Picture This (14 page)

“Pancakes,” she growled. “And an English muffin with peanut butter,” Nora added in a much kinder tone, smiling at Celia. Still looking only at her, Nora asked, “Anything else, hon?”

“Nope, I'm good, Nora. Thanks.”

“Coffee, Ray?”

“Sure.”

When she was gone, Celia whispered to Niall, “She doesn't like you.”

“I
told
you!”

“Oh, don't worry about old Nora,” Ray said. “She's just bitter about famous types. Rough history, you know.”

“No, I don't know,” Niall said. “What history?”

Ray leaned in again, obviously happy to gossip. “Well, we used to have a lot more big names come to Marsden in the summer. It's what I'm aiming to get back to, now that I'm heading up the board of the arts center, starting with you, my boy. This is going to be a whole new era—”

“Ray?” Celia interrupted. “Nora?”

“Right. So back when she was young, we had this actor—I can't remember his name at the moment—Tony or Travis or something—who was the big-name draw for the summer theater program. They had quite a fling that summer, and he even promised Nora he'd take her with him when he left. Nora started thinking she could make a go of it in Hollywood—she's a really good singer, you know—and she started making plans to up stakes. But when the season was over, he took off and left her behind. Absolutely devastated her for a good long time. She hasn't thought much of famous people since.”

“For good reason, it seems,” Celia said.

“Hey. We're not all like that.” Niall felt compelled to defend his fellow thespians, even though he could think of about twenty off the top of his head who would do the same as Nora's celebrity. In a heartbeat.

That tiny, radiant smile Niall loved so much returned to Celia's lips. “If you say so.”

“Don't bait me, woman. I mean it.”

Celia made a goofy face at him while Nora returned with the coffee, filling Ray's cup and freshening hers, but skipping Niall's until he pointedly asked for more. When they had some privacy again, Ray got back to explaining his grand plan.

“It's going to be called Night of the Shooting Stars,” he announced grandly.

“Night of . . . what? Shooting the Stars?” Niall asked, highly amused.

Ray pursed his lips in a definite sign of disapproval. Apparently he didn't like anyone making fun of his special project. “Night of the
Shooting Stars,
” he said again, slowly. “Don't screw it up.” Ray's frown deepened. “I need you to take this seriously, young man. A lot is riding on this.”

“I understand. Totally serious here, Ray. I mean it,” Niall said, although he found it difficult to maintain a neutral expression . . . until he glanced over at Celia and saw she wasn't laughing. Suddenly he was sober as a judge. “Go on.”

“So this is the plan: a kind of pro-am duets competition. Like
Dancing with the Stars
, except singing. To avoid a lawsuit.”

“Of course.”

“We get a stable of pros, some members of the church choirs and such—”

“Like Nora?” Niall asked.

Ray waved a hand dismissively. “No, no. She doesn't sing anymore. We've got plenty of other singers in town, though. And we pair them up with . . . well, whoever auditions, I guess. I'm getting the word out that auditions will be at the end of the week. I'm glad you're here early—you can help out with those.”

Niall made a face. He had hoped to take care of some other pressing business while he was in the area, the sooner the better. But Celia's pained expression, as though she had been expecting him to disappoint everyone all along, and by golly he was doing it, and during his very first meeting with Ray no less, got him to reconsider.

“No problem, Ray,” Niall answered, sneaking another furtive glance at Celia. “Auditions. Singing. Duets. Got it.”

 

“Aaaaghhh, I feel like I ate the contents of a whole grain silo.”

Niall blinked in the bright morning sunlight, stopping on the sidewalk in front of Nora's to fish his sunglasses out of his pocket. It was going to be a hot one today. He could feel it already, in the heavy air thick with the sound of buzzing cicadas.

“But the pancakes were good, right?” Celia asked.

“Oh yeah! Just not what I'm used to. However, being threatened with having your usual egg-white omelet stuffed into the place that would usually be its exit point . . . I figured I'd just roll with it. Why wouldn't you let me leave a decent tip?”

