iced tea is getting hot. Also, you're confusing the dog. So—in or out. Let's go.”

“You don't even have a suitcase,” Celia hissed in his ear as they followed her mother inside. “You didn't plan this.”

“I planned it,” he murmured over his shoulder. “You just didn't know about it. I admit I hadn't planned on driving up here with so little notice. Hence the lack of luggage,” he said, setting hers down in the kitchen. “But that's what personal assistants and FedEx are for. I do, however, have my emergency boxers—and you thought it was crazy to carry them around all the time! While I wait for Trent to send the rest of my things, mind if we share a toothbrush?”

“Marsden Apothecary is open till eight o'clock on Saturday nights.”

He tutted. “And we were getting along so well on the drive up here. What's the problem now?”

Celia didn't answer, but he knew what was bothering her: He was pushing his way into her life when she hadn't invited him in. Sharing a few secrets while traveling was one thing; sharing a small town for an indefinite period of time was quite another.

“So, Niall,” Alan Marshall said, stretching his legs halfway across the enclosed back porch. “What line of business are you in?”

“Uh . . .” Niall smiled a little, tickled that Celia's parents didn't know who he was. It was so rare these days. He wasn't sure if he should enlighten them; he was enjoying his anonymity. Plus he got the feeling if he told Celia's dad he was an actor, he'd be on the receiving end of another one of those powerful, condemning grunts of his. He looked past the older man and watched the sunlight play on the saplings dotting the land behind the house. He fancied he could make out a burn mark where Celia had torched her clothes, even though he knew any hint of her rebellious act was long gone by now. He took a few moments to imagine her as a little girl, playing in the yard, until he felt her father's flinty glare piercing him. Time to answer his question. He settled on, “I'm in . . . entertainment.”

Even that got a grunt, although less severe than the one that had damned his car knowledge (or lack thereof).

“And you, sir?” Alan Marshall was the kind of guy you felt compelled to call “sir,” he realized.

The older man's ginger eyebrows, tufty as a pair of caterpillars, crept up his forehead. “Me? I'm retired. But for thirty years, I was the town tax assessor. Kept a bunch of jokers in line better than our police force, I'll say that much. Hit 'em in the wallet. Works every time.”

It was quite clear Celia took after her mother, both in temperament and in looks. Her father was bullish, stocky, and fair, while her mother was simply an older version of Celia, with dark hair, fine bone structure, and pale skin. But Celia was more grounded than Wendy, who gave off an air of flightiness. Niall just couldn't tell if it was natural or cultivated.

While Celia's father was grousing, her mother slipped out of the room. Niall wondered if Wendy was making herself scarce because her husband was gearing up for a rant she'd heard a thousand times, or if she really had something more important to do.

“What brings you here? Besides my daughter, I mean.”

“Dad!” Celia interjected, shocked.

Her father ignored her. “Well?”

“I, uh, I'm going to be working in Marsden for a while. At the arts center.”

“Summer help, eh? Ticket taker and whatnot?”

Before Niall could answer, they were interrupted by a faint call of “Celia? Can you help me, please?”

Celia hesitated, obviously unsure if she should leave Niall alone with her father, but when her mother called again, she reluctantly excused herself and hopped up the single step from the enclosed porch into the house.

“Not a ticket taker, no—”

From another part of the house came the sound of Celia moaning, “Oh,
Mom
!”

Niall wondered what was going on, but Celia's father was pinning him with an expectant look, so he answered, “Ray Dubois asked me if I would—”

“
Ray
, huh?” The older man's face remained impassive, but his tone clearly communicated his disapproval. “What's he got you doing?”

“I'm not at liberty to say much, just yet. Sorry.”

Alan barked a laugh. “Top secret, eh? Typical Ray. That guy was a pain in the ass in high school forty-five years ago, pain in the ass now. So good friggin' luck.”

Niall wasn't sure how to respond. “I'll . . . do my best?” There was a bit of silence—uncomfortable silence, as opposed to their uncomfortable conversation—so Niall decided now was the time to say his good-byes. “Well, sir, I'd better get going, find a place to stay.”

Celia and her mother came back into the room, Wendy Marshall tangled up in some colorful knitting, looking for all the world like she'd been mummified with Doctor Who's scarf. Celia came up behind her, plucking at her mother's striped bindings as she tried to figure out how to get her out of it.

She glanced up from untangling her mother to explain. “Mom's taken up yarn bombing. She just hasn't figured out that yarn bombs go on inanimate objects, not herself.”

“It was a slight mishap,” Wendy said over her shoulder to her daughter. “Just get me out of this in time for me to meet the girls. We're bombing the cannon outside the town hall tonight.” To Niall, she said, “You should stay here. We've got plenty of room. Please. We insist.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alan fidget in his chair, and he suspected the older man wouldn't really join in on the insisting if anyone asked him. Plus, when he looked back at Celia, she was staring at him, wide-eyed, silently pleading with him to turn her mother down. He thought about accepting the invitation just to mess with her head, but he wasn't any more interested in staying under her parents' roof than her father was in having him there.

So instead, he said, “Thanks for the generous offer, but I couldn't, really. I'd be coming and going at all hours, and it just wouldn't be fair to you.”

“You know what place you want to try—” Alan started, but Niall pulled his phone from his pocket.

“No worries. I've got it covered.”

Niall tapped a few icons to start searching for hotels in the area, but nothing happened. He held it higher, pointed it out the screen toward the yard, but he couldn't seem to get any reception.

“No signal here. Mountain blocks the cell tower,” Celia's father grunted. “And a good thing too. Damned blight on the landscape. Just like those damned wind farms.”

“The wind farms on the way into town?”

“Yeah, we lost that battle. Not gonna happen again with cell towers. Keeping those numbers down for sure.”

“But don't you think cell towers are, you know, essential these days?”

“Not in my backyard.”

“Disguised ones? In California, there are a bunch that look like palm trees—”

“Are you tetched in the head, son? There aren't any palm trees for thousands of miles.”

“Well, no. I mean, they can make them look like all kinds of trees. Church spires, too.”

“We've got enough of those already.”

Apparently Alan Marshall hated wind farms, cell towers, and church spires. Maybe he just didn't like tall things. Which would be bad news for Niall, being over six feet and all.

“How about Casey's place?” Wendy suggested.

“Mom! No!”

Niall turned to Celia, surprised that she was so adamantly against it, whatever it was. “What are we talking, here? Renting some floor space in the back room of a shack? Some kind of crappy motel? Haunted?”

“None of those things,” Wendy said, oblivious to her daughter's mortification. “It's a lovely old home that the owner is turning into an inn.”

“Sounds really nice. But Celia seems a little against the idea.”

Her mother flapped her hand, recently freed from her yarn tangle. “Oh, she's probably just embarrassed because Casey was her high school boyfr—”

“Mom!”

“What? It's nothing to be ashamed of. You two used to be so cute together—”

“Mom,
please
.”

“Ex-boyfriend, eh?” Niall couldn't stop his eyebrow from creeping up toward his hairline as a grin spread across his face. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

Celia ducked her head, focusing on getting out the last of the yarn tangles at her mother's waist. “No. No, it's not interesting in the least.”

Niall raised an eyebrow to silently ask,
Is this
the
high school boyfriend?
Feeling his eyes on her, Celia met his gaze, then blushed and looked away again. Ah. It
was
the high school boyfriend she'd mentioned in the car. But obviously it wasn't something to bring up now.