“That wasn't decent,” Celia said, crossing her arms in front of her and giving him the hairy eyeball. “That was excessive.”

“So? Doesn't Nora deserve—?”

“She'd see right through that. She'd know you were trying to buy her. Believe me, that's not the way to go about winning her over. Honestly, I'm not sure you can . . .
movie star
.”

“You make my job sound so
dirty.
Which, of course, it totally is. Did you know her story?”

Celia started walking, slowly, tucking the tips of her long fingers into the pockets of her cutoff shorts. Niall's eyes were drawn there automatically, and his stomach clenched. This was what he'd wanted last night—some peaceful, private time with a relaxed Celia, the two of them ambling down Main Street. He strongly suspected he was grinning like an idiot and avoided glancing in the shop windows they were passing so he couldn't confirm he looked as goofy as he felt.

“Mm, sure,” she said. “I'd heard different versions of it over the years. You tend to just know everybody's story when you live in a place like this.”

“Everybody's?”

“Yep.”

“I accept your challenge!” he bellowed in a pompous British accent. He scanned the street. “That lady over there.”

Celia looked where he was pointing—at a tall, busty, older woman, with bright red hair and lots of jewelry, fussing with some clothing on a dressmaker's dummy on the sidewalk. “Missy Preston. Nice lady. Married several times. Owner of Missy's Hits for Misses—the consignment shop, there. A lifer and elder stateswoman of the town. She'll
love
you.”

“Well,
finally
someone will. Er . . . that is a good thing, right?”

Celia looked like she was trying to pinch her smile away by pressing her lips together. Failed. “Sure.”

“I shall win her adoration! She shall heal this heart that Nora rent asunder!”

“She'd like that. She, um,
really
likes younger men.”

“She does?” he asked, his voice suddenly faint and timid.

Celia allowed her smile to spread, and he was so grateful she did. He loved the way it lit up her face. “Mm. And older men. And every age in between. Especially if they have . . . funds to lavish on her. No need to introduce yourself. She'll hunt you down soon enough.”

“I'll, uh, look forward to it . . . ?”

“Brave lad.”

“Who's that?”

This time Niall pointed at a slow-moving, dark-skinned, imperious woman crossing the street against the light, holding up traffic. Nobody moved or even honked. From the glare she was shooting at the waiting cars, it seemed nobody would dare.

“Mrs. Rousseau. Another lifer. Ran the Empress Bed and Breakfast forever, until her arthritis started slowing her down. Three boys, now grown, with families. They all moved away, but they take care of their mom as best they can, especially since Mr. Rousseau passed away about fifteen years ago—actually, as best as she'll let them, which isn't much. She will never hesitate to tell you what she thinks of you. She'd hate that shirt you're wearing, by the way.”

Niall smirked. “It's Casey's. So
hah
.” Then, daringly, “Even if it were mine, maybe I wouldn't care what Mrs. Trudeau thinks.”

“Mrs.
Rousseau.
And yes, you would.”

“One more.” He pointed at a van going by. “That guy.”

“Skip Dwyer,” she announced, warming to her task. “Odd-jobs man, cousin of Charlie Beers—that's the bar owner you met last night—married to Rachel, who's actually a distant cousin of mine, by the way. Nice guy. Likes to feel pretty in couture. I think Dior is his designer of choice.”

“Oh, that is excellent. I love small towns.”

“Sure you do.”

“I do! I grew up in a small town, in fact. Granted, the hills were smaller . . . okay, the place was completely flat—this would be Florida, thanks for asking—and the insects were way bigger, but otherwise, more or less the same. I love the dynamic, the ambience. I really feel at home here. I can blend right in.”

Celia smirked as someone on the sidewalk stopped dead to take a photo of Niall with his phone. “Um, you're not exactly ‘blending' that easily, Egg-White Omelet.”

He shrugged it off. “So, where to now? I want to see everything.”

“Sorry. I've got to go. I've got some yard work to do at my grandmother's place.”

“Can I help?”

“Uh . . .” She paused and laughed softly. “I don't think this is your kind of thing.”

“I know how to do yard work!” he protested.

“I'm sure you do.”

“Yeech, what you think of me. I haven't always been a—”

“Pampered, spoiled celebrity?”

“Yeah. Thanks a bunch. That's only been the past several years, I'll have you know. I can bust out of it.”

“I believe you.” But the amused, more-than-slightly skeptical look on her face said otherwise. “I still think you should take this time to prepare for Night of the Shooting Stars instead. Ray's going to work you hard, you know.” She hesitated. “Don't let him down.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

Niall watched her cross the street, and despite his full gut, he felt empty. The worst thing in the world, he realized, was watching Celia Marshall walk away. Despite the beautiful view it afforded. Suddenly he felt agitated, like every one of his nerve endings was on fire. He couldn't stand idly by and watch Celia walk away permanently one day instead of being with her, getting close to her, belonging by her side, all because of some stupid arrangement . . .

He scrambled in his pocket for his phone and hurriedly texted Trent: Get me out of the thing with Tiff. NOW.

Good old Trent, cell phone always in hand, replied almost immediately. You can't go up against the studio.

Try me.

Is this about the McManus model?

Niall felt compelled to correct him. Not a model.

Whatever. Since when can't you keep it in your pants for a while? You're usually such an ascetic.

Don't break my phone with your fancy words.

Monk, then. Sexless monk. Buying you a dictionary for Christmas.

Thank you. Hey, wait a minute . . .

But why not, you know, have her sign a nondisclose, nail her, done? Tiffany never needs to know.

When did you become such a Neanderthal? Niall fired back, irritated, then paused. Trent's casual comment infuriated him. This thing with Celia . . . it wasn't just an itch he wanted to scratch, even if he was that sort of guy. Which he wasn't, no matter what his fake reputation telegraphed. He wanted more than that with her. Besides, she wasn't a pie-eyed bimbo with a pile of scrambled eggs where her brain should be. He couldn't just snap his fingers and expect her to fall at his feet. Nor did he want her to. She was a real person—an intelligent, beautiful woman—and he wanted to treat her with all the respect she deserved. No stolen moments and indecent proposals in closets. She was better than that. But he wasn't about to explain that to Trent.

Just get the lawyers on it—find a loophole. Something. Anything.

“H
ey.”

Celia jumped a mile at the sound of Niall's familiar smooth tenor. Goose bumps erupted on her skin, which was damp with perspiration. She put it down to the breeze that had kicked up. Sure, it was the cooler, early evening air, not his presence. And those corresponding vibrations low in her belly? Due to her physical state (exhausted) and her state of mind (so very, very agitated). Obviously.

She'd had a very bad start to her day, after all, and ever since she'd been trying to clear her head by continuing her work from the day before, cleaning up her grandmother's yard and garden. Holly wasn't able to do much on her own, since she had terrible allergies and had to pop a handful of pills to spend any amount of time outside, so Celia took over. She'd expended every ounce of energy she had fertilizing and trimming and filling in holes and weeding, collecting vegetables from the garden and tidying up the flower beds. Physical exhaustion would keep her mind off . . . everything else. Hadn't worked, though. Even after all that, she was still out of sorts, and her temper felt like it was on a hair trigger. All because of Niall.

Hadn't she said it, straight out, only the day before?
Don't let Ray down.
Yes, she damn well had. She'd looked Niall Crenshaw in the eye—actually both of those clever, intelligent, lively hazel eyes—and told him, in no uncertain terms, not to screw things up with Ray.

And he'd gone and done it already.

And now here he was, in person, destroying even the tiny modicum of peace of mind she'd managed to convince herself she'd achieved. Yep—
paff
—there it went on the evening breeze, with some stray rose petals and dandelion fluff.

She allowed herself a quick, sidelong glance at him. Big mistake. He was looking ridiculously sexy, in a crisp white tailored shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and narrow, weathered gray jeans that made him look all leg and even taller than usual. But his looking good didn't change things. Not in the least.

Keeping her eyes on the rosebushes she was pruning, and ignoring the thrumming through her veins that single glimpse of him had incited, she muttered as casually as she could, “Hey, yourself.”

“I almost didn't check the yard—the house was quiet, and the car was gone. The front door was open, though. I got—”

She cut him off. “Worried? Do you think I can't take care of myself?”

“No, just . . . leaving doors open . . . is that, you know, common around here?”

“Are we Marsden natives too stupid to lock our doors, you mean?”

“What? No!”

Celia, wedged between the rosebushes and the side fence, turned in the tight space with difficulty. Not fussy about making a pleasing display, Holly was a live-and-let-sprawl kind of gardener. She plopped stuff in the soil, and that was about it. If it lived, great; if it died . . . well, she'd been known to leave dead plants in her garden as a warning to the others. Gran's rosebushes were particularly intimidating—huge, wild, and unwieldy—so Celia had just charged in and started hacking. Pruning the rosebushes . . . that should have calmed her down. After all, deadheading was a simultaneously violent and soothing activity. But judging from the way she was reacting to Niall now, it was a lost cause.

Celia made a skeptical sound and hacked at the bush with zeal. It was either that or take the pruning shears to Niall Crenshaw's most treasured bits of anatomy.

She'd barely poured her first cup of coffee that morning when her grandmother's phone had rung, a fritzing Ray on the other end of the line demanding she produce a missing Niall. As if she knew where the guy was at all times. As if she had him stashed under her bed. (She refused to entertain the thought of having him stashed
in
her bed. Not going there. Nope.) Ray had scheduled a meeting with Niall to strategize before Friday's auditions, but the celebrity hadn't shown up, was nowhere to be found, and wasn't answering his cell. Ray had called the inn, and Casey had told him Niall had gone out surprisingly early.

Where could Niall have disappeared to? He hadn't even been in town seventy-two hours yet. Of course, knowing him, he could have racked up a few options already. She tried not to think of what those “options” were (or guess their names). Although she'd eventually gotten the point across to Ray that she didn't know anything about Niall's absence, he hadn't sounded fully convinced. Feeling the threads that anchored her normally calm demeanor snap, one by one, she'd pretty much hung up on him. She'd been fuming ever since.

Niall watched her whack away for a few moments, then said dryly, “Bad day?”

“Nope,” she snapped, still focusing on the flowers. “Everything's been just dandy.”

“Really.”

Whack.
“Yep.”
Whack, whack.
She flung another clump of roses—most of them dead, anyway—into the barrel.

“Celia?”

“Mm?”
Whack, whack.

“Is something wrong?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you're going to turn that perfectly healthy rosebush into a stump any minute now.”

This rootless rage she'd been keeping at bay all day, which was bubbling up again, alarmed her. It wasn't like her—not at all. She was calm, level-headed Celia Marshall. Always. She didn't get angry, and she
certainly
didn't lash out at unsuspecting rosebushes. She never needed an outlet for her aggression, because she
had
no aggression. Not usually.

Well, somebody hand the movie star a trophy, because he'd managed to rile her up like she hadn't been riled in years.

She wanted to say something, but what?
Where were you?
She'd sound like a suspicious housewife. And that was something she wasn't going to be . . . ever again.

All she said was, “I heard from Ray this morning.” She snuck another glance at him, to see if she'd surprised him. She was looking for a bit of shame in his eyes, maybe.

But Niall was unfazed. “Yeah, he mentioned it. I talked to him about an hour ago.”

“Apparently he was expecting you earlier.”

“I had some business to take care of out of town, so I had to leave first thing this morning. I left him a voice mail last night, but he said he didn't get it.”

That much was believable; Ray never could get the hang of voice mail, trusted his smartphone about as much as if it were an alien probe. Niall probably was telling the truth. It didn't make everything all right, though. Not for her.

She found a nice, long branch that was quite undeniably dead. She struggled with it, bending it toward the ground so she could cut it off at the base. Spent rose petals, brilliant pink, fluttered to the ground by the dozens, some of them dusting her shoulders and hair on their way down. She shook them off. Bend.
Whack.
Yank. “So your ‘business' was more important than Ray's.”

Niall looked grim; when he pressed his lips together like that, it revealed a dimple in the middle of his chin. Under any other circumstances, Celia would have thought that little discovery adorable, but not today. She nearly stabbed him with the thorny branch as she threw it toward the barrel. He dodged it.

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to. Something else came up, and you bailed on Ray. Seems pretty clear to me.”

He frowned. “That's not—”

“Sure it is,” she said, not looking at him again. She was braver when she wasn't looking directly at him, felt more comfortable speaking her mind. And speak her mind she would, even though the practice was foreign to her. “Evidently Marsden's silly little singing competition doesn't rate. You can blow it off. You don't have to take it seriously.” Did he take
anything
seriously?

“I
am
taking it—”

“You seemed to be pretty darn amused by the whole thing in the diner yesterday.”

Niall's frown turned into an outright glower, and he said, in a tight voice, “Hey, I honor my commitments. I postponed Ray for
one
day, and I gave him enough advance notice
and
offered a couple of different times to reschedule. You seem to be angrier about it than he was. So why don't you tell me what's going on?”

Celia stilled, staring at the rosebush. There was nothing more to cut. Niall was right—it was well on its way to being a stump, thanks to her ruthless gardening. And then Niall moved. Two strides of his long legs brought him close enough to nearly pin her against the fence. In such cramped quarters, it was easy for him to take the pruning shears out of her hand. His hazel eyes, darker than usual, raked over her, as though he thought he could find an explanation for her mood in her features.

“You're upset, but I don't know why. What's going on?” he murmured, far more compassionate than he should have been, considering the way she'd been sniping at him. “Is it just this thing with Ray? Or is it something with your grandmother?”

Celia let out a dry, cynical laugh. “Well, there's always something with my grandmother.”

“Like . . . ?”

“Um, how about she went hang gliding with her boyfriend, Mac, today?”

“What?”

“I know, right?”

“Can she even do that?”

Celia shrugged. “Apparently so. She said she and this Mac guy both had a clean bill of health and were cleared to do it. She left bright and early this morning to pick him up—he lives in Whalen.” Celia was gratified to see Niall wince. “And off she went. Said she'd be back by dinnertime. I think she meant tonight, but who knows, with her?”

“Wow.”

“She's turning my hair gray, I swear.”

Niall smiled, but Celia noticed dark circles under his eyes. He looked wrung out, and she wondered what he'd been doing all day.

“What about you? Are you okay?” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

“Sleeping all right?”

He glanced away and laughed a little. “No. Damned crickets.”

“Crickets are keeping you awake?”

“Among other things,” he said, with a significant look at her.

Celia felt her knees go watery. His mere presence muddled her senses. And when Niall looked at her in just that way, like he was searching for the burden so he could lift it from her, she started to feel better. She wanted to resist, but how could she? No man had looked at her that way in years.

She glanced down quickly, feeling that familiar blush heating her cheeks, but then let her gaze travel up to his face, and she wobbled just a little. It was like standing at the top of a mountain, a sheer drop-off right at her feet. He made her dizzy, made her feel like she could take a fatal tumble with one misstep. She didn't know if the deciding step would be the very next one, or the one after that. But she knew it would happen, sooner or later.

Celia took the pruning shears back and tossed them past him, onto the lawn, then pulled off the worn, dirty gardening gloves and threw them in the same general direction. “Have you had dinner yet?” she asked quietly